my own conversation with warhol.

i like my alone time.  serene solitude.  quiet moments where i can manifest and ponder.  however, sometimes in my restful respite the odd lad or lass pops in to offer his or her companionship.  he’s an artist or she’s a muso.  he’s a pop culture icon or she’s a rock legend.  i seem to appreciate the company of eccentric enigmas; especially those from another era whom unfortunately are dead.

but that is part of the romanced affair: their immortality encapsulated and enshrined through the pages of a good book.   these colourful characters kept alive for my own amusement and conversation.  ah, the literary imagination, tis a beautiful thing.

ever strong is my literary imagination, there are times whilst settling into my nest after travel or a long day of gallivanting where i’m surrounded by poetic muses: janis joplin.  andy warhol.  jack kerouac. patti smith.  susan santag.  these laureates whose words are like sweet lyrics that strum in my heart on a bluebird day.

i revel in sharing a conversation i had with mr. warhol just the other day …

“love affairs get too involved, and they’re not really worth it.  but if for some reason, you feel that they are, you should put in exactly as much time and energy as the other person,” andy says.

“so, i should put more time into loving myself?” i ask.

“people should fall in love with their eyes closed.  just close your eyes.  don’t look,” says andy.

“don’t blink either,” i tease.

“i never fall apart because i never fall together,” andy mutters, changing course.

“alas, then you don’t have to worry about being put back together again,” i say.  i turn the page.

“when you see each other and you don’t even lose a beat, that’s when it’s the best.  you both play it all on one level, like everything was yesterday,” andy goes on.

“but every day can’t be like yesterday.  tomorrow is untold and everything that is, is alive and happening today,” i challenge the pop icon.  his words stare back at boldly on the page.

“they always say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself,” the author continues.

“i concur, fair laureate.  the only behaviour that one can change is her’s herself.” i say.

we skip a few pages.  i stop when he begins scribing about the importance of being your authentic self:

people will often try to convince you to do something by saying that it doesn’t matter if you’re not the type, or that you could be the type if you wanted to be, but don’t break down and try to do something that you’re not the type to do, because you know what type you are, nobody else does.

-andy warhol

and as my conversation with andy warhol dwindles he leaves me smiling with his ever-dapper observation, “people with pretty smiles fascinate me. you have to wonder what makes them smile so pretty.”





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