The journey down the rabbit hole continues...
I was interrupted at the beginning of my last entry (I'll get to that). In order to keep it from dying without seeing the light of day, I will pick it up where i left off.
this is what I meant to write last night, tuesday.
After the memorable exchange regarding breasts and large, gaping open wounds, my friend L came over and we tried to get some "art" done, but the muse was recalcitrant and restless. We couldn't get her to sit still for five minutes, she was so fidgety and morose. So I fussed in the bathroom while L napped on the couch.
Then at 7:12 precisely, our model arrived. I had been expecting him at 7:15. Its so rare that anyone is on Swiss time here that it was a bit disconcerting. He had called yesterday wondering what the spacial relationship between 327 and Grant St was. I told him I didn't know, but turning right would get him here. His enunciation was at all times perfect.
Our model, Paul, was fabulous. (One of the reasons I hired him was that he has real body hair and to my little puritanical soul gives him a level of modesty the bald-scrotum dudes lack) He brought a bag of props, and like Mary Poppins' bag, it seemed to have no bottom. He pulled out an old red phone and pretended to scream into it. He had a staff, a la Dora Maar (quite honestly, a staff isn't the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Picasso's paramour). He had various hats... he did Eminem with a stocking cap and a real microphone.
He respected all of the modeling protocols, including the prohibition of chatter during the pose. So it was during the precise five minute breaks that I was able to get a glimpse into the workings of his mind.
Freemasonry, it seems, is at the fore of his brain. No matter what subject was broached, for Lorenna McKinnet (on the hi-fi) to the Mayor of San Jose, somehow the conversation always returned to masonry. (L saw Lorenna at the Masonic Center, I commented that it was creepy, and that was all the in he needed. And the Mayor of San Jose is a member of ACACIA, the super secret masons. If they're so secret, why do you know about them? I asked). It was a bit contagious, once he had brought it up, L and I couldn't but help egg him on.
To his credit, he did mention that he was going to see the Nutcracker on weds. I asked him where, and he said the opera house, I asked where was that, and he replied the corner of Van Ness and Grove. Of course, silly me.
We tipped him. I wish I had been more generous. He shared a lot with us... his time, his body and freemason obsession. We'll have him again-- in March, at the corner of Grant and Market.
The evening advanced, I sat down to write. The phone rang. It was Currer. He wanted to read me a story. He is a great reader-- he emotes and does cool accents. There were some Irish characters, so he got to exercise his amazing brogue. It was his favorite Christmas story from his youth. The story was full of virtue, beaty, blessedness and sweet, tragic victorian pathos. Then the story ended (the waif dies with a prayer on her rosebud lips). And Currer bid me a goodnight. I enjoyed the sound of his voice washing over my senses.