The past few days the power has been intermittent, and the internet completely evasive. Storms again, heat and sweat and keeping the refrigerator closed so the yogurt and eggs don’t spoil. A film of sweat forms on our skin, and without the constant blue glow and buzzing thrum of the floodlights that our landlord has placed everywhere, we can see just how many fireflies live in the trees outside. Hundreds of them, taking cover from the storm but still flashing at one another. Still needing to mate. Their time on earth is short (something like twenty-one days), and though the storm blew them sideways and deeper in the green they still need to flash and fly close to one another.
Another interesting bit of news is that Modigliani’s handsome, troubled face keeps showing up everywhere. Before the cable and power went out the movie about his life was airing constantly on Encore. I saw a new biography on him at the library (a library I normally don’t go to, not even in my county, and it was stuck in the wrong section of new books). I finished an older telling of his life and kept feeling like he’s been wronged by the critics who have interpreted his life so far. Something hasn’t sat right. Something definitely doesn’t sit right with what one biographer said about Jeanne, that she was quiet and doting and like a doormat. That even the photographs of her show that she was a cowardly woman who clung to him and was too influenced by his art to be a proper artist on her own. I kept thinking wrong. I kept thinking fuck you.
She looks a bit mad, yes. And super beautiful. But not weak. Or doting. I think she has more to say….
But really, I need to finish Men in Caves. I can’t let other stories haunt me yet! Even if those stories occupy such fascinating creatures such as Modigliani and his Jeanne.