I'm Sorry. I can't see you.

I cannot help but feel the need to write this evening. Though the hour hand swells well into morning, I am drawn to this thing like a bee to a hive. From the start of the day with Janessa: swapping stories and unfinished sentences back and forth rapidly on the space that separated us by a hair. I worked eight hours with this magic human being and walked away from our locked store doors in the sinking light of day only to feel even more inspired by her in her absence. Then came a half hour at home listening to Chad Vangaalen on vinyl (not counting the bike ride from work to home where I opted to listen to the wind). I ran to Derek's to pick up a custom maple frame for my show and ran into Alexei on the street coming out. While we were mid conversation about Ryan Mcguinley--like magic--four casual bike messengers/secretive Friday Night polo players came streaming past us like four golden salmon swimming against stream. I stood in a trance for a long while, longer than necessary with my white collars flipped up in defense, and watched them pass in all their unapologetic athletic glory. What magnificent men. I thought men like that only existed in fairy tales: these magnificent men on track bikes riding past in a stream of color and polo sticks tucked into messenger bags, and cycling with hats, heads bent with their brims upturned in the wind. After all that came a dinner party at Sula's, in her warm living room in her warm home with six intense women. All the elements of the universe were represented in the individual plates heaping with steaming comfort food around a teak coffee table: Air, Fire, Earth, Water. Three Fires danced recklessly to old time beats, two stepping in exhibitionist harmony. One Air huffed and puffed in a corner, pouring her angry demise into the spine of an outdated fashion magazine. One Water was telling an emotional story in the back corner. Everyone's lipstick had come off by that point thanks to all the collective smacking-of-lips-togetherness-in-nervousness motion. Earth scowled upon us and crossed her arms in distaste but still steered us like only the strongest women can do. We were steered to the graffiti gallery and I couldn't do anything but go along and whip out a coiled-ring notepad when I had nothing left to say and draw like hell. People approached me now and then, curious to what was being transcribed with such a ferocity, but I kept drawing, unabated. Then the steering hand pulled us toward the Exchange, toward the Albert. We got out and walked the street a few times in between two parties going on 40 feet apart from each other. Then I met Shannon in the bathroom and it was like a breath of fresh air, she was all feisty and terrifying and I was dragged outside with wool tights-covered knees knocking in silent protest. Out we went and happened to run into a slew of people we knew. Thankfully Mister Ruth came along and there was immediate comfort with the passing of a single quote, "Beef tongue" to help ease us deeper into the night. Each other hanging onto the other for steadiness. We sauntered around, laundering cigarettes off unsuspecting teens and filling up the air above our head with laughter and smoke. Thankfully, we were free to go and I was kindly side-saddled home by a real gentleman. I felt like a real lady with my pointy shoes and crossed-legs even when the men in the tiny SUV beside us honked at us on Portage Avenue. To bike home with tiny white leather gloves covered in red wine spills, with a throat stripped owing only to the screaming match held with the men of Raper Park across the river. We left eventually and I simply forgot that I was ever wearing white.

Wonderful night, right?
Right.

A real lady.