||[Sep. 8th, 2004|11:15 am]
Whole lotta labia.
|[||how ya feelin'?
The first time I walked into the building I avoided looking at him. I didn't turn my head towards the center of the room and focused instead on the haunting and magical Sleepers around the perimeter of the entrance hall. I looked at the cartoons on the wall and I listened to families around me read each other little tidbits from the guidebook but I didn't look at him.
After I'd grown a bit more accustomed to the size of the room, to the artistry that surrounded me, after I'd settled into the environment a bit, I looked down at the floor and walked until I was about 15 feet from where I knew his podium started. And then I looked up.
And promptly burst into tears. I stood there crying silently for several long minutes. The guards never bothered me. Eventually I went and sat on a bench along the wall and just stared at him for almost an hour, waiting for him to breathe. Because that's the thing, he looks so alive it's like he's between breaths all the time. And that look. Like he's thinking "I don't wanna do this.. I'm not this kind of guy.. but if I have to, I'm going to fuck your shit up so bad I don't have to do it twice." I love his hands. I love his upper lip. I do love him.
I went back three more times. Once with people. Twice without. It's still hard to talk about how he moves me.
And today he turns 500. Happy Birthday, David. I'm glad you got your arm back.
An honest-to-God entry coming later. I just heard this on the news this morning and didn't want the day to pass without saying something.