It Is Easier To Tell A Story

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.

There Is Something About The Way That Greek Poets, Say Aeschylus, Use Metaphor That Really Attracts Me. I Don't Think I Can Imitate It, But There's A Density To It That I Think I'm Always Trying To Push Towards In English.

When An Ecstatic Is Asked The Question, What Is It That Love Dares The Self To Do? She Will Answer: Love Dares The Self To Leave Itself Behind, To Enter Into Poverty.

At Least Half Of Your Mind Is Always Thinking, I'll Be Leaving; This Won't Last. It's A Good Buddhist Attitude. If I Were A Buddhist, This Would Be A Great Help. As It Is, I'm Just Sad.

I've Come To Understand That The Best One Can Hope For As A Human Is To Have A Relationship With That Emptiness Where God Would Be If God Were Available, But God Isn't.