drifting when dawn finally came through the windows drifting in some nameless sleep that none of us know until that point where we become speechless and unconcerned with the journey of our bodies and environments. A separation from the senses so as not to feel the loss. When I woke in the morning the sun was filling the courtyard and windows painting a fine white line across the sills, and I had a great need for a cigarette, went into the kitchen and leaned against one of the counters among the various smooth/rough instruments, bowls, seated objects fashioned from clay, and there were rusks of binded husks from wheat and big seedy bulbs of dead sunflowers and a cuckoo clock and a pastel of a forest and in among all that I recalled with a slow drawing on the cigarette the night before and the emotions of the two of us towards sleep the continual brush of lips and hands and the warmth of skin, the surfaces of our two bodies instilling so much love and confusion in this weary and runaround heart of mine, and then I went back to bed and climbed in under the covers and put my arm across his smooth chest and slowly drew it back and forth and slowly he responded and I slipped further beneath the covers touching his chest with the tip of my tongue and running it around his breasts and down his smooth sides and across his belly into his legs and took him into my mouth and he reached down taking hold of me and there followed a slow sex that turned frantic as he crossed the threshold of sleep and we both came simultaneously and I wearily dropped down into the blankets my heart like some red horse galloping in the nervous arena of my chest and lay there looking around the roomâon one wall the tied stalks of Montana wheat from where he drove and drove and drove through endless roads past endless fields of rich green wheat in the summer heat and down there somewhere in that western country he stopped his Volkswagen and grabbed a handful because it startled and amazed him into some kind of dream state.
After a while he got up and made coffee and toast with some Norwegian goat cheese and let Willow his pet rabbit out for a walk and I remembered how he named his Volkswagen Huck and how with the letter to him explaining as much of my senses from our contact and the piece of driftwood in a box waiting to be brought to his doorstep tomorrow morning I have this sad heart because of what might well have been, no longer possible, and now what might possibly be affected by this letter, this gift but regardless, I give it up to him with a true feeling in my heart, a real sense expressed and I donât think negativity could possibly come from up-front emotions regardless of the range and the disquieting fact that we hardly know one another at all.
September 1, 1978
Harriet Tubman Park
Okay, so Iâm in front of the Chinese Laundromat where my clothes are undergoing tumble, morning with clear light, sifting through last nightâs dead mysteries, a coolness to the hot breeze within my cheeks and arms. Chance has taken another turn making me undecided about whether I subscribe to chance. Ha, donât have a choice it seems but were it to turn in the directions it does at these times I may well get over all formal mental expectations for the cranking whirl of this great planet and throw myself back into the heaping whirlwind of mobile shift philosophiesâno denigrating stud-shoe dance in particular, but let it be as it beâdonât struggle.
Phillip called the store yesterday around one oâclock, my stomach was like a clutch stuck in shifts. We made plans to get together for lunch down in the West Village around Sheridan Square. I was down there around two, he showed up and we went over to Bleecker and West 4th bar-restaurant and sat outside in the cool windâme with a mushy bowl of chili, just âcause itâs cheapest on the menu, and two coffees. He talked back and forth with me but I was in back of my mind