Goethe’s Apartment (ii)

Posted on July 4, 2009

1


“So you’re a writer.”

“I am an attempting writer,” I say.

Oh her eyes so sweet and blue, her cheeks full and round and flush with life. I find myself smiling, stepping closer to her, my own chest pounding. I can smell sweet perfumes all over her. She has recently showered, her hair is still wet.

“Aren’t you going to sit down,” she says and a cold windless wind fills the room. I sit down and stare at her some more.

“So what are you here to see Balthus for?” I ask. It is a painful question.

“He is going to paint me,” she says. “I am going to be one of his muses!” she giggles and the sweet mixture of that sound and its relation to the topic of Balthus makes me terribly sick and jealous.

“You’re going to do a nude with Balthus?” I ask.

“Something like that. He says he is going for a new conception. He said he sees the essence of rawness in me.” She smiles and smooths out the fabric on her little white skirt. I look back and forth between each of her knees. They have wonderfully pronounced caps.

“It is my dream to have a nude. Look at all the famous paintings: La Vie, The Joy of Life, The Vitruvian man with that amazing six-pack. I want that. Some girls dream of being in Playboy, I dream of being immortalized in oil paint. Balthus is the greatest of them all. He understands what I want and I understand what he is trying to express.”

Very poetic, I think.

“Very poetic,” I say.

I am lost to Balthus once again. He will capture her for his own art, for his own sense of metaphysical control. I decide I must thwart this. I decide that this girl is mine and I will be the one to cement her into the senselessness of human culture.

“Why don’t you let me write you?” I ask.

“Write me?” she says.

“Yes. While we wait for Balthus.”

“What do you mean write me?”

“What was Balthus going to do?”

“He was going to paint my picture.”

“Yes, he was going to paint you. He is a man of paint. I am a man of words. I am going to write you. If you want raw, let me write you. Let me write your Nude. A painting can only capture so much, an image- a visual. Vision is the weakest of the senses, the most fleeting. Let me capture you with all the senses in my description of you. Let me capture your sight, your smell. Let me write of the sound of your voice, the taste of your skin, the feeling of your body inside and out.”

She does not smile or frown, she responds simply by standing, she removes her skirt, her vest and her socks. She removes her expensive thong and matching bra. She sits naked on my armchair next to a jade ashtray containing a mountain of cigarette butts.

“Write me.”

I grab the cleanest piece of paper I can find. I clear my mind and press a pen to the blankness.

I AM DRUNK and there is a knock at the door. It is a soft knocking, evenly rapped and well placed upon the wood of my door. I stand up, my mouth open. I have not been in the house alone for quite some time. I am not used to receiving visitors.


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Posted in: July 2009