The night stars flicker through the dock lights; the sea water gently lapping sparkles. I feel as if I’d fasted for forty one days, of emptiness. She comes to me, as though unveiling an ineffable dream, bare arms, parted lips. We are going to take a voyage, or perhaps I alone. She kisses me, allays my worries, motions to the vessel and says it must be ready. Her hair streaks black; I look beyond it in the shadows of the buildings outlined darkly, and then turn and take in the harbor, the wooden flooring of the dock, the thick wooden pylons, and the masts, still stripped of their sails, silhouetted against the night. I drag my foot along the coarse wood, walking now, the moist, briny air.
See more.
Looking back there is a very long dream of dementia. A deserted gravel road still curves up through the forest in the rain; it’s dark and cold and I’m running after someone or something. Then I’m walking in horror, a dark room, an invitation to a voyage, a knock on the door. I answer and it’s this young girl; she flattens herself against me, a virgin’s kiss, and behind her back she passes me a note, the dark shadows of the walls caving in on me and oppressing. I give myself in to her desire, going down long flights of stairs in a large building; the trickle of a small stream of water stops me to listen.
I’m walking with her, she’s unknown, nothingness on the edges; the luxury of the dark room beckons or imposes. This twists; we are coming back together, when I return I say; a cheap hotel room, mottled light. We’ve come to the river’s edge, the dark current; I cup her pale breast and we wait for the depths to open, one star, and in our minds the figures come of stone imbedded, a frail green dress reveals as through thick glass, jaded, long blond hair. We cannot flee or ascend.
The girls like gypsies living in a small white shack. I knock and then knock again, and finally Kathy answers, but I don’t want to see Kathy, only Leona, I’ve brought her a present, a little book, but she’s too busy to come out. Kathy moves past me going out, upset, I turn and watch her as she runs away. It’s lunch time but I won’t eat, a symbol of matter that I can’t absorb, ecstasy and death. There’s a slight wind and I feel the intuition of a kiss. She had taken me deep inside this dark and dusty movie theater. Hidden steps that go down and up, hollow space, and the empty screen; the dark back corners where we had caressed to the white images, the cold lobby.
Somehow I thought she knew something that I had perhaps only vaguely perceived, that for some reason she held some sort of answer; the essences mixed, the understanding in her almond shaped eyes lacked symbolic structure. There’s a door and a narrow stairway and wood walls, exactly like in the theater, and which led to the projection room; they’re trying to seduce me; they have the note and so they think they’ve a chance, a very beautiful black girl, full and ripe, a living room party, and then it’s only she and I, and she has the note. I’m putting my hand in her pants and we’re twisting on the bed, Laelia, a luring reflection in the half-light.
I’m on acid, the turmoil, walking down this street; it’s very dark, a narrow alley between a building and a wall, and passing through, an old wooden hotel. We’re tripping, running in this field; two girls are naked and I glimpse the white back of one running and I think to run after her so she won’t feel naked or alone, intimacy, her fair skin and hair. The bare earth breathing in the night; I sit alone, nerves on edge, hour after hour. I might seduce her, mid-summer smells and light, but that never really materializes. The hidden fire simmers, like a reflection in a mirror, broken engagements aligned one after the other. Silence, the same formulas repeat, and which should take me from one level to another; they start to effect a change and it wears off, and then I can’t get in or out. The empty sensuality, the car by the side of the road, a pond, and images lost. I am anxiously trying to maneuver myself into position, the spiral spins, the winds circle down; crystalline water rushes through, and shatters the agony.
Virgin night, a dark path that appears to lead nowhere in the shades of black and grey. There’s a stream flowing across this large, broad plain; I come upon it from the downstream side; across the plain one can vaguely see two waterfalls; it seems to be winter. I have to leave on a trip, and it’s a forced separation.
The boat in the ocean was caught in a storm; the giant swells that swept over the deck, the gales that ripped out the masts and rigging, and finally, the jagged rocks of a shoreline that splintered its parts in the turbulent water. Miraculously, some of the passengers are washed up on the rocks, and in the cold dark windy night the villagers are tossing them ropes, but many are too exhausted to avail themselves, and some are wiped back off the rocks, the shores of time, the black swirling pool, one jagged lifeless tree.
Memories rip, sheered off; she moves away from me, artificial. Anxiously I move through each phase, as though I were lowering myself step by step down a dark narrow shaft, groping in the dampness. An analogy drawn, a solitary veiled lamp, spirals inward. Something has happened in the background, from which people are running; some stop, look forward and backward, hesitate. Everything happens embedded in nothingness. They pass over the horizon. The memories fade away.
I don’t know where I was or why, but I’m returning to the city, and it’s changed; it feels the same, but the whole layout is different, even the access. For the last three days a faint feeling or background of voluptuousness keeps coming back, edging through to the rippling surface of appearance, like an opulent blond in a dress of yellow and white and adorned with precious stones, and a sad open meadow, and now I sit alone in grayness. Dead traces of memory of which I would wish a baroque rosace, small, disorganized, twisted and ornate. I watch her shadow, her dark steps, going slowly away from me perhaps, the old house in the distance. Then I’m hurrying into this house, twisting the latch on the screen door; this is the third day or the third time and the owner is due any moment, and I shouldn’t be there. I was somewhere before this but I don’t remember where. The screen door wouldn’t open like it was supposed to so I had to force it, and so I’m worried about that also. Maybe this is where I live but now the rooms are full of strange people who are sleeping on the floor. My lover isn’t there; it is night and I look around in the dark.
Time melts away; I push and rub against her, standing against the wall. I think of this park, cold and wet, winter, and a small lake; mostly I went there in a brilliant and desolate solitude; now Sherri is over by her car waiting for me; she is blond and warm. In my emptiness I am drawn to her, like the radiation of a dream; there’s a small young tree and the rest is vague. I want to lift the veil on her stream of consciousness, as it passes, and somehow touch her. She seems nature, in the image of death, an eternal memory of the universe; her passing through each mask augments my despair, a nervous dispense, her bare outstretched arms, her parted lips, the cold, moist night air; the masks become the essence of frail consuming life. I reflect; I’ve gone far off into the wilderness, maybe too far, cold mountain peeks off in the distance; maybe I start to panic, maybe I wake up.
A dark ages, the day is within the night. Nomadic, walking in the forest, I come upon two girls who are staying in a tent. We are starting to get to know each other. Dream-like, an expanse is opening out, barren rocks in silent sand, frazzled nerves, failure. The dream fragments in disease. Mother has gone to Mexico to live, in this area of islands and lakes; she shows me on a map, the waters, the pools, the dark unconscious currents. We are going out to dinner to celebrate her going on the trip, only she is really dead. I’ve been seeing this woman romantically, who reminds me of an actress I knew; now I can’t even remember her name; I’m living in an apartment in Paris, and I can no longer pay the rent, so I think about asking her if I can live with her. Perhaps it’s her, perhaps another, there’s a perfect kiss, her mouth is open just the right amount, with just the perfect suction, continuing for a very long time, but completely disembodied. Fine strands of desire and watery remembrance are interwoven or disentangled, each wasted thread.
I’ve realized that I’d been there before, except coming from the other direction, and another point of view, which is why I hadn’t noticed until now, and I remember that after this uneven craggy part it smoothes out, which helps to allay my anxiety. A wish dissolving; I’ve been diagnosed as schizophrenic, a dream in dark moonlight.
I’m walking on this sidewalk or getting out of a car. There’s a black girl with this guy. Now I’m with her, and we’re waiting for something, it’s night. I can’t remember what we’re waiting for; it’s sort of like we’ve been thrown together for the night. I really like her. She’s quite beautiful and strong, but I think she probably finds me too fine or too adolescent. I’m sitting in this car and she’s a ways away and I’m thinking I want her and even though I don’t think she’ll go for it I’m deciding to go ahead and make a pass. Some despair, dying eyes.
I’m sitting on this house door step, a wood house, little more than a shack, and it seems like I’m in Paris. The city has taken on airs of the apocalypse, the streets are muddy, dirty and dark, crime ridden. My sister is very concerned about my safety because I’ll probably be out all night. We make an agreement that I’ll be back by eleven the next day or we’ll say that I’m somewhere else. There’s maybe the vague idea of my staying at a girlfriend’s place. I start to walk out across the street, it’s a wasteland. I notice something with my heel and I bend around to see what’s the matter; my sister is watching; my shoe has started to come off. The flesh is rotting, distortions of a rigid tragic outlay, a thwarted romance.
I’m putting together this big map of Paris in the back of a station wagon. I’m moving around in the back of this car and moving things like coats around back there to accommodate the sections of the map that I’m taping together. I’m always alone when I travel; a large European train station, metal girded arches and a glass roof; waiting for the train to come in, one comes in and then another; this time someone is with me; he says it’s the number 1 over there and so we start over there. We’re going to the train and this guy goes by us trying to sell a beer that he doesn’t want, which is probably a front for something else, drugs; my companion asks about the beer and the other thing, but the guy clams up about the drug; I guess he doesn’t trust my companion; hallucinogens, ground, the being undermined, a delirious obsession. The scene returns again and again during the night; this deadly sleep in matter, space spreads out against my disbelief; almost like thoughts spanning out in concentric circles, like a disturbance of a water’s surface, and each image is effaced almost irretrievably.
I’m with this girl. It’s like I’m trying to force her to tell me where this thing is; it’s like her friend’s or lover’s and she won’t tell me; we’re in this cave and we had to climb up this side of a hill to get there. Maybe she’s in the deal with me after all. There was a stunted tree by the cave entrance, and the landscape is like an old western desert. I keep asking about the key or the clue, saying where is it, where can it be, again and again, with a feeling of spiritual duress on her part, and an insistence on mine, but this is without reality, that is, I don’t seem to be actually forcing her. Meaning a standstill in the center of an ocher desert. I’ve resigned myself to the recurrence of this complex, part of the metaphysics of tainted darkness.
I was sitting in this booth in a restaurant with Carol and there was some confusion about who I was going to sleep with or maybe it was after we broke up, and I was thinking who I’d like to have a relation with; I’ve already more or less decided on this one girl, and I picture her place which seems like fifties style, and she’s got a daughter. We leave the restaurant, and I arrive home, a small wood beach house. I go out on the porch to look at the ocean, and it’s crashing heavily, it’s hard to tell how high the waves are but they’re big. I start to approach; there were dunes in the vista but now there are none. I notice that the shore is muddy, another wave comes and goes by and the ground is slipping, and I’m being drawn into the wave, and I fight to get back up the shore, and now I’ve fallen, lying down and sliding, symbols of matter, arcanes of despair crushed in the froth.
I’m at this house for a tea; we’re in the kitchen talking, two girls and their mother. I want to go to the library so I have to excuse myself. They appreciate my company but for some reason I don’t expect to return for some time. Underneath a dark empty sky waters trickle silver, Laelia. The trip to the tropics has been aborted; I have to get back; crawling past. Then I’m on an ocean liner, leaving the tropics, and I’m trying to get to my cabin. I’m worried about my ticket but then it doesn’t matter. I’m back in the room and the dream dissolves. The body weakens, deprived, a dark, cold empty shell; the voyage to Cythera, empty baroque jouissance. The night is splayed out in dark hallways with wooden floors. I’m in a two story wooden resort hotel; there’s the street and then the ocean. The blue vault seems like a crypt, shades the almost colorless corporeal stains.
I’m going home; my building has a very high wall, and there seem to be some decorations engraved on it. The stone-like path which leads to the apartment goes by this wall and seems like it’s very deep, overhead is covered by a canopy of trees; there are lots of wind chimes. A woman meets me outside. I vaguely remember her, I nod, she says, good evening; she leads me to the door and I open it. The apartment is modern and spacious. There’s a strange lack of atmosphere or mood; the woman is perhaps a lover, but she hasn’t been for very long, like a recent pickup, and there’s this sort of treatment that she seems to want, and it doesn’t seem to emanate from my desire, like a role she insists on following. There are traces of lust in the façade, an edge of indifference, soft breasts lifted in absolute and darkening despair.
Outside it seems like a wasteland. I’ve got some grass and I’m going back home to smoke it, and I was being very careful not to get caught, a very paranoid atmosphere. I am sitting on my bed next to my nightstand; there aren’t any windows in the room. Stairs go down, a small metro opening, cement; sometimes walking in the metro corridors the space becomes more consistent, the light substantial. I look at the plan of the metro on the wall, then nothing, finding my destination, but not being able to remember my origin; after a while I think about asking someone to help me, but they really can’t. In this underground Lilith takes away my time; I can’t remember, her pale breast, nothingness. She has hidden her slender waist and bare shoulders. There’s a bottomless abyss; the dream escapes renewal at the roots. There’s a vague sense of the ocean. I’m going into this hotel lobby with this other person who recommends this hotel; he says it’s a little cheaper than the one where I’m at. I’m alone, no, he is looking for the entry way, he remembers; it’s a very modern dark glass door in a wall made of large stones and cement; the area around is like a Japanese garden.
In a way she had slept with the bourgeois narcotic. It’s after work and I’m waiting for the bus; the two-lane road curves gradually as it goes by. I’m worried because no bus seems to come and there are a lot of people waiting. I’m looking at a billboard that is also the bus route. I might have to take two buses I think for a second. Now I’m standing in the doorway of the bus, the door is closed. The bus starts going right away on the curve; there’s a Y in the road and he takes the right side; at first I’m worried about reaching my destination, but then I think that the bus is going there. I seem to be going to where I live down the hill, near the sea, a one room apartment, perhaps a little worker’s type restaurant. There is this young blond woman standing next to me on the bus and it is crowded such that our faces are very close together. I look at her and find her attractive, a fine pointed nose, almond blue eyes, an oval face, very typically English. It’s a small English seashore town, a church by the way, the houses. Our faces are very close together. I’m looking at her, and she’s sort of looking at me, like with a bias, so I wouldn’t notice. Her friend seems to be standing near by, and she seems to condone the intimacy. Our faces start brushing first one side and then the other; I’m feeling this complex of not knowing whether she wants me to touch her or not, and even at the end she really hasn’t dispelled all the doubt. Then my hands, I wonder if I could put them on her body. I set one lightly, and then the other; she doesn’t respond negatively, and in fact she seems to come into me completely. The rest of the world has gone away, we start to embrace, she wraps a leg around mine to draw me nearer; we’re about to kiss but we still have our clothes on, long heavy coats. Outside, a baroque nightfall. Broken engagements, the feelings are displaced and reflected, loss and desire.
Also I was somewhere else, I can’t remember well now, maybe a nightclub; it’s from there that I’d called that girl Patricia. I had to leave a message on the answering machine, so I said how much I wanted to see her, how urgent and pressing it was and how impassioned I was; sexually it was urgent, like when I was younger, and she was giving me the runaround. I’m reminded of symbols interspersed in vast open spaces; the same scene slips away. This girl and I are going to make love; we have this car but it’s too small; we’re in this supermarket parking lot. I’m trying to arrange the car so we can make love, I really want to; it’s dark but not night; cars are going by constantly, but I consider the idea seriously; then I think again about doing it inside the car but really there’d be no room, and I want room to move about. I don’t know who the girl is and she hasn’t said anything. We take this gravel road out to the outskirts of town; lured to the shores of beauty, broken on the lack of appearance; the spiral closes, involuted.
It all comes from somewhere, like a thousand mile trail through the wilderness, the Oregon Trail perhaps, one of the early expeditions down the Amazon River, of a year or more, points of reference; the rain passes over my mortal fingers, a sequence of hallucination; it falls, I pick it up and then it falls again. The whole scene was really between me and this lady who was young, pretty and intelligent, and who seemed to show some interest in me. I’m going on this train very far inland or upstream, but I give up and turn around; it’s very dark, medieval; a European train. I decide to sleep; I glimpse out the window, fields, clearings in the woods, and I’m thinking I won’t come back here for quite a while. The train stops, I lift the corner of the curtain and glimpse the station through the window; there’s no one, the train doesn’t stop; I don’t get up; I guess I figure on sleeping till I get back to this place; it’s very dark; the shadows join into the plants, like wandering aimlessly in a cold forest, an antique temple, some vague recognition. It seems like it’s dark but it’s not. I don’t know why we were there; this whole sequence is delirious; folding visions retreating along a path, an attractive naked woman, a doorway; the symbols entangle themselves.
I’ve arrived at home; it seems like I’ve been away for a while; I’m looking over my house, a very large old wooden split-level on the edge of the sea. I turn and go back towards the house, a fantastic old structure from the outside, but I never go in; I see the keys hanging in the door. Hidden moods curl around me. The dark bay, empty with hopeless finality, tender white breasts, death severs the ties.
I’m on this bus going back to Oregon from far enough away to the east. Then two girls come on, maybe just one girl, now I remember, one girl wants to move to the seat in front of mine; it’s her ploy so she will be closer to me and be able to flirt with me; her friend was sitting in another seat, and they both move or only one. She’s moving over by my seat, kind of stretches her body out, standing by my seat; she’s hot. I’m thinking how I’m going to start talking to her. There’s a scene, I’m looking at this photo, there are three girls and a cat, Joëlle and it seems like two other French girls that I knew. At first the photo didn’t really get my attention, but then I went back to it; it seems I recognized all three girls, but now I can’t remember, I really didn’t recognize them or in some other way I hadn’t resolved that situation. The girl on the bus; we’re in a bedroom, or she’s alone; she’s got on a négligé; she comes out and she’s coming over to the bed. I wouldn’t know if I were lulled by some talisman, an imperfect mirror, a deceptive empty aesthetic. It seems like a dream that is not very clear, like it had already faded. I’m alone; I can’t find anything; the color is stripped from everything. A voyage in the night, substance chaotically hangs on threads of desire, the blank rooms of an asylum inevitably waiting at the end.
It seems like a dark cave, I go over and kneel before her, full of devotion; she has rejected me and is meditating her votives; she is wearing a silk see-through pajama open in the front and her legs are crossed; my touch slips away, an interval passes unconsciously, nervous misgiving, I look at her cheek, a series of vague reflections and anxious longings, breathless transcendent shadows. It seems like someone keeps insisting from somewhere that I keep them moving, get them involved; this voice or whatever keeps insisting and I’m getting more and more irritated, I’m just about ready to quit and walk out.
Then there’s this hillside, like at Leona’s; there’s a shed, a fence; later there’s this girl, perhaps the same as on the hillside, fair, blond, simple and cute; she has this black ball through which she is sticking this pencil-like rod; she sticks it through three or four times talking about how this is like the cave and I think she asks me if there really is a cave. There’s this girl and I; she is cute, smallish and wearing a violet sweater. I’m sitting at a desk; she moves to one side of the room; then she comes over behind me and presses against me; I put my arms up and lay them against her breasts.
Each vision slowly blends in the shadows, the moist dark earth, night air just before dawn; we’re making love in this field, there’s a shed, or what’s left of one in cement; we’re both very erotically excited. The color of her hair at night, actress in an unknown plot, aimless figures in obscurity. Vaguely we’re up high like in a theater loge; I’ve come upon this girl, and we’re going to make love there and we have to be careful not to fall. A slice of time in distress, tied to a source, bare legs and a see-through top.
I don’t remember anything; symbols seem to wander just out of reach, like a mirage, an unconsummated love, distant, cold. Dazed, and sliding into nothingness, elusive, painted destinies don’t seem to matter, the world abandoned, madness trailing in desperation, the black shadows. I’m in this room in the tropics, perhaps a ship’s cabin; this woman is with me and it is time for me to go, my time has come, the door is closed, I’m sitting at this dressing table; we remember together how we got there, and there is a somewhat eulogistic commentary by her, because it seems I’d sacrificed more than the normal. It’s a question of a very long voyage in the tropics. There are scenes of the voyage, the many rivers we had to ford, some very large and we had to leave the vehicle on the other side and sometimes wait for some time to get across. Then we’re back in this room and I’m at the dressing table, and it seems like everyone is outside and waiting for me or in waiting, and this woman gives me three tubes of lipstick like things, which I pass over my lips, each of them, and then put away in a cylinder; and she asks how it is to pass over my lips with death, to touch nothingness with death; and we look at each other, and we are going to wait now for it to come. The dampness, depth of the water, oblivion, a faint attraction, obsession drags into each symbolic disposition, a nightmare printed on the wall of emptiness.
This young girl comes up and acts like she knows me, something I was worried about and that she wasn’t supposed to do, because I didn’t want anyone to know; we’d been doing things and she wasn’t supposed to let anyone know, but I guess she didn’t understand that; she came up and gave me a kiss or touched me. I’d been sick and now I’ve returned home; I get there and Dio leaves for somewhere; it seems benign, vague like some hidden logic, a delusion, which has at least rid me of it for the moment, wandering, a figure in wreckage. Like abstract webs, dreams wrap my being. It’s not her. Then I’m with her and we’re making love; she is very animal, very violent, but she doesn’t have another lover, and she says she’ll stay with me. I’m thinking about ejaculating but I decide not to for the moment; this isn’t the first time; she is large and beautiful, short hair, little nose, powerful, maybe slightly taller than I, exactly like another girl, a ballerina; these shapes change, abandoned in the dark, vague sentiments of disillusion, loss and aimlessness, a faded sensuality.
I’m in Paris staying in this small room next to this other room, where there’s another person, a girl, who is subletting to me; she’s not pretty and rather graceless. I’ve only a little cot like for camping and it’s night. I lift up my bedding and take out my windbreaker from beneath and from there I take out my money; I’ve only got 15 dollars to go for two weeks, and even though my room’s paid I can see that it won’t make it. Each layer veiled, a silky matrix of illusion; alone, broken, inflicted by each new relation.
I don’t know if it’s me, it might be a young boy with whom I sympathize and who has told me this. She’s gone; all the symbols alter with the thought of her; it’s a logical problem, trying to improve my logical position; down in there it’s a real confusion, and I can’t make out anything clearly, stripped stolen energy; conscience of a doubtful movement and a vague light, muted tones on the faded walls.
The street is dark like a corridor, in reality because there’s nothing else, it fades into more and more darkness. I don’t have my papers because I’m a foreigner, like living in Paris, the idea being that the authorities somehow pick up on this; other people never take on any materiality, like shadows in the drama; I lose another part in the silver stream. And it just goes on and on and one keeps wondering when one is going to get to the end.
I’m at this party, Dio’s there but she’s across the room; this girl comes up to me, a lover; in fact I vaguely remember the last time we were together, either in reality or a dream, and she’s very lovey, giving me little kisses, and then a big one; and I look over worried that Dio might see, but I don’t see absolutely anyone. Then I’m in this forest and it’s raining; through the trees I can see the clouds moving. I think how extremely watery it all is, this planet. It is very dark and bleak, like out on back roads; the countryside is very dark, apocalyptic; she is where I’m trying to go; living veins reflect the tint of the darkened sky.
Irretrievable blanks have meaning; it seems like I probably get the kiss but then I start maneuvering trying to get out of the film even though it seems like a film I wanted to see; imprints, designs and links. A bitter-sweet smell, dust and sand cover our marks; waters trickle like silver twilight, hidden dangers, hidden desires. The breasts and pubis, she can press with them; small mounds of washed-out desire. I’m slumped over on a bench, sitting in the dark. Then I’m walking at night and I have to catch this boat; there’s this woman; she’s going too, a dark narrow alley between two buildings. With what I traveled the unreal confusion.
I’m with Carol and this other girl in a European town; Carol is enticing me in; the other person on the side is screaming don’t do it, frantically worried that we’ll lose ourselves. Only the other girl almost takes on reality; the attraction seemed to be constant sexual pleasure, eternal. I caress her emaciated cheek; once an opulent blond, hesitating, a dress of yellow and white, sophisticated symbol of duplicity, hidden, a poisoned disenchantment.
There is a TV set going somewhere but this is vague and also distanced; it’s like we’re in this carpeted living room and we’re over against this wall sort of in this corner and they’re over on the other side or in the center watching the TV, like we’re staying overnight at someone’s house and it’s dark and late. Then she’s kissing me, her tongue sticking into my mouth, and at first I’m a little surprised at such an aggressive kiss but then I meet it, darting my tongue also and rolling it around with hers; our bodies meet and it looks like it’s going to go, but then she pulls away and asks my why I want to isolate her and have her only to myself. I say I don’t, I try to show her, maybe she acquiesces. A pressing desire, coupling images, the edges of the rings. Cool, moist ocean air, outlines of shrubs, abandon; I come to each barrier, refusal, denial, like walls, and turn away, anguish.
There’s half-light; I think of these aimless little streams. Moving back out of the lineage, following the path back up, switching in parallel paths, as one retracts, reverses the process; a restless night, false affection. This dream seems to have had a sort of self destruct mechanism linked to it as I woke; that is its logic and clarity were disintegrated on waking. There were various themes; it seems concerned with women and the main complicating factor was the choices one could make, these options being so many burst the initial cohesiveness and coherence; one option, with or without; during the dream I remember understanding the choices, but now I can’t remember any. The contours of the dream cross the nocturnal resistance; a bitter, nightmarish gap forms in anguish. I go past this girl in the water playing with someone; a very fine waist, hardly any breasts but she’s so tight; the focus is so clear on her waist and the two triangles of the bikini. I think to stop, but then her brother or her boyfriend is there. The taut design, forgetting why one goes there; reality washes in and out, schizophrenic, one moment disillusioned.
Shreds of logic cling to the passing phases. I was waiting for the girl to get ready to go out. Her small breasts under the fine fabric of the brassière, unconscious silence, the sad shapes of itself; consciousness slips over the threshold and escapes stark reality. Fissures in the walls of desire; traveling at night, silent nakedness, loneliness. Shadowless. I’m working on something like typing or writing; Dio is in the background, and there is this young girl with me paying attention at my side; we are amorous as though I’m having an affair with them both. I want to kiss her and I think not to because of Dio, but then I decide that it doesn’t matter, and I turn to the girl and she kisses me and the kiss is very good and very fulfilling; we continue and continue; she is very innocent and maybe foreign. In the situation value is lost, the whole scene seems like artificial night.
Something had changed; she kissed me on the corner of the mouth; whispers from a source, out of phase. This girl and I are sitting on the floor or on a mattress, a pretty brunette, and she leans over and kisses me. Then seemingly unrelated in time a forest, another image slips in and out of reach.
I’m shopping for clothes in this store, and this girl says my name. I look around and it’s one of the checkers. I say come help me find this, and at first it was a shirt that I couldn’t find the size or the color, one or the other. She acts like she knows me pretty well but I don’t know her. Somehow I find out her name, Joanne. She is reluctant to leave her register, but the other salesgirls say go ahead. She is the only one wearing a white dress, dark skin; she comes over. Now she’s sitting on the floor and it’s her break; it’s carpeted and there’s no one around, and I’m sitting there, and I move closer and touch her. She’s a little plump but OK; she’s not sure if she wants to get into this, and shows reluctance. Impressions in half-tints, deceptions under the breast and on the waist. This one escapes me; it’s like a circle that keeps repeating all night; each part I remember, but not long enough to bring to consciousness. I see, understand, and acknowledge, but when the next segment starts the last one is no longer accessible, like self-effacing steps. I woke with a revelation. Two other times I woke with the same sensation, less the revelation, perhaps because I’m upset. Elusive qualities, the contagion in the undertow. The focuses. The last fabric blows away and strains the nudity. A sensation of organic meaning in the narrow shadow. I’m there but not really; it’s hard to tell if I’m really participating. A wish that imposes a feeling on the atmosphere with the faintest gesture.
Something falling with ashes, streaming down my face. The light behind the thin screen of reality. Ornate figures that taint the emptiness like obsessions. The archaic maze of delirious memory. A reality that melts, the loss of the image. Then I’m with this girl, kind of small, French and blondish. The atmosphere is Paris but I don’t recognize the places. Presence or absence, the disguises fall away from the forms. The darkness marks perverse impressions of desire. Il n’y aura plus de commentaires. Out in the middle of nowhere.