Sunday, July 26, 2015
Alexia had just won an uphill battle.
She'd been warned by her opponent 'You know you're fighting an uphill battle'.
But she fought anyway.
Uphill all the way.
The battle was fierce and brutal.
The combatants were relentless and steadfast.
Tears had flowed and blood had spilled.
And despite the odds she had won.
And she and her husband had officially put a deposit down on the house with the sun deck, instead of his preferred house, the one with the basement man-cave.
Her husband was now stubbornly sulking, while holding a tissue to his bleeding nose, caused by sucking snot hard back into his head trying, and failing, to stop his wife knowing he was crying.
She'd never known a victory so sweet.
The story would be told dozens of times, resulting in boundless streams giggles, whenever her girlfriends came over to the new place to drink champagne and tan.
He sought his revenge by thinking of these friends in their bikinis when he and Alexia made love.
The following is a poem from the point of view of Pablo Picasso, about a staircase handrail, had he once, in a drunken half asleep dream state, thought it to actually be a sea-lion that had climbed the stairs at his sea-side villa, where he was staying hoping to paint some landscapes, failing to predict inclement weather keeping him indoors, that the villa he rented would come well stocked with help yourself wine, that there would be noisy sea mammals living within steps of the properties boundaries, that when he was not painting as much as usual his always imaginative soul would run wild and manifest itself in alternative outlets, and that having mistaken the handrail for a sea-lion, he had avoided reaching out for it, fearing sea-lion saliva, and as a result had fallen down the stairs:
It was just the handrail
Best not tell anyone about this
That was a poem from the point of view of Pablo Picasso, written as if an embarrassing event had taken place in his life, that he wished people not know about, so in attempt to clear it from his sub-conscious had written it into beautiful verse, as always circumnavigating the typical rules and barriers that often suppressed the natural artistic outpouring of his contemptories, and instead creating in some ways a crude, yet colorful and vibrant, representation of his muse, in this case being the fact he felt like a pussy for being scared of sea-lion saliva, which obviously turned out to be a lush source of inspiration. Although of course he didn't want anyone to know about it, so yeah, shhhh.