— Herman Melville, “Moby Dick”
17:12// I truly love you Samuel.
17:30// And of course, reading this chapter, I am brought back to the spring before last, the baritone singing upon the stage in Barnes, as a storm blasted the windows. I then walked down the mountain, as I so often have, alone beneath the stars, lightning flashing behind a magnolia blossom, deep rolling thunder, but no rain. Ithaca, once my heaven, soon then to become mere set design obscuring the fascist abuse at the hands of the police state I would undergo. That night, uplifted by the music, which played along with the storm that evening, I wrote as I descended of how music might save me. You are wrong about my words being wasted love.
17:36// “Woe to him whose good name is more to him than goodness!”
17:44// Our “cover image” play of docks, the talk he gave in 4/2013, The Tempest, Brave New World, Alphas, Pisces, Blue Skies, Minima Moralia, anti-fascism, Hurricane Sandy, Freedom Tower, massive flooding, Jones Beach, etc. I am not sure if this ongoing work is more opera or novel, or some new mode yet undefined. Whatever the case, it will be dedicated to you Samuel dearest. No man is an island, nor a flawless Prospero, hard as he may try.
17:50// “Through all his unearthly tattooings, I thought I saw the traces of a simple honest heart…” Such strange sounds and shapes dear. I love you friend, even as a phantom.
[The dual meaning of ‘tattoo’ while sitting alone in The Shop tracing and editing maps of Jones Beach, a happy child running along the length of the coffee house screaming with joy nearly bringing tears to my eyes last summer.] “And besides all this, there was a certain lofty bearing about the Pagan, which even his uncouthness could not altogether maim.” I am your savage alone dear, and so too were you mine, uncouth child though I was at worst.
18:01// “…the storm booming without in solemn swells; I began to be sensible of strange feelings. I felt a melting in me. No more my splintered heart and maddened hand were turned against the wolfish world. This soothing savage had redeemed it.”
Reading, I consider how savage we each have been and how, I believe, our savageness is what drew us towards one another. That first early morning, my phone dying, my contacts out, you pointed left from the porch. I stumbled too far towards the cemetery, the world a muddled impressionist painting to my unaided eyes, backtracking, following the sound of the water, I found Aurora and my way to what would quickly become our home, later my emotional prison. Nothing justifies your violence, but still I love you.
18:10// Reading on, I miss our chats together in bed in the darkness together my love.
18:19// Why hate Samuel? What purpose does your seemingly endless rancor serve? What have you gained by damaging my life when I have never been a threat, though I deserved a proper goodbye? I forgive you. I love you. Your hatred will devour you if you let it dear. Please, it is your turn to see.
19:11// Riding a nice post-elliptical chill. After a relatively productive day drawing, reading, writing, and exercising, I am going out to be the single friend of a married gay, trying to meet (more) new people. I really had thought these days were over.
Anyway, the ballet dancer might be coming, one could carve stone with his jawline. I do like inviting different people together and referring to the group as a wolfpack. K. might join us, who is now just a friend, but whom I caused to fall asleep the fall before last, running my fingers through his ginger hair. He’s working at a nice architecture firm now. I really am incredibly sweet, despite being far from perfect Samuel.
19:54// The ballet dancer is spackling and painting his apartment, packing up to move. He sent me a series of images of the progress. I booked a table for the married guy and myself at Vera Cruz, where I ate with the Vice writer by the fountain on the day of that Italian festival with the huge tower. I ask K. to join us later, ending with: It’s just me and my friend, we’re hitting up dinner at Vera Cruz and going from there, text if ya wanna meet up home fry, we Kentucky gentlemen ought to stick together in this town of heathen Northerners.