I can hardly believe that it's a week as of tomorrow morning that I set out for Amherst. The week has gone by in a flash. What a strange nature, of time, that way. I measure it these days, with hourly changes in page hits, the minute additions, subtractions -- like measuring one's life with coffee spoons, per T.S. Eliot. It's okay, though, I do other stuff too - don't worry. I loved your very powerful hit this morning, darling -- it means a lot. I'm sure it was you - or so I decide... it's the only way to make sense of things, really...
I am tired, just typing, sipping pink wine, wondering what I'll do this weekend. I need to buy a box of Christmas cards. I'd like to go see the new George Clooney movie, it's in Rhinebeck, but the first showing is at 4:15 - later than I'd wish. It's also in Great Barrington, but I was just there, don't feel like going back just yet. Perhaps I should go see the new Martin Scorcese which is right here at the multiplex. There's also a new film, called Shame, about a sex addict, which I wonder if it will ever play around here at all -- so I've already saved it to my Netflix cue. There's a new Roman Polanski - only in major cities, as is an intriguing looking movie about Freud, which stars Keira Knightley. The movies I'm most interested in seeing - aren't here.
I wonder - do you have a boat? One of the proxy hits was from a "cover your boat" site. Which fine, it's a proxy hit - but it did make me imagine you, in your coastal town, perhaps owning a boat, enjoying going out on the blue water, oh soulful poetic you, you and the sea, sun and breeze on your face, you steering, and thinking, savoring the movement of the boat on the waves - what would it be? Perhaps a motorboat. Those seem easier than sailboats - all those sails, though I love the poetry of them, of course, flapping canvas, ropes, clanging hooks... Anyway -- if you wish a boat -- then I hope you have one, and a cover for it as well.
I managed all three legs of my triathlon today, along with cooking, so not bad. And a brief nap - all before five, by which it was already pitch dark out. I liked a line in one of the Patti Smith songs (or is it by Springsteen - I guess it is - anyway the line about angels in the form of lust, at night... I'm paraphrasing. But do you know, on some very deep level I do sense that... that we're here somehow, spiritual aspects of us, for the very purpose of connecting & making love. I feel that way when I come -- like, where did that come from, that transformation, even if it lasts just a few moments. Or I think of when I encountered you in the dining room, you standing there, me near you, and - I don't know - something just seeringly connected with me, right then, so improbably there, but it was you. It did feel as though we were two spirits - angels - connecting. There wasn't anything coy or cutesy or seductive about it -- it was just this single, singular moment of utter & complete recognition and connection.
So sweetheart, I am just typing away here - not a polished piece at all, just wishing to whisper in this way, as it were, in your ear.
(Dear 1.0, where are you - in a motel somewhere? Do you like them? I couldn't stand the single night I spent last week in mine, myself. But perhaps you don't spend so much time in them. I don't see how one could happily spend a whole evening in one, by one's self, with just Wifi and cable TV. But of course, you're much more peripatetic than me, much more used to driving, stints long & short away. But here's maybe a small difference. I might like traveling. But the motel itself, the cheerless room with the adjustable heater that made the blackout curtains (that blocked easterly sun as well as a view of a rubbled asphalt lot, an apparently abandoned stripmall construction site) billow & blow, made me feel very alone & lonely, cut loose, cut off. Is there some part of you that likes that sensation, somehow?
Or - talk about projecting - I'm imagining you (1.0) in the very motel room in which I stayed. Perhaps yours are a bit more cheerful somehow. No, that can't be right. We're wired differently - maybe we weren't two angels connecting -- oh, but weren't we?)
I don't know darling --
Love is an angel disguised as lust
Here in our bed until the morning comes
Come on now try and understand
The way I feel under your command
dreaming of you, dearest -