SUZANNE. I... it was about two weeks ago. I was walking down the street one afternoon and I turned up the stairs into my flat and I looked back and he was there framed in the doorway looking up at me. I couldn't see his face because the light came in from behind him and he was in shadow and he said "I am Picasso." And I said, "Well so what?" And then he said he wasn't sure yet but he thinks that it means something in the future to be Picasso. He said that occasionally there is a Picasso and he happens to be him. He said the twentieth century has to start somewhere and why not now. The he said, "May I approach you?" and I said okay. He walked upstairs and picked up my wrist and turned it over and took his fingernail and scratched deeply on the back of my hand. In a second, in red, the image of a dove appeared. Then I thought, why is it that someone who wants me can hang around for months, and I even like him but I'm not going to sleep with him, but someone else says the right thing and I'm on my back, not knowing what hit me.
Then the conversation veers toward penises, and while I understand a high school not wanting to include that (ours cut it out), I mean... well, go get the play and read it yourself. I can see why Steve Martin's willing to put up his own money to help this particular drama program do an off-campus production, just so the play doesn't get a seedy reputation. It's really, really great.
Not very eloquent today, I know. My brain has shut down yet again. Meh. Expect lots of links in the next few weeks.
Look! Here's a good one! Meanwhile, at the Intersection of Atheism and Feminism