Thursday, April 2, 2020

Women are Tiny Houses

Richard Serra. That's how this isolation has me feeling, sort of. The inescapable menace, threat. The scale destined and designed to dwarf the individual that gets near, or is consumed by it. 

Raquel and I haven't exactly found a coherent way back towards our normal selves. I have to imagine that everywhere there are couples that wanted to divorce, and then this. It provides them a common enemy, though I have to imagine that a renewed sense of affection and gratitude may not be the automatic result in such a situation. There must be renewed questions about the financial concerns and uncertainties of divorce. Everywhere there are people suffering on every level. People get the hell they ask for, the hell they permit. Some of them just get an unimaginable hell without ever having done anything special to deserve it. Would you like to also hear my opinions on pain and death?

I had hoped to write something sexy, or maybe even affectionate, about Raquel. These pictures remind me of another time with her. They were taken at the DIA:Beacon. We took the train up the Hudson one day. Post 9/11. Pre-Covid. Before Christ.