By Erika Jo Brown
Not many passions take your pants off—
painting with oils, reading in the afternoon,
other people’s bodies. I want to really
say something here. I want to be clear.
But just as no two people see the same
colors, what you hear is not what I’m
saying. Not conversations as much as
serial misunderstandings, proximate
in space. One considers the dictionary
definition of “man.” One considers
the definition of “woman.” One considers
arm hair, soft spaces on a hot body.
The obsessive heat-seeking quality of
attraction. The paint on my pinkie is for
you—a little poison, a little turpentine.
The snaggletooth I want to stick my
tongue into. This is pigment from a rock,
this is pigment from a bug, this is pigment
from a bleeding heart, and this is jeopardy.
Passion brought me here, but passion
cannot save me. To mix linseed and
varnish, to create something is to vanish
what was there before. Chroma for fastness,
chemistry tricks. Such bold strokes in
erasing and framing delicate beginnings.
Cheryl is here and we are watching the end of the Tony Awards (fairly enjoyable, though Spacey can't compete with Corden, it is inexcusable that they didn't show James Earl Jones' lifetime achievement award during the main broadcast, and I love Bette Midler but I really, really wanted to watch Glenn Close have to give a Tony Award to Patti LuPone from back during the first iteration of Sunset Boulevard).
Earlier we saw The Mummy, which is pretty cheesy but not nearly as bad as its reviews; Crowe and Boutella are very enjoyable, Cruise less so but that's mostly the fault of a mediocre script, Wallis's character is supposed to be a scientist but spends all her time begging to be saved from eeeevil, it's a little sexist and quite a bit racially insensitive but has its fun moments). Adam is out with his visiting friend, and we saw a baby bunny!