Day For Night

I took off early yesterday to see the Bienial 2006 at Whitney, after working like a dog for a whole week.

I liked most of the photography works, especially the three way projection of Billy Sullivan's works, and the large black and white photo of a sad man sitting in bed, fully dressed.

I also was looking at a familiar little painting in The Wrong Gallery, the work you took me to see in the gallery in Chelsea.

Then there was this peice of artwork with file folders, on the cover, it said: You only say you love me when you are drunk. I smiled when I saw this.

Hum, I think I said this sometime to you. Then we had a revised version: you can only be truthful in bed.

You said it as loud as you can. You have been honest.

Yet, I have been cautious in trying to be sure of your feelings, to read your silence many ways.
I love you. But my wanting to know for sure drained you.

Caution of love is most fatal to true happiness, Bertrad Russel so said in the Conquest of Happiness.

A book I have, but never read, until my friend borrowed it, and I read it on her couch.

The chapter about Affection said it all, said it well.

True happiness is only truly obtainable when we forget ourselves, not afraid of being hurt.

I only ever want for you and I to be happy. I hope you are now.