the Sadness (of the chasm) and the Sofa

It is likely we will not speak of my writings ever again. He made known his preference for the tangible, the concrete, (unsaid: the linear) and finds the distance between me and the material too wide to bridge, to follow, to enter. And while my first impulse is to criticize the criticism, instead I will accept his comments as not only personally valid, but likely summary of many another frustrated reader. And so I will accept his readership as casualty of my perhaps misguided pursuit of self, truth, art, whatever large thing it is I look for here. And that he was my first instructor (shocking amounts of red ink, and Like!!! comments, and this reminds of ...., and so few criticisms, but always a couple addressing the most egregious missteps), the first to sit with me when I had no clue, only blind inclination? It means that I will grieve him properly, lovingly, and not dismiss him as merely trite and simple.

I have before described it as gaudy and while this is accurate it is insufficient as one word can not describe the horror that is this particular piece of furniture. But also it is colorful and that is what I decided this half (the writers half) of the room needed. And in lieu of cushions to rest your back against it has pillows, and because it is not only gaudy but also old, they are also old and require constant fluffing to hold some sort of shape, particularly after someone has sat on the sofa. A lot of words to say I sit conflicted: rumpled sofa pillow that commands me to come fluff, arrange, straighten; the visual of the Lady visitor who ruffled said pillow, her taking over the whole of the sofa, spreading out her person and things, filling into the sofa as opposed to merely a squatter on top of it. She/her fully present.

And now she is not here. But for the time being I can look at that one severely compressed pillow and see the whole scene of her. (when she smiles from behind her shades you see only teeth and lips, a bit of nose, and it is exactly the smile of the Vegas black jack dealer chicks when they are turning 21 hand after hand and grabbing all of your chips, running you out of town - such private laughter, hidden sorrow,  that you can not see can not hope to reach, go away now)