An explosion of colors

The best moments are those of exploding light and emotion - the ones where you strike up conversation with grandmothers and whores alike, all making the kind of wonderful universal sense only you can understand and appreciate. Life is exploding in your veins, popping and bursting into existence, forcing its way ahead so as to make you understand how perfect everything is.

At the table next to you two french girls are getting drunk as hell, laughing and cheering and being funny like there's no tomorrow. Their first bottle of wine is empty, and with an elegant gesture of the left arm, they order a new one, giggling and enjoying themselves as they wait for the handsome waiter to arrive with their wonderful drink that will losen their tongues even further and make the hot Paris night even more enjoyable.

At your own table your father is eating dessert - a good looking creme brulée and a café au lait - while you're chugging down your fifth free beer, feeling like one of those magnificent starclouds imploding on itself, making everything as bright as the sun as it decomposes or recomposes into something new and beautiful, a matter unknown to you but which lets you master and control the world in which you live.

As you descend the stairs to the toilet chatter reaches your ears. At the bottom there are two women and a petite fille. The little girl is angry at whoever's on the toilet - they're taking too much time and she really, really has to go! You fall into a wonderfully vivid conversation with an elderly (not at all, she's really rather attractive and in her early 50's) french woman, who confides that she lately finds everything to be "comic" and that she speaks from the heart. You like this, declaring your understanding and admiration, her eyes sparkling beautifully in the crazy night air as you put your heads closer together and giggle, both drunk and alive and extremely in love with life and the feeling of not being alone.

As you talk and talk and try to understand eachother, the little girl with the wonderfully cute hair and the little skirt á la mode has had enough of the waiting. "This is stupid!" she declares to her mother, a pretty woman in her early thirties still bearing the attractive marks of child birth, and pulls down her skirt and little panties, before proceeding to pee on the floor right there in the corner.

The woman you're talking to bursts out laughing, how wonderful how wonderful oh lively beauty, and you exclaim "Wonderful!" and start laughing with her. The embarrassed mother excuses the little girl, she really, really, truly, had to go! Of course! you both say, laughing and pointing to your hearts and agreeing that the little girl is sincere and it's all rather great to be a part of. "Comic!" the french lady says, and you agree, it's so comic! A little while later she asks you to join her in the toilet, but you don't understand and the universe is popping and bursting and manifesting itself in your mind, and you remember that your father, the strange man, is waiting for you upstairs. You thank her, but no thanks, and as she disappears into the booth, the last thing you hear her old voice saying is "Comic!" and you agree, agree, agree, bobbing your heading and enjoying the light and the sound of that piano upstairs, a lifetime away, sounding like the first steps on the moon and dust filtering down and inward, telling and lying and composing pictures for you to see.

Up the stairs, fireworks in a cake, a girl is celebrating her birthday, looking cool and punk and chic and all those four letter words you know. She blows at the lights, laughing, and you explode in color, dreaming that enormous blue and red and yellow that engulf the couple kissing, needing models and already seeing your creation and you want to cry because being alive is just too good right now, the vividness of an imagination and a mind on speed, with everything pulsating and beaming  and screaming beautiful chaos.

Bubble, bubble, you dream, you see the sick girl and the flowers of Arles, you see Toulouse-Lautrec drunk and Redon lonely, private - and finally you see Klimt's Mada Primavesi, the most attractive thing in existence - they are all bursting, star bright and energized in front of you, defining and total, and forcing their way into your life as sand and dusts and the need for pure and bright oxygen. 

There's no way to escape them, they're too bright too real and too wonderful, loaded with the expression of final meaning, with lifetimes of work and results of  wanting to talk talk talk and always wanting to say something.

Gustav Klimt - Mada Primavesi (c. 1912)

Mada and her clear eyes, Mada and her dress, Mada and her legs - Mada and her colors, Mada and Klimt and Schiele and Munch, overworked and obliterated, mad with loneliness. 

The shoes, the shoes, the chaos of wonderful colors, Mada and her eyes.