His laugh: Vaguely hyena, part labrador-loose-in-the-surf, not mocking, but the tiniest bit cryptic, comically so. He made me want to write. Since it was too wonderfully cold for sitting outside by the fountain and attention-sucking candlelight, for two nights we kept company, this llama and I, as I revised and created by the spersed glow of an obviously eclectic lamp. Whenever I glanced up from the screen, there was his face, laughing me on. Odd little muse. Crude. Fine. Friendly.
Work of art.
I learned so much about myself-the-writer those two nights. Mainly this: Forget Modigliani, Dufy, Monet, and that portrait of the confident looking lady and her boy whose creator’s name I can never remember, even when I’m standing right before the masterpiece, gazing. Forget Tiffany turtles or sunflowers in vases. Forget a plate of Jo Jo’s and a glass of whole milk next to my laptop. Forget a goblet of wine (well…), a pint of Guiness, or a cup of Mexican coffee in the middle of a radically clear night on Sierra Mar’s cliff-hung patio (yes, truly forget that). Forget stars and moon and bubbling fountains reflecting candlelight in a borrowed house in a seaside town that comes with pink mountains and inspiring views (if you can get over the beauty and get down to creating). Put a laughing llama in front of me? I’m a writing automaton.
I look forward to the day I stumble across my own personal laughing llama, the one I will pick up, dust off, place reverently in my
beachbag purse and take home forever. I will call her Llama (because I am so very creative). And I will love her. Indefinitely.
(Mrs. Edward L. Davis And Her Son Livingston—John Singer Sargent, of course. Will. Not. Forget.)
Sargent! of course. At LACMA, not SB. Nice.
That Llama is wonderfully evocative. 🙂
Didn’t it used to be in SB, though? Or am I hallucinating again?