Last Thursday Thrasher and I turned off the lights and hid under the covers like we were playing. I foolishly requested Ben Folds Five on the Winamp. ("Mr. Jones pt. 2 that awful dreary moan). And I foolishly told him something. The something measured three feet (or words). And, stupidly, I tried to recreate a poem I wrote. About Camel Lights, and "Idiot Wind" by Dylan and the Something. One of the points I recently read is that hallucinations, fantasies and dreams are made up of clips in the brain that actually happened. or something of the like. So Imagination is a sham. and Love - the most common, poorest fantasy - is a sham. Probably anyone could convince themselves to love anything. Most of us prefer a man who is a Broom under our toes. Belize from "Angels in America"
"Justice is simple. Democracy is simple. Those things are unambivalent. But love is very hard."
Worst of all, my poem is unoriginal.
I wish once, just once, something is what it ought to be. And I am going to make a silly point - that the insane have it easy. I am sick of the disappointments of reality. I'm ready to trade it in for something else, other than cynacism. In the dark last Thursday, under those green covers on 17th, at a certain angle Thrasher looked sort of beautiful. The way only a beautiful woman or a child can look beautiful. Crisp, clear, smooth features like a fine photograph. I think he moved or I looked away and I didn't see it again.
It's not that he didn't return the I love you. I know where we stand. But I don't know how to make something special. He didn't call it love and he didn't call it a moment. And the latter is what makes me sad. And since then he's missed all my points. And I haven't missed him.