All Human Desire Is Poised On An

We're Talking About The Struggle To Drag A Thought Over From The Mush Of The Unconscious Into Some Kind Of Grammar, Syntax, Human Sense; Every Attempt Means Starting Over With Language. Starting Over With Accuracy.

That Night We Made Love "the Real Way" Which We Had Not Yet Attempted Although Married Six Months. Big Mystery. No One Knew Where To Put Their Leg And To This Day I'm Not Sure We Got It Right. He Seemed Happy. You're Like Venice He Said Beautifully. Early Next Day I Wrote A Short Talk ("on Defloration") Which He Stole And Had Published In A Small Quarterly Magazine. Overall This Was A Characteristic Interaction Between Us. Or Should I Say Ideal. Neither Of Us Had Ever Seen Venice.

We Humans Seem Disastrously In Love With This Thing (whatever It Is) That Glitters On The Earth-- We Call It Life.

Everything Depends On Liking The People And Trusting The People. You Have To Assume That Whatever They Do Will Be As Good As You Want The Thing To Be And Just Go Ahead With That.

Time Isn't Made Of Anything. It Is An Abstraction. Just A Meaning That We Impose Upon Motion.