A cold night but not bitterly cold. I sit in a Harvey House whose bright lit Pennsylvania Dutch (or whatever) interior is perhaps the antithesis of my shadow-strewn interior. Leaving my apartment, walking down Spruce Street to this place, I felt the victim of an indefinable and indecipherable traumatic occasion. The specifics are a beer - several beers with Denny at the London Ale House this afternoon after class. I felt mightily sad before his arrival, while waiting for D. to perform a kind act for Gilbert ( to deliver some paintings in the Triumph). So a aware and immensely moved by the boy’s generosity and goodwill which I so much wanted to return today and indefinitely out of general gratitude. I wanted to return hiss favor openhandedness and liberation from a constant egotistical sense of need of him. He deserves better than a selfish relationship, he deserves more, all - every sympathy and cooperation in hiss quest for his own truth and effort toward happiness (which for him isn’t to be found in my bed, where in his words he feels a “fake”, at this time. Rationally I recognize that and accept it after our long conversation at lunch yesterday when his plain fondness for me (clear as those azure eyes) was so directly expressed and his confusion regarding the other aspect was so simply stated and explained. That much for the rational, the emotional acceptance of they facts is something else.)
We drank beer for an hour or so while the conclusion of yesterday’s conversation hovered like a ghost (more to annotate the boy’s generosity and his caring for me: his wish to conger from his mind the perfect woman for me, the ideal woman who would make me happy [an important word in Denny’s vocabulary- a word of very real meaning and essence] as only a woman can complete a man… He hesitated to ask me, he was afraid to ask me for fear of my answer, am I “happy” as things stand [quotations to stress the very special import of the word to Denny]). We talked of painting, the myth of the South, Mad comics [ and his first delighted discovery of it in a barber shop when he was twelve] and we were both a little high when he dropped me at Spruce Street. Huge motored off, relieved and happy, to his Thanksgiving holiday with his family, to his date for tonight on the thus far smooth highway off aspirations and high expectations.
I mounted the stairs to the dusk-filled flat, in the dark turned on the radio prior to a half hour of oblivious sleep. I was exhausted and oppressed by my feelings of isolation, resolve and total empathy for Denny.
This partially describes the rapport (Picasso speaking to Françoise Gilot)
When I was young, even before I was your age, I never found anybody that seemed like me. I felt I was living in complete solitude and I never talked to anybody about what I really thought. I took refuge entirely in my painting. As I went along through life, gradually I met people with whom I could exchange a little bit and then a little bit more. And I had the same feeling with you - of speaking the same language. From the very first moment I knew we could communicate.