To what and which, or where else?

Awoke at the end of a troubling dream, saving myself from a part of it.

No one has seen my mother in dreams or otherwise since her passing twenty years now. On odd occasion, she is there as she was, carrying her southern accent and odd intensity. Mother was a bit crazed in the Virginia way, though not unpleasant in either fashion or manner. She had unique charms, all her own, and found few adopters. Her etiquette expected little from others. It was an orchestration of genteel effort, addressed always outwards in an effort to save time, as so often it did. Though it did not save enough.

As a child, as a normal course of our experience together, I saw many bewildered at what had just happened, the sheer dynamic of the exchange. She skirted the fences between brevity and terseness, though knew just when to cut a smile.

Towards the end of my dream I was sitting on the couch. She descended unexpectedly, as dream apparitions often do. She brought the news of my father's death. She leaned forward, over the sofa to deliver the trouble with as much discretion and privacy as possible, though quite unneeded in a dream. I do not blame her for this. It was as if she had spread wings when speaking. 

I might have been at an afterparty, in the dream, so the shock of her being there was already much for me. 

Mothers exist in two places: where you expect them to be, and where they are not expected to be. Though, they are everywhere amidst the heart, deft as phantasms. 

She told it as if it was news, arriving for the first time, using an odd choice of words to relay the simple fact to me: "I'm sorry son, your daddy's dead."

Something about her using the word daddy to describe my father, an odd man who had already passed away, and was so much older at the time, as was I.  I suppose.

Eternally separated from her, to speak this news.

A dad, at best, but one who had long since ceased being a daddy. 

Son? Me?

I remember crying in the dream, convulsing with the imaginary news. Feeling it afresh, the sting of an always expected loss. 

I emerged from sleep, upset, thinking of my own son, of course; the only person I know who uses the word "daddy." 

Thinking of my mother, and the tremendous pieces of time, so many parts that have now passed between us. 

The tremendous particles of time, now lost, amidst the.

.

My freely roaming uterus

(north of Big Sur)

It must be the early onset of pre-menopausal stages. I've been having hot flashes all morning. There are medications out there that will reduce the effects, though I am opposed to them on religious grounds. It's my lot in life to suffer this way. It is all spelled out in detail as part of the great early scientific chapters of the bible. I blame the serpent that has been loosed upon the garden, the slithering tempter, and of course I blame Eve because I also dutifully fear God.

I met up with a few friends who were in town last night and one confided in me that they have read all of my blog posts. So, here I am, re-invigorated by the knowledge of a dedicated distant reader. 

I don't know how I used to do it... to work out at the gym most mornings and then write a blog post while excelling at work and also being a full-time father. I've dropped half of that routine and am still struggling most mornings just to make coffee. It makes no sense but I know it to be true, that the less you do the less time you have to do it. Routine creates time rather than destroys it. I need to get back into the gym just to get some of my life back.

Everyone agrees on this simple point: that I need to return to the gym. I have exhausted the reservoir of excuses and no new ones seem to be hinting at arrival on the horizon. 

Habits are a such burden, especially the bad ones.

.

Recordando la tierra juntos

The leaves are changing, as are the winds. 

This morning, the boy and his mother departed for a city in the desert. I've never understood Phoenix, nor the people who would wish to live there. It is a hellish place, populated with the culturally indifferent. Everything there is a single unappealing color, a beige phlegm which has dried and hardened. It is where the old and infirm move to celebrate the unveiling of shopping malls or car dealerships.

To breathe the warm air, to become dust, one with the dust of one more sunset.

This weekend Cato and I will go camping in Big Sur. There is a music festival there, a songwriter whose work I have just begun to become familiar with. I wish to get away. Idle hands, devil's workshop, etc.

It is pleasant to see the leaves changing across the hills, like a shadow of color moving slowly across the land in all directions.

I thought that I would miss writing here more than I have. Perhaps it is complete, whatever it was I had hoped to do is done, to prove to myself that I could stick with something if I so chose. 

What does it all mean. I do not know.

I did not "miss" it. Something felt incomplete about not writing, though I could think of very little to say, nothing some days, and have nothing much to say today. Or write, to be more exact.

Love hinders the impulses that do not directly serve it. There is nothing to blame. Happiness is not very interesting. The search for it is; its absence says far more than its presence. 

I am happy. 

See? It doesn't do very much on the page. 

Anguish has a way of adorning itself with language.

I started to write a poem, in Spanish. Or rather, I was writing individual lines in English and translating them into Spanish, hoping to complete a poem in another language. It was more difficult than I first thought and I ended up with only suggestive fragments. I was not able to complete it. Have not been able to yet, anyway.

The woman in whom I am in love, pictured above, understood that it concerned the act of sex. She was quite right. It was scribbled for her.

Me, of course, wanting to offer her something about myself that I can, or thought that I could. She and I, remembering the land together.

Reclinada, 

Empujando hacia adelante y hacia atrás suavemente, juntos, 

Entonces aparte 

Tú y yo, 

recordando la tierra juntos

.

Here is the end of a Facebook cow

I posted this a few seconds ago with the title: "Here is the end of a fucking cow"

Fecesbook deleted it. So, here you go again:

I'm really tired of writing. I'm weary of trying to organize my life in this way, to make some small sense out of any of it. 

If this is all that matters then it doesn't matter enough to me any more.

Fuck it, for a while. 

I want a non-verbal happiness.

I'll be the first to tell you all about it, if I find it.

.

The Stockholm Sin Drones

The woman that I am stalking has lately been reciprocating my feelings more and more. We are a matched pair, it seems, like two mirrors moving closer to one another. We are burning up our anytime talk minutes. We have recently agreed to limit our calls to one another to six a day. You would think that twelve phone conversations between us would not be a crunch, but that's cutting back from our previous sixteen to twenty. We've decided to stay on the phone longer, as a compensatory adjustment. 

At long last, two lingering lovers…. what is there to do when stalkers fall for one another. 

When we're not on the phone we are sending a stream of texts and emails; little communiqués, abbreviated sweetnesses, kisses at any distance. The sound of her voice in my ear is complete.

I wrote her quite the doozy last night; a weighty email, more than one page. I'm submitting it to the Nobel committee for consideration. I would hand it over to the Pulitzer people but they'll hand that prix-fixe out to just about anybody. 

We're finding new things out about each other on an almost hourly basis, she and I. When I talk to her it feels as if I am inhaling nitrous as she speaks. The sound of her voice acts as a palliative to my central nervous system, my sense of self. I've almost given up pornography. That is how strong the feeling is, it changes behavior.

------------------

I was sitting in a familiar cafe, having lunch, when a local nuisance kept inquiring about what I do for a living, though she has asked me many times before. I tried to let her know that it was complicated enough that I did not care to describe it. This did not stop her. She's a real go-getter. She then proceeded to question me concerning my love life, so I directed her to pictures of the woman described above, hoping that would forever establish my disinterest in her. She seemed incredulous that a man as gruff as I could lure such a lovely stalker into my view, and then gain her favor. 

So, I showed her a few of my favorites, pointing out how beautiful the many details were. When I arrived at her eyes and noted how they had two distinctly different colors, one a very unique green-sih that gave way to an outer hazel ring, I encouraged her to also take note of one of the many reasons why this woman deserves to be considered in full. 

Excitedly, and too much so, this woman who was nearly my age grabbed my shoulder and started jumping up and down, her heft making it nearly impossible for me to type, or else. 

I tried to indicate that she was violating my sense of space, and self. She repeatedly insisted that I look into her eyes, as they were "just like" my lover's were. 

I glanced away nervously, tried to diffuse the moment. This is a person whose eyes will not be stopped, though. She nearly got me in a headlock that resembled affable familiarity, though it did nothing to advance any friendship between us. 

She again demanded that I look directly into her eyes and acknowledge that she possessed a quality that was indistinguishable from the woman that I love.

I obliged, and glanced through her prescription lenses for no more than a half second before I had found my response:

They say that 'The eyes are the window to the soul' and perhaps that is true enough. What I see in yours are pools of eternally unsatisfied impulses, misguided expectations dance across your pupils, and the disappointments of no less than four and half decades of weight gain have taken their cargo across the goddess Styx. 

I had considered mentioning the substantial hair collection she had defending her oracular region, like a satanic goat, as that was easy enough to draw upon now that we were in ancient Greece, though she was already backing away from me as if I was the one to be avoided. Tumbling down the paths of Olympus, as it were. 

Not to be beaten with confusion, she then rearranged herself in a more central position and proceeded to announce loudly to the entire bar questions pertaining to the crossword puzzle she must have assumed interested us all as much as it did her. 

It had to do with California lakes, an area in which she was clearly drowning.

-------

Okay, so sorry, back to my subject. Hell is other people. 

No. I can't write any more. Why would I even bother? Why are you even reading?

This titanic wreck of a failed woman has stopped just short of challenging me to a mustache contest. She will not be happy until she convinces an elderly gentleman that her jokes are funny. 

As far as mustache contests go…. I have her on spread, darkness, and thickness of follicles, but she vastly outnumbers me in creepy near-mouth population. If I hadn't heard a stream of noxious sound emerging from that abysmal maelstrom then I may have guessed that it was only an old man's useless ear. But no. This was no old man's ear. This was a woman's mouth. Anybody could see it, even less could deny it. None could stop it.

Her lips reminded me of the inside of the Himalayan jacket that I recently purchased, though it offered none of the reasons for having purchased; protection from the elements, warmth, silence, solitude, etc..  It seemed to take warmth out of the room and cover in algae the lake of my mind with a hairy-lipped woman offering herself up to any taker, while also refusing all deniers. Her ill-fomred sentences crawled upon me as kudzu. 

I felt as if I was being beaten to death very slowly at air hockey game that might not ever end, by somebody that had never even bothered learning the rules, having arrived with only a single quarter, much distracting face fuzz, and yet somehow still running the table.

I could not divert my eyes.

.

Love in a bubble

The kid is really figuring things out, and not just who has the bigger pee-pee. Yesterday, we were standing together in the hallway, trying to find him a pair of blue jeans to wear.

Are you sad about Mommy?

What do you mean?

That she's not here?

Sure, a little bit. It makes me sad sometimes.

Because I'm sad about you when you go into the city.

Sure buddy, it makes me a little bit sad. 


So, there it is. The kid's understanding of love outside of that which he feels directly from either of us. His understanding of the love of others is informed by the sadness of that recognition, that of loss. His biggest example will be of failure.

Good job, Mommy and Daddy... Perhaps we're only preparing him to be a writer.


Just now:

Daddy, do you like storms?

Well, that's part of nature buddy, and I like nature.

Do you like lightning storms?

Those are scary, aren't they?

No, those are just the super-heroes.


So, maybe it's me that doesn't quite have things figured out yet.

Seems likely enough.

.

Baby Jumps

(pic: Rachel Cusick)

A slow Saturday afternoon, one spent swimming at the pool with the boy. He has been "spitting" at people lately. He spit water at a little girl in the pool so he got an extended "time-out." On his way back over to her to apologize he must have lost sense of his footing and he fell first to his butt, then sideways into the pool. 

Grace under pressure.

I fished him out, made sure that he was okay and then sent him on his way to complete his mission. He made his way over to her and whispered an apology which she easily ignored, having likely not even heard him. Then he farted, which she definitely heard, and giggled in response. 

So march on the sexes, two by two, or by less.

When we got back from swimming and were changing he announced that I had a big pee-pee and he had a little pee-pee. I thanked him, but told him that this was all a matter of proportion and that one day he would have a monster cock like mine, not to worry, that mine only seemed enormous to him because it was always at eye level.

Sort of. 

True but for the last part, the thing about monsters.

The kid is asking a lot of questions lately, particularly about the differences between boys and girls, mommies and daddies, etc. The world must appear quite odd to him. I know it appears that way to me. Odd.

He mentioned a female friend of mine recently and I asked him if he liked her and he said, "Yes, she has a round butt." 

"What did you say?

"Yeah, I like her. She has a round butt."

I see. That is part of why I like her, also.

Later that evening I was chatting through text on the computer with the round-butted intimate while I reclined in bed and the boy asked if he could talk to her also. I explained that I was talking to her through written words. He asked if she lived in our house now. I said no, that she was in the city. Then he asked if she was staying here at our house while he wasn't here. Not wanting to confuse him I explained that she was staying in the city while she was here. So then he cut to the heart of the matter and asked if she had been sleeping in my bed.

So, he likes my friend because she has a round butt and he wants to know if I'm sleeping with her. 

She figured it out, of course, pointed out to me that the pants that she was wearing had a circular pattern on them and that her butt would have been at his eye level. He sleeps in bed with me quite often still so he must have naturally assumed that she might also while she was visiting.  He might have even been more concerned about someone sleeping in his bed than mine while he wasn't there. 

There was an innocent explanation to all of this. 

There is no way to completely insulate the boy from my life, nor would I want to. We had put away all of her luggage so as not to raise any questions in the boy's mind. The questions arose anyway, as bubbles in a bath, with rubber duckies ever floating to the top.

.

Me, My Sherpa, and Why Not?

Okay, last night I finally went shopping for some clothes for Burning Man. I gravitated towards women's lingerie, naturally, but ended up finding a mixture of used and new garments. Above is my Himalayan jacket (new), the last piece I bought. I first passed on it, thinking it too expensive. We left the store and walked to my friend's place, but then Cato and I scurried to the car and I arrived at the front door just as the shop owner was closing up for the night. It is nearly useless to me outside of this one event, and the playa is not very cold in the evenings, but once I tried it on I could not be without it. It's not exactly a goncha, but I didn't want to the leave the Upper Haight longing for its animal embrace. 

What self-respecting burner could, or would? I wouldn't be able to masturbate for a month with that weight on my conscience. 

I probably won't even wear it. I bought quite a few other pieces that were cheaper and perhaps more practical. Last year I basically wore what I wear around the house along with a collection of scarves and beads. I desperately needed to up by Burning Man game. I might as well have had a terrycloth robe on the entire time I was there. This year I'll have a few reversible Japanese robes to augment my middle-America collection.

We'll see.

My special friend is making me a piece also. So, I might have different outfits on from day to day, if I remember to change clothes. Most years in the past I've waited for someone to query me about "that smell" before I even bother. This year might be different, I have developed the habit of telling myself. Last year I think I tried to gargle with Gold Bonds powder at one point. 

I bought some nice butterfly stockings so that somebody might confuse me with the flute player from Fairport Convention. 

I'm trying to get a permit to bring my yack in with me so that I won't have to cycle everywhere, but the Bureau of Land Management are being a bunch of cunts about it. They are questioning my hand-written vaccination records as well as the noble beast's pedigree (also hand-written and part of the same document as the vaccination records). I told them that I once worked as a scrivener and that it was just as good as the original document, which was lost in a amateur chemistry mishap in a friend's basement, but they would not listen, and refused to understand. Some people you just can't reach. They continued to request the original document.

I would prefer not to, of course.

Okay, the boy and I are off to the camping store to stock up on the most powerful anti-inesct chemical compounds that money can buy. I will explain to them that I have an industrial license and to unbox the good stuff for me, the stuff they keep in the back for "preferred customers" such as myself. There will be a cash incentive and I will mention the Monsanto corporation a handful of times, of course, to gain their trust. I will explain that I need something that will clear a 30 yard radius of all living creatures, at all times. 

I hear that somebody is selling flamethrowers to civilians now.

And why not?

.

  

I'd fold ourselves away….

Few discoveries rival the moment of recognition of matched imperfection in another. The love that should shave us.

To reflect as much as can be reflected. So much reliable uncertainty, such familiar disappointment. So much joy. As if anything here should be shocking anymore.

Much this, and so much that.

Self, else, etc.

That's it, just us.

Oh my god, whatever, etc.

Somethin's beatin' on the wall, on the other side

Strange, lovers moan, each others' names, 

on by-hour sheets

For, the very first time

One of them's changed the other's some name 

she changes every time she lies, across his bed

But the light of the moon leads the way 

towards the morning, 

and the sun,

the sun's well on the way too soon to know, and

Oh my god, whatever, etc.

If I could, I'd fold myself away

like a card-table, a concertina, or a Murphy bed

I would, but I wasn't made that way

So, you know instead….

I'm open all night and the customers come to stay

And everybody tips, but not enough to knock me over

And, "I'm so tired"… I just worked two shifts

But the light of the moon leads the way

towards the morning, and the sun 

The sun's well on it's way too soon to know, and

Oh, oh my god...

Oh my god, whatever, etc.

.

The hall of mirrors

("My face feels weird")

Hush my darling, don't fear my darling,

The lion sleeps tonight….

I awoke to the memory of this song, which somehow gave way to the second half of this. I had promised that if I ever woke to thoughts of Jackson Browne songs then it would be time to finally do myself in, but now I don't feel like it. I guess it's not really a Jackson Browne song, so there is that. I think The Four Seasons did it. Saved by doo-wop facts.

There are a handful of Jackson Browne songs that can be listened to, but no more. I'm told that he's a great songwriter, but his songs can't hold my attention to the verse that's supposed to matter so much. Like Elvis Costello, there's a lyrical twist somewhere in the final verse where he flips the metaphor or something, but I've given up caring by the time it arrives with its inexplicable verbal twist. Snottiness alone can't sustain my interest. Great songs are supposed to make you want to listen more, not less. I think Elvis Costello only writes songs so that he can get the last word in a private conversation with himself.

That's what I would do, anyway.

.

Radical Self-Insecticides

Ugh. Burning Man is burning up all of my free time. I am as a man on fire, also. Part of me likes it, at least the flammable parts. 

The reports are now coming in from reputable sources that there are bugs everywhere on the playa this year. I would be lying to say that it doesn't matter. The environment is already pushing the limits of the inhospitable. Pestilence is prohibitory. Did the Old Testament teach us nothing at all about science and desert sustainability? I had planned to ride in on a giant locust at sunrise. 

It does not require an advanced degree in biology to surmise that once there are more people and more food then there will be even more bugs. I hate to be a doomsayer… but, things are looking more and more doubtful. Few experiences are rich enough for me to suffer in this way to prove enjoyment and pleasure to myself.

A terrain that tough can dispense of bugs quickly. A heat wave will do it, particularly a heat wave of organochloride. I wonder if the Bureau of Land Management has any old canisters of DDT lying around they wouldn't mind to trade? 

In these topsy-turvy times, one must wonder about such things.

.

Dancing Shiva

I left NYC four years ago, to the day. It all makes sense when I consider the timing of other things - my son's age, mine, the calendar that was never on the wall - but it makes no sense when I consider the emotional trajectory of it. Almost everything I hoped to have had worked here in Sonoma has failed long ago, though apparently not long enough. I would question why I stay if there were not such an obvious answer: the popsicle monster.

The failure of the previous relationship still hangs over me, somehow, a curse that moves with the power of unconscious force, motivated by unquestioned habit. Little things, and some not so little, plaguing me if only because they seem to get to my life and end up causing trouble even before I do. I arrive at the point of recognition, just after it might have helped. A volunteer fireman hosing down cold cinders, ash. The sound of sirens in the distance moving elsewhere. It is a mystery shrouded in nothing but clues.

Time creates and then distorts everything, destroying much. We are allowed to exist on neither side of it for very long; one side can hardly be reasoned with, the other will not be halted. 

It is best to live in the moment, the only place that's remotely safe.

.

Popsicles!

This is how the boy let me know that he wants a popsicle. I had no idea that he could even reach the door to the freezer, still only being three years old.

Why, just yesterday he…

I don't have much to say today. I rarely do when I sleep as much as I did last night. The boy and I enjoyed the luxury of an extended three hour nap yesterday and then twelve hours of sleep last night. I skipped in and out of slumber, but still stayed in bed with my eyes closed until well after sunrise.


I required a triumph. I got one; arriving in darkness, fleeing within the womb of morning, archiving the previous day, disappearing in the dust of wakefulness. 

.

Burning Bike Rangers

Three posts in one day. That must be a close tie for a personal record. I already miss my special female friend. I have too much time on my hands now and she really brightens the place up, etc. 

I rode my bike up to Gundlach Bundschu, a favorite old cycling route. I did not come close to matching my personal best in time, though it was nice to once again reaffirm the relationship between my head, legs, and heart. The latter of which nearly burst on the last 200 yards up the hill to the winery. Luckily, they had a pleasant fellow handing out water. Little could he possibly know that he likely extended my life from that moment onwards. I gasped at him as a form of thanks. He seemed to understand, acknowledging my appreciation with furrow-browed looks of concern.

Things are ramping up for Burning Man. The preparations are many and most of them seem to fall on my shoulders but that is the spirit of the thing, or what it becomes the more times you go. Having friends is a form of reliance, one that is deeply involved with self.

I should buy a box of Emerson's essay "Self-Reliance" and pass them out freely at BM, or in trade. It need not be any more radical than that, once its implications are grasped and fully understood. 

I don't normally talk with legal authorities of any kind when given the choice, as all of you know, but last year two pseudo-rangers stopped to talk to me, seeing me using one of my film cameras in the early morning sunrise. One of them was derisive concerning all of Burning Man's basic tenets, so I opted to discuss the principles in a broader context, a thing he did not quite seem prepared for, and then used those external concepts to arrive back at Thoreau's "Civil Disobedience" where the conversation became markedly more pointed, with my summation including a statement reiterating the citizen's responsibility to not allow authority to atrophy the conscience of the people through threat, intimidation, or any type of derision, focusing on the need to push back against misuse and abuse of said presumed authority wherever it is found to be less than serving its society. 

I then noted that the authorities were quite lucky that it was happening in such a peaceful way here in the desert, and that everyone should be grateful, and not to forget to count their blessings. That unsurprisingly ended the interchange, though not unpleasantly so. It was just a good conclusion point. 

I have some pictures of them around here somewhere.

Well, the boy is stirring, and the great game of baseball awaits.

.

Ardens Man

(Trey Ratcliff)

Well, I slept... a few more hours anyway. A little bit past the sunrise, a rare treat. Now, I can't decide if I want to go get breakfast at a restaurant or make some here. I am leaning towards the former of the two options. I have nothing to do today, but will pick up the boy in mid-afternoon and make something out of what remains. A local baseball game, maybe. The Sonoma Stompers.

I should do something to prepare for Burning Man. I need to find out how much a trailer hitch costs and a trailer rental for a week. The car is too small and there are too many passengers now. Last year it barely accommodated myself alone with the supplies I was bringing in. It looks as if two others will be driving in with me now from Reno. A real caravan.

My friend and I were discussing the newness of "Burning Man Parking Passes" and found out that they were only used for the first time last year. See everybody? Burning Man has changed... as if those of a certain age group needed any more affirmation. The claim is as tiresome as its makers. 

Okay, before I let the day pass me by here lying in bed, something else must also change. There is coffee to be had, some sort of breakfast food to be eaten, trailer hitches to be negotiated, money exchanged for goods and services. The movement moves inward.

 

.

"Buckets of moonbeams in my hand"

I slept like a baby when she was here. Now, I'm up in the middle of the night, whining to myself like one. Ah well, what can one do but stare into the darkness until forms appear, then hope that they are in the shapes of the shadows of sleep. I considered opening a bottle of wine, a leftover Malbec, though I do not feel like it. I am hoping to return to some form of exercise in the morning. It is what I have been telling myself. My hiatus from regular exercise has now stretched through the summer. 

Tomorrow is supposed to be a very hot day. I plan on taking the boy to a local baseball game. We will see if it makes any sense to do so. The heat here can be brutal, like Burning Man but without the dust storms. Ugh, I need to condition myself for that also. Perhaps that is why I can't sleep, my recognition of the conditions that I am about to enter. Two weeks and counting.

A close friend has decided in the last few days to go. We are now searching for a ticket for him. He has bought his flights, booked his bike, will be on the lookout for clothes. He and I could just swing by a plus-sized for ladies shop and be done with it all, though I am beginning to bore of dressing in drag. It is what happens to an aging man who has tossed away his last vestiges of femininity, eventually even women's panties lose their magical appeal. If I could just learn to deprive myself of them for a while then I know the magic of putting them on again would return anew, but I am a helpless devotee to certain forms of fiendishness, as many of you have already detected.

I need to confirm some clothes also. My collection of scarves and beads is waning and in desperate need of additions, something other than just accessories. Something dignified, an article that honestly expresses the spirit of my age. Maybe a nice red smoking jacket. 

My brother turned 49 yesterday. Next year I'll have to stop speaking to him. It is written. 

All the decades, disappeared like smoke.

.

She, My Selfy, and I

She is back in New York. I put her on a plane late last night after an afternoon of champagne and a late lunch of white fish and various veggies. She was being a very cute girlfriend and spent the day in the kitchen making stuff for us to eat, claiming that the only reason was because she didn't want to see the veggies go bad. I know better, of course. The way to a man's heart… Etc.

It's love, we have both conceded, whispered admissions of romantic defeat and all of that. I suggested keeping the relationship "open" for a few years, to make sure that neither of us felt physically constrained by the other at all, especially considering the great distance between us, though she seemed to wish for something more monogamous in our arrangement. Women are funny like that. 

I'm okay with being monogamous. It's easy enough. I'm so pleased to be sexually active again I would agree to just about anything. You should see the contraption she made me wear around the house.

I'm only kidding, of course, we've had no such conversations. The visit was a pleasant success. Getting to know somebody in person is a different thing altogether than forming an intimate correspondence with them. In many ways it is greatly preferable. One can always choose when and how to respond to an email or a text. Life is not so simple when lived authentically, though a person's physical responses to silliness are very telling about who they are. Laughter and frustration can not be easily hidden when standing or reclining face to face. It is this lack of concealment that brings forth much of the magic, rising to the surface like so many champagne bubbles. 

Concealment of self is why so many people choose Facebook over life. Some wish mainly to contrive a version of themselves. I should know, I have seen the crawling spiders of persona.

I would go into detail about the past four days but she is a much more private person than am I. I do not believe she had quite expected the sensation of seeing her picture here on this site, with me writing about our experiences together and people responding to her visit here. It did not bother her, she claimed, she was just perhaps not quite prepared for it. Most people exist comfortably between privacy and exposure, with parts of themselves leaning towards each, and an internal sense of control governing the space between. To have someone openly present part of your life to their world is an unexpected sensation. There is perhaps an exhilarating sense of sudden nudity to it, though whose is always a question.

That linked song in the last paragraph has nothing at all to do with she and I. It was only the phrase that reminded me of the song on one of my all time favorite albums. 

Okay, that's the love update for now. Next stop: Burning Man.

I have set my Tinder account to "Do Not Disturb"...

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In a way, family matters

I'm not getting married and I'm not engaged. I'm just in love, though I do have a dentist appointment, which is the only engagement in my calendar.

People take my posts here far too seriously, for reasons that entirely escape me and always will. I write fictively about things that matter to me, that is all.

My extra-voweled-better-half (Shauna) leaves today. She returns to NYC, a city I have always wished to visit as soon as possible. She has promised not to cry at the airport, though I have promised to slap her if she doesn't.

See what I mean?

The girl and I are as lovers united at birth. I always wanted a sister like her, and now I have one. 

She cries when I talk about running away from home, so I don't.

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Guarantee

No time to write today. Having a visitor has occupied all of my free time.

As my brother gently reminded, yesterday: Enjoy the moment. In the end, it is the only thing that we are guaranteed to participate in.

And you never get a single second of it back.

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Time keeps on

An afternoon spent watching the sun move towards the distant hills, sipping a cabernet/merlot blend, seated together comfortably. Then, a drive into the city in which I fatigued the ears of the passenger by singing along with Beatles tracks. Dinner at our friends' place. 

Time is already passing far too quickly. It is the ongoing cruelty. I have no idea what will happen once she has returned home, though I know part of what will happen. Most every moment seems to confirm what we already knew, we are falling together. The sense of urgency is surging and swelling as we both become increasingly comfortable in one another's presence. Distance and separation now will arrive as a form of torture, an injustice that must be corrected with travel. We have acclimated quite comfortably to our sense of mutual physical proximity. Everything fits, as we both greatly suspected that everything would. We were as eager as teenagers to confirm. 

Two weeks occur between when she leaves and Burning Man. So, there is that. Only two weeks.

Then, I will likely return to New York for an extended visit. Afterwards, we do not know. That is the brief update on our flourishing romance.

The universe has changed course, expanding as rapidly as light and in all directions.

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