Lifestyle Writings

Picasso Loves Me Not

October 28, 2005

RICOH LX-22

I’m not sure what I expected as we stepped together through the doorway; melting clocks in deserts of hourglass and sand? Yet there was more to the exhibit than that: fine pencil sketches and hand-pressed prints of lithography and innovation. I saw little to few examples of the conventionally defined cubism, (seen in artbooks and posters) instead replaced with rippling faces and male figures with feminine heads.

These were the rough sketches, of the sculptor and muse, unfinished or complete? There were exactly three paintings, one a swirl of music and spring, another of a swash-buckling musketeer with blue and white streaks in his halved-shaped portrait, and another simply labeled; The Painter? or The Artist? with swirls and squiggles ranging from mute to electrifying colors as he furiously dabbed at the un-visible easel before him.

As we traveled through the streets away from the art gallery I looked up into the night and was disappointed not to see the stars beacon glow. Were these giant distant suns not so vastly important, that their radiance to mine eye was quenched, by an inferior lamp-post?

It was a treat to see the blond bombshell girlfriend since our summer night-driving escapades, with her latest squeeze in tow. Observing them together made me question myself anew of why I frown upon relationships with myself, rather than another’s. I have lost my masculine muse since summer’s ending, and have not searched for another to replace him. It seems a desecration of holy relics to do so, and sometimes I miss him very much.

Our journey was in search of drinkable tea, caffeine included, and found pizza instead, by myself I observed the arcade game in the corner, while the couple busied themselves in a battle between X-Men and Street Fighter. Another walk led us to Starbucks, caramel apple cider is sweet but shares the same price of an extra-large Tim Hortons coffee beverage. At night as I let my feet swing and my head rest against the window, I watched two boys playing guitar on the sidewalk as the wheels of the bus brought me home.

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