Long politics post below this one, read only if you're ready to wade in the muck. Things are not pretty right now in the big bad world. I'm personally pretty content though, having spent much of my weekend atwitter with Sasha. It's almost frightening how good it's going -- we're collaborating on art, planning a party, acting like mushy maniacs and even feeling each other out for the summer.
The party idea is a pretty neat one, actually. We want to somehow print out a great vast map of NYC, place it on her spactious living-room floor and then invite people to write their memories on it. I think it will be grand fun.
Tonight we went over to a former student of her's house. Avery is 15, tall, strikingly good-looking and remarkably self-posessed. I pity the hearts she'll break and pre-emtively dispise any shambling young adonis who does her wrong. Sasha took a defininte shine to her last semester, and in the way of the great cool teachers and great cool students of the world, they've kept in touch outside the chemistry classroom. More topical to our visit, Avery's father, Greg, is a projectionist with a passion for all things transparent with light shining through them, an enthusiast and savant with coke-bottle glasses and an many tales of old New York. We were there to enjoy an afternoon of his obsessions.
The family shares a Tribecca loft that Greg and Jane (the mom) have occupied for 20+ years. While the bedrooms are cramped, there are two expansive spaces for art. One is a painting area, and the other a projection room stocked with all manner of anachronistic machinery. We screened a love-story musical from the 1930s and then some rather ingenious slideshows of original Greg-art and a viewmaster presentation. Amazing music to go along with those. Greg is an energetic fount of knowledge about all these things. At first I felt intimidated and unsure, surrounded by such unquestionably authentic bohemia and feeling a bit outclassed, but as I relaxed into my surroundings I was intrigued and stimulated by the intricate geekish rhapsody. All in all, I can't think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
It feels free and easy and wonderfully right being with this woman. She's astounded that I'm not freaked out by her silly and whimsical personality. I'm amazed that she's not bored with me and my underacheiving friends. In fact, the only point of tension I feel with her is around the war thing. She's decided to put herself on a media fast -- a respectable position -- where as I'm unable to keep my eyes off the latest news from the front. My inability to talk with her in detail about the war sometimes causes me to bite my tongue, but in the grand scheme of things it's not as though we disagree about anything.
Saturday night we coaxed ourselves out of her boudoir and over to a party at the casa Capodice. It was good to see everyone, and as usual there was more than enough to drink. His parties tend to have that boarding-school edge. My man Sam got in far too deep with the Wild Turkey/beer-chaser action and I had to take him out back to empty the old gutbag. Since he'd been drinking hard liquor, he proceeded to get even drunker drinking only water, really couldn't see or hear anything there for a while. I called him a car and slipped the driver a 10-spot in an effort to make sure he got home safe.
Sasha and I hiched a ride back to her place from good old Andrew, and for the life of me I can't remember what went on. Not that I was that dunk though. See, that night I dreamt repeatedly of various sex acts and surrounding innuendo, and in the misting Oregon-like morning I was unable to separate the dream from reality. Some parts I know were not real, but I can't place my finger on what actually occurred..
I take this to be a good sign. Not to jinx anything -- knock on wood -- but I belive an update to the love page may be in order soon.