The blue of your shirt reflects off your chin. I watch the small movements in your face as mood shifts: a terseness of lips. Will you be provided with something sufficient? Will it taste good? Will your clothing be soft? It drapes just-so. You, in a seated position, have the forward and bent look of a cat: even your musculature, the way the shoulder joins the torso and moves in the socket.
Y says yellow is the color of compassion. Her aura is yellow, she says, offset by blue. The blue allows for the yellow. She has an unemotional and stolidly calm disposition. She says when I laugh it means something. "An honest person will blush from the shame of seeking something questionable."
April 1st 2014
I am being given things to do: there is a stained shirt to bring to the dry-cleaners, a pile of bills to sort through, images to project and interweave with color (a woman in a kimono, a boy by a sandbox, a flock of geese in the park, ducks crossing the road), advice to the friend having meetings (I will ask how she approaches borrowing money for 'production costs': how much more official this sounds than I've run out of materials and am at a stand-still.
In the morning, I drink strong black tea and wait for the responsibilities to roll in: like those I work for are my children to be catered to. Where is the return of love? My awareness rests in the visual word.