Sat 17 Aug 1996 22:00
later
I type on and
I know we both want, and I know we don't know what we want. What is
best of all, there is no coherency. We feel what we want, but feeling
and expression are two exactly the same things. How expression.
Expression.
To make the same the feeling and the expression, to express love as I
love you, to express appreciation as I appreciate, as I love you, and I
do. To have you
To say it a loud so there no question but of intent and meaning, to force the questions and leave the thought of action behind.
I know we both want, but hell, we're fucked. By the way the people
around us live and have lived. We have to tear ourselves apart we have
to tear the perceptions the glass, the lens, the mirror, a knife in the
painting. And we see through the frame to a clearer world, and not.
But we start over and make it up ourselves, asking what needs to be
asked and taking what does not force us to question as much, we will
get to it all around time.
So it is you woman, and all of the world that has created you, and now
homosexual, is this meaningless to you. So it is you woman, though you
have the body of the man, you attract me with what it is that is a
woman, and can you tell me, can you tell me, man, what she is. I wish
you would know and I wish you would talk to me. I wish I would say she
is understandable, and it is that I make her unattainable,
incomprehensible, this understanding of my attraction, that I may be
attracted more. I type and not write, because I have enough paper,
though it is, more beautiful to write.
So there she is, a Mollie, I can talk to, and what questions do I have
for her. I say I know and I am arrogant, and you know Mollie, I can
tell you nothing. I do not know the asking of advice, how could my
perception of your existence be any more clear than yours, you are your
perception, and never let me in, because I fear, you are not yourself
now and the end. Slate. So you are the known Mary, you are the one I
can talk to because meaning has not been goned. You are the one who
will be here the whole life, as long as I can write a letter or call,
and always I will love you, and so. Marie. And I don't ask anymore and
I say some foolish stuff, and I guess, you do to. I don't know if you
could ever bother me with it. There are some people so good to listen
to and Stephanie is one, why does she have it. She speaks of herself,
only. She speaks of herself, only. Is my answer. Lise, spoke mostly of
herself, and I don't know what I speak of to her, anyways. So good to
listen to. I wish she would call me just to talk, and go on and on, and
I wonder how much would be to much. When I wanted to call Sara to tell
her of my day, and now I do not have it. I wish I had a reason to call
a one of them now, but I think of Kristen, only, because she is whom I
see and loves. Calling is not seeing. It is whom I see.
So I have this most seriousness, and that is why I look at every woman,
and as I have been polluted with the appreciation Idea, if she
appreciates me appreciating her appreciating me appreciating her, and
stasis. That is why I look at every one, as I go by, not all but
certain ones, not by age either, by aura, to be sure.
.