One day in my lifetime, the bomb will drop. I would rather write about love and sex, about betrayal and desire, but time has become for me a sort of radar of doom, ticking backwards, not from whatever happens in the future, but from the moment I became me, conscious, fearful and determined. The ultimate attraction is time, and it leaves me spinning alone into nothing. Who will describe me properly? On what shore do I stand as a beacon to every new thinker? Look out, you are crashing, and time will spill from your veins without replacement. You are bound to nothing, attached to nothing, so why should you keep feeling and loving and fighting?
The mercury said it would be 114 in the desert the day I left Hollywood. I couldn't wait any longer. How much more time can I waste? Every second is a drop of water on the surface of Venus. No trace it ever existed. I am getting drier by the minute. The longest drought looms ahead of me, threatening. No storm, no river, not a shimmer of emotion. Not even a dusty memory. All my plans and schemes and dreams will be as empty as this house, standing its useless vigil in the desert, a few bones stuck together without any soul. I cannot breathe, and think of the end of my life. I try not to think about it, and breathe deeper. But . . . how many more breaths?
I see you more than ever in the world around me, and feel you in every impulse for affection or aggression, whether emotional or sexual or intellectual. Not just when I see a woman with black hair and piercing eyes, but when tree leaves rustle a certain way, or outside a bakery, or driving in the mountains. Not sure if you can take that as a birthday present, and it certainly isn’t meant that way, since I feel it whenever creativity swells out of me. And I have not been a spectator this past year, for anything; artistic energy is flooding into every minute of my time, and the year stretched out impossibly long, gushing into a multitude of expressions and experiments. Your persona, half hope and half pleasure, still has her hand on the faucet, cranking the possibilities wide open.
(a diary entry for the photoessay "Yellow Shop")
Dogs barking furiously outside and one wise owl just hooots all night. Why do owls hoot? Because it sounds good or because they need answers? And the fog is up; they hoot more then. Why? I listened to them before I typed this to you, when I was sitting thinking that it would be nice to watch you on video. This sort of arousal just blossoms out of the writing and words and the drive to express myself. Partly because I want to have the visual pleasure of remembering the crash of our orbits — as most men who have appreciated your intimacy would still want — but also because there is the lingering emotional satisfaction of doing something or creating something to win your curiosity or approval. I think the formula for answering Ananda’s sexual judgement is to arouse her curiosity in order to know her sexually. That would be a smart, masculine strategy. But anyone can do that. Is it too much to think of myself to write that I judged your sexual curiosity? That I aroused that sexuality to get to know your curiosity?