Most often, he puts us in white rooms. The love of my life carrying me to the city with the proverbial lumbar vertebrae of a giant, and we are in white rooms that hum with the light. The photos here are in the Allerton Hotel in Chicago. Every moment there was a poem. And every moment was a love lovely with the strength of tombs in a midday with only a few birds looking like confused little balls of music.
And now as the cusp of my second life stands before me in the coming week, I know I am okay if only because I am finally truly loved by someone who also does not believe it is all a game. And those like us know the value of life for our own unique reasons, mine often being the thoughts of my almost taking it so quickly, so aimlessly really, for reasons of losing something, usually something I never even wanted to begin with like bad love. Mad love.
Andre Breton wrote, “Convulsive beauty will be veiled-erotic, fixed-explosive, magic-circumstantial, or it will not be,” in Mad Love. My convulsive beauty is here now, guiding me into the white still deeper, sometimes in the forms of hotel rooms, a vicuna overcoat pretending to be white, or in the form of a detour second-guessing the white moon.
I have already hated and been hated once. Never again. So there it sits and nonexists like god in our backbones.