All week the picture has held my hand, the tops of its thick green trees becoming violet as they softly leak into the blue sky. The entire composition is a jigsaw puzzle of remembered tranquility—a highly pigmented, dreamily soft blanket that I have held up to the side of my face throughout five days of uncertainty and fear.
On YouTube I watched the downfall of F. Scott Fitzgerald, the little square movie screen on the desktop surrounded by my blue blanket of water and sky. His book royalties in the last year of his life were less than $14.
Such a talented but unlucky person. So sad.
Another day of the week, the disembodied voice of Judy Garland sang to me from an amateur recording made at a party in 1968. Over and over I listened to the four-minute clip, laughing and smiling in wonderment at the secret genius of her self-mockery, each syllable of her drunken voice filled with experience, perfectly nuanced. Nothing parted from her lips that wasn't shaped by a profound training, as large and permanent as my grandmother's polio vaccination scar.
Such a talented but unlucky person. So sad.
This week I counted the bills in my wallet, made a list of my friends, and placed my feet together on the floor—preparing for a crash. Once again, the circumstances of my life are like the rotted wood dock, far to the right and unseen in the photo, that led out to the row boat. Twice I walked its length, centering each step on the framed edge, evaluating each plank. Then I just held my breath and moved quickly, willing myself into the boat, or safe on the lawn.
Such a talented but unlucky person. So sad.
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