The rain is heaviest to the soul, gray sweeping sheets of lifeless mist trooping silently through the horizon, over the green sea of the tropical vegetation–two years after our May Day on Magdelen Bridge in Oxford–all those bright hopes even in the northern drizzle of those early morning streets–stopping groups of girls to try to talk with them–falling asleep and missing the strawberries and champagne but beginning the best month of my life–that May of ‘83 in Oxford: Blenheim–Punting–Pubs–Dancing–Flirting–Discoursing–Poetry–Stars–low-hung moon–All of the wonder and the terror and the passion of my youth–spread into an idyll–a perfect place with a perfect companion. Two years ago–and May Day will always be a day of remembering–a marking day of the year. What has happened in those two years? Little that I don’t regret, that I don’t view as a falling off–as a decline, however: My Senior Year, Conference with Rev. Crocker, Maria Helena, Marois Restaurant, My First Apartments, My Best Writing, Brazil. And here I am–a hero to myself for having come this far–and glad to return to my Native Land.
And so I trace great growth, good progress–always feeling more at ease–even if not as intense–I am afraid not to be intense–and try to induce it when things are too calm–too blah–too boring–because I have learned to worship intensity–because it is so much myself–yet I am bored sometimes–utterly bored and depressed–spent, exhausted–this is natural–and then there is a return–a great ebbing back–a great headlong rush onwards into some new thrilling emotion. I like things my way–I am afraid of serious changes–I am a baby in control of my world. I see my whole life–even what has not yet come–as mine–I feel I deserve it and have worked for it and maybe I have and am working still.
I do much to keep myself afloat–to keep civilization. I eat culture so I can breath. I depend on people every living moment–people that I love sustain me–I keep it secret and they can only feel it–and perhaps I sustain them thus–they believe my love because I don’t say it–And yet I do say it sometimes–and very well. No one can be for a moment forgotten–and yet they are not kept in the light.
I remember the feeling of being in New York City in my dream last night, the ghost of any city in my dream–wide in never-ending dark streets–vast distances and danger. I was at a store trying to be safe–then I had to get across the city but I only had 3 dollars–not enough for a cab–and I realized the importance of money–and how it’s connected with safety. I remember those long intriguing city streets.
I had seen cities before in my dreams–some beautiful–some rich with architecture–London rich with rustling leaves–pleasurable walk of the future which never occurred–Russia–but the dream cities are the feelings of the cities–and the dream world is large–it is the world–but it is its true size–not the size we have learned in the modern world of communication & transportation–but there are far off places & significant journeys.
I saw the woman tonight voluptuously rolling her ass as she walked in white pants–she was a street-walker of course, and I wanted to contact her but I was afraid and stayed safe–getting into a cab and going home.
I am so glad to be going to America. It’s as if I understand the desire to go there, desiring its advantages from the outside, from outside–the third world.