Normal Living

Corbusier Chapel, Ronchamp, France, 1955, René Burri, Swiss, 1933-2014

8:55 am October. whenever

Normal Living

I catch my fingers pinch zoom the photo of Mark Rothko off the paper page. So Rothko still standing there. More like he's stooping there, and pinch zooming everything. Or maybe nothing. Or one thing. But peering through a tall wooden ladder. His ladder. Scrolling up, I suppose. And Mark still. Still. Well. Mark looks at me or looks at anyone or anything but not looking at all cuz really. He's looking at the camera. The lens. For an instant.

And what is that? What's he holding. I can't pinch zoom to that. Or any other thing here. The thing or things that he's holding; their just dangling from his hand in the shadowdark of the print. The darkness on the page, the soft pencil lead gray or gray or whatever. Soft gray layered on Maek Rothko's hand.

In his hand, much further on into the future, less further on into the past, and just right now, beyond the snapping of the photo, the shaping of The Now, in this or that bar, rather, this bar, he's across from me, rumpled as usual, if it wasn't for the flair of our tiny glassware, a thing with this bar. Apparently.

Here. It goes like this

tiny bar tiny chair tiny seats tiny lights. no menu but who cares, we know what we're drinking.

tiny drinks tiny glassware tiny eyes thin or fat fingers I don't know whose but it doesn't matter cuz there's mostly painters here shaping The Now shaping The Future or Things To Come but it only matters so much cuz we're feeling pretty tight anyway and this means drunk but you'd never know it.

jazz music.

the occasional brawl.

jazz music.

the next brawl again but those two are comforted by the first two who brawled and now four of'em are drinking crying hugging holding chuckling saying sloppy things about women combing their greasy hair with their fat or thin fingers leaving everything smelling like turpentine adjusting their snappy too modern ties surprisingly effetely and drooling a little as they fantasize what they left and now what awaits them in the studio.

we're not talking about jazz music either, bub or cute lil lady, tho

that exists too puttwadat puttway shadawww psshPwow! pweetwadaPaang!

no. we're talkin about Now. The Masterpiece that is Now. Atomicing the atmosphere. with reds pinks purples blue green disasters that are teetering into tomorrow.

works on canvas boards paper wood hell paper plates and even these napkins if you just let'em getta holda one.

This world was made for paint.

Boy do these painters know about it. Hell there's one sittin across from me now. Make that drinkin across from me now.

Mark Rothko drinkin across from me now.

4:29 am wed oct 15 2025

when i sleep with my cat there are always goodbyes

written to remember that lovely title

relatedly, would luv to grab all my notes from previous research notetaking ideas snippet mongreling and

gee hope i capture the chase on that stunning title, even for a little while.

hmm cats are like writers cuz they like to toy with things. go figure.

mickey sleeping in my arm at night

2:24 am 10 16 20twenty yada yada yada woke up from an anxiety dream that ended with rushing to an airport (anxiety) with an old friend driving, she's doin me a favor as per usual not the other way around or so it seems (anxiety, as in waking life), prior to that I mention perhaps going to remain n live LA, our real birthtown btw, to which she feigns interest masking other feelings attitudes to, er, maybe a percieved ungroundedness (anxiety), prior to that some emphasis on the imbalance of favor help assistance scales (anxiety) in my mind and as mentioned in waking life and there is a general overall pall of neediness, obligation, hassle, selfconsciousness, disinterest, sublimated feelings attitudes, mixedup roles n roleplaying, various subtle or unspoken pressures, a dose of general (LA?) (LA jewish?) neurosis, and the hectic quality of rushing to an airport amidst life decision life explaining moments that may or may not be necessary . . if it wasnt for the arrangement of what I now perceive as a codependent vampiric dynamic between the helper n the helpee with the helper being the charity vampire in waking (ugh) and in this case anxiety dreamlife (ugh).

I woke up to find Mickey sleeping against my back and I considered, well

trying out

forgiveness

forgiveness.

dot dot dot

as something to do, something to apply to any all or specific relationship that hold wield the mark of trauma for me . . that is to say

I just feel hurt by.

I just feel hurt

I just feel

I just

I

forgiveness

trying it

easier than I expect

more room in my heart for it than I expect

feels naturaler than I expect

considering it may be a sound or natural next step after redistributing responsibility a little more fairly, fairer to self, than when trauma is actually happening, foundational trauma, usually when one is a kid, hm

one is a kid, I mean when I was a kid, which is to say

the hurt kid lives in me

that is until I heal, then

the hurt kid who is healed or is healing lives in me

but yes, will leave room enough for the unexpected to happen, the unknown

there's room enough in my heart for healing

the surprise just may be

there's room enough in my heart for forgiveness.

Lotus Kitty