And Briefly, for Later

That was a good cigarette, two in fact. That was a good...conversation, I suppose is the best language here to use. That was a good day, by the end, in the whole of it. I'm glad...that it all happened. I'm glad for the near breaking down, the further breaking down, the recentering, the realizatin--an of course the conversations, and that one, in particular, that brings me here again. To this place, this sense, I love; to embrace Walt and his and know it for what it really means to me: what it means to love, even in so slight a way as showing Mani as best I can (poor Mani! who by now, I fear, has heard it all from me so unrelentingly so unchangingly that by now it is all but the same, tired lullaby he can expect me to sing if he spends time with me--and, yet!, he does. Neither of us may be right, or wrong as I've realized too, but between us there still hangs something exceptional, something special, something beautiful and right enough to believe again. It is enough to love him and know it; that even when we argue so fiercely we scream out eachother's dumbest faults, expectorate the dumbest errors, "elucidate" the dumbest points, that even then when I want to bite his head off--I still want to suck it all the same.) how I will always love him.

That one human in relation to another--not even so much in sex, or "relationships," or "boyfriends," or anything so particular, but just the mere existence of one man and another and the spatial, temporal indifference there can still between them exist that indefiniteness, that Good, that wonderful and endless human compassion--can show something so beautiful, regardless of the facts or particulars, just the raw actuality of their existences inseparable, is enough to believe again. To live, and love, and be, again.

And I may not have everything I want, I may not have his glorious totality buried deep inside me nor my own within him nor both beside eachother, I may not be the wisest for still forsaking so happily Truth for the painstaking efforts of Love and Loving, opera amoris amandique, and I may look these troubles, this choice, this entirety, straight on and see for all its trouble--for I have seen him commit and fail, I suppose I will always say is how it went, but so infrequently have I felt to have myself, and yet envy him at that even for all his current antipathy, but that is but one piece, one little, petty piece of the mass--and want it, and with a smile take it, and again, amare eum possum nunc iam quoque vivereque agitareque --et volo.

And now shall I seize what I have loved and with it with me live through my days as I have dreamed. And maybe that is how I shall find happiness; in the least I can bring the happiness, if but some, to others, to the ones I love.

This being only the last of several--mostly manic, terrified, horrorstruck and angry--posts, I cannot swear they will answer to all the questions of the others nor the questions they have raised, but I cannot also swear to care. It is enough after all that horror and pain to have arrived, after all that self deception and fury, to have reclaimed what I do care about, what matters most to me, what drives me and has driven me if only in these, my most cogent and occasional moments. For it is something to love and have loved.

And I can live with that--and find peace in that. As long as I can keep that with me, knowing that, knowing that I can love and that I love, and loving him; will all of it mean so much and affirm so much more than the pettiness of Truth could ever hope to do for me. For that is how I am.