All I'm ever trying to say.

Today the weary traveller, lusting in a rug gallery. 

Vulnerable, tired, happy. In love with life. 

Sydney streets, cold hands, couture, coffee.

Perusing worn titles in a cafe bookstore, this shabby cover recalls my college thesis. 

Does art need a moral corona or can it be art for art's sake. 

[I was either drinking a lot of Corona then or copying Cynthia Ozick. Both, okay.] 

I keep going to the ends of the earth to be in his company because to me he's the ultimate artist and lover. 

My two favorite things, in the least idealized sense.

The truth is intoxicating, the demonstration of devotion equal to ones' capacity to love.

Australian women are tall, and also, here Sancerre is just Sauvignon blanc.

The Southern Hemisphere is outgrowing their tall-poppy syndrome. 

One can see their antipathy for the old ways in their art. After sailing all this way, and then to arrive surrounded by bush and ancient earth culture how were they to take Mother Superior seriously. 

Seriously. So while they transmute in this particular purgatorio Paddington is Paddo, Melbourne is Melbs, Shasta is Shazzo. Dye jobs are bad, too many licorice stores, men in Uggs, ugh. Their dollar is strong but a Kshatriya class yet to emerge.

Soon back to the Tired Lady, where I am wanting to know if we can carry her, or if we'll bury her before her time. My generation has been busy being sedated refusers of love and forgot to hold the center. Oh, Yeats. We've wanted someone else to do it. I'm tired too, but months abroad and patriotism renewed. Oh, America. Darling.  

Flat whites all day, Shiraz at night, Xanax for the flight. Oh, Pavlov. Damn you, Sir. 

So what say we become free ecstatics tonight, marry Her through this hour, and let our devotion be the ultimate demonstration and brightest moral possibility of a life lived in artful love and service to one another. To me that is sexy and the point of prior unity. Shazzo, in Paddo, weary, but full of love. It is possible afterall/that. Life is literally a beautiful mystery.  I love you. This blog sucks, and I still love you.  All I am ever trying to say is that I love you.