Before reading this please note you can listen to some of the music I create by using the player on the right.
When I was 19 I was at Art College and there was a model who I fell for called Caroline. One day I went in to the studio with a piece of paper in my pocket, on it I’d written, “Will you come out to dinner with me?” I didn’t get the courage to give her the paper, so nothing ever happened. A few years later I was talking to a friend about drawing models when his uncle said he had just read a poem about someone who fitted my description drawing a model. I looked at the poem and indeed it was by Caroline, it was about how she felt attracted to me as I drew her. By then of course it was too late, she was happily with someone else Grrrrrrr.
We never really know the full extent of our effect on others, good or bad. This week a book was delivered to me and in the acknowledgements it thanked me for a couple of my songs. Of course to read that was very touching. It got me thinking about how some of my songs had been directly affected by people I’d “met” on Facebook. How I often look at the pages of people who follow me, and how their posts feed in to my own creativity. So don’t ever underestimate the effect you’re having on others, you never really know.
Anyway here’s a link to one of the drawings of Caroline
Here’s a link to the book with the poem in, it was called “No Holds Barred” (Caroline wasn’t one of the women on the cover) and the poem about me was on page 85.
Here’s a link to the book that came through the door this week:http://www.amazon.com/Gavriel-Navarro/e/B008MEQIH0/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1343692698&sr=1-2-ent&fb_source=message
Here’s a copy of the Poem… Some may find it offensive, if so, sorry, things weren’t so Politically Correct back in the 80’s.
The Cripple boy sat, so that from where I was lying
Seemed to brush
I watched him for an hour,
Holding a stick of charcoal between
His arms ended at the elbow.
On the left stump was
With a nail.
His body was squat.
He rolled along with a sea gait,
Coming in to the studio.
I felt my nakedness keenly.
Right. Wrong. Perfect. Imperfect.
Watched his fleshy stumps
move over the paper
in the diffuse afternoon light
in the bright studio.
He had a beautiful face, like a young romantic hero.
And his shoulders swooped and curved
As he worked.
His desire pricked
Like hot sweat.
I felt his breath on my face,
His skin rubbing, exciting mine.
He took me.
With that charcoal, those stumps, And his Italian lover’s eyes,
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