What should we talk about?
This conversation could go in many ways.
I could talk about my time in Italy. I could talk about my love affair with the city of Florence. Please don’t tell Mexico City I wrote that. I could talk about the fact that I didn’t have a true home until I met her. I could talk about the antiquarian book fair I went to. I could talk about Codex and the mission behind it and the wonderful people I’m meeting because of it. I could talk about all the faces I’ve drawn. I could talk about my love-hate relationship with social media. I could talk about what it's like to be back in New York City after being gone for so long. I could talk about growing up in a passionately devout Christan household.
I could talk about a rare illustrated book on hallucinogenic plants that I have on my bookshelf. I could talk about how Octavio Paz has opened up my eyes with his essays on Mexican art. But then I would have to talk about how much I miss Mexico. I could talk about how difficult it is to stay put and how I wish I could live in multiple cities at once. I could talk about Time and how much it has passed since the playground. I could talk about the swing and James Turrell and the wedding. I could talk about how much it appeals to me to start over. Whatever that means. I could talk about my search for New Art.
I could talk about how happy it makes me to read about art and have conversations with people from the past. These days I’m always in great company. I could talk about my dog and how nice it is to see him healthy and happy at the park. I could talk about love. I could talk about my first guitar the one that was stolen and the times that I spent taking it everywhere. I could talk about my upcoming once-in-a-lifetime fly fishing trip. I could talk about how much I love fishing and how much I miss the times that I had as a kid fishing alone and in peace. I could talk about how frustrated makes me that I live so far from a stream. I could talk about my sensitivity to light and noise and how I wear earplugs on the train.
There are so many things that I could talk about. I could talk about tortillas and how much the smell of maiz takes me home. I could talk about the aroma of onions grilling and how much it makes me feel like I'm in my mother's kitchen, watching her cook. I could talk about my father and the Bible stories he would tell me growing up. I could talk about my grandfather and the advice that he gave me. I could talk about the town where I grew up in. I’d have to mention the way you enter is also the way you exit. I could talk about all the dreams that came true. I could also talk about the failures and the lessons they provided. I could talk about mistakes that were made because I didn’t ask enough questions.
I could talk about music and how much I still want to learn how to play Chopin’s Nocturnes on the piano. I could talk about the time that I auditioned at Berklee. I could talk about the subsequent pain of that not panning out. I could talk about how difficult school was for me because when it comes to learning I have special needs. I could talk about the things that bring me joy. I could talk about books and the woodshop I’m going to build someday. I could talk about my time in art school and how Professor H. taught me how to build anything with my hands. I’d have to also talk about the friends I made there. Some of them I’m still in touch with. I could talk about death and how many funerals I went to growing up. I could talk about solitude but then I’d have to talk about being an artist.
I could also talk about life too. I’d mention the things that make it worthwhile. I’d mention the autumn colors of upstate New York. I could talk about the mind and how important it is to care for it. I could talk about heartbreak. I could talk about it feeling like you’re on fire but no one is noticing. I could talk about losing control and spiraling. I can even talk about hitting rock bottom. I could even go into how it feels to have the rug beneath your feet pulled and how it takes away your appetite. But then I’d have to talk about how great it feels to come out of it holding a book in one hand and your luggage in the other. I could talk about falling in love. I could talk about September 7th, 2017.
There’s a lot we could talk about. Living alone. Rejection. Being broke. I could even talk about the time I dropped acid. Then I’d have to talk about my brother. I could talk about how it felt like to die and come back to life. Or I could talk about the time I hit a bong twice getting so high I started praying. I use to work at the ice cream shop back then. I could talk about how I messaged a classmate the next day asking “Will I ever go back to being normal?" I could talk about the first time I smoked. I’d have to talk about Savannah and my friend Oliver. We reconnected during the pandemic and he called me out for “going missing.” I could talk about how bad I felt about that because he taught me so much about life and music. He was like an older brother.
I could talk about what I have going on right now. I can talk about the book I’m reading by Charles Baudelaire. I could talk about how much I admire Ingres even though Baudelaire trashes him in favor of Delacroix. I’d focus more on his drawings than his paintings because of his ability to capture the human spirit with graphite and how much I aspire to do that one day. I’m getting there. I’m working on that. I could talk about that or I could talk about how Vincent Van Gogh feels like a brother to me. I could talk about Rome and the things I saw there. I could talk about Madrid. If I did, I’d have to mention the flamenco show I saw and how much it moved me. Of course, I’d have to mention my friend Eric and how happy it made me to see him after all these years. We had a great conversation and too much to drink that night. If I talked about that I’d mention the hell I experienced the next day at the airport.
I could talk about how beautiful things make me cry. I’d have to start with the first time it happened and how I’ve accepted it now. I used to be timid about it not wanting anyone around me to know. Stealthy, pretending to have ich, I’d wipe away the tears. One by one. I could talk about the M83 concert I went to at Terminal 5 where it happened again. Or I could talk about the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel setting off the waterworks. I could talk about how I now relate beauty with tears and the Divine.
Maybe, I could talk about my lost years working as a waiter at an art club in New York City. Or I could talk about my career as a barista drawing on take-out bags. But then this would mean I’d have to look back. I could talk about the time when I had to ask my landlord to give me an extra week to pay rent. I could also talk about the time that I traveled to Denmark to work as an intern and I could talk about how I had to break into my workplace and sleep on the woodshop floor because I had nowhere to go one night. Thank goodness I had packed a blanket. But then I’d have to talk about how close I got to having to sleep in the park with my luggage when every hostel in Copenhagen was full and I had no money for a hotel. I could talk about all of these things. And I could go on and on and on about them but today that's all I have to say. ⚜