A very fitful night. I started awake at 2:40 a.m. to find local public television about to broadcast a show on Nureyev's Russian years. "What an *odd* thing!" I thought. "Who remembers Nureyev in a gangsta-Paris Hilton-wretched-excess world, much less that he was Russian?" They were endearingly candid about his sexuality, and the early clips reminded us all how uneven his technique was, pre-Fonteyn--but how full of life and speed he was. I drifted back to sleep on a pillow I've punched out of shape, to find, in my dreams, Daniel, alive again, driving around a night-time city sparkling with lights, the two of us in a rambling conversation about who had been living where and doing what when we met and moved in together. In the dream, there was much laughter and agreement, but when I gave up and swam to consciousness again, I saw that all the details were wrong, were frankly fictional.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
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