My day has been filled, since awakening at 5 am, with all manner of exciting communication from all parts of the planet. I have written all through it, pages and pages, and, as I seem to do every day now, deleted all but a few barely related paragraphs, floating like clouds in the sky, pieces of lyric.
Well she’s walking
through the clouds
that’s all she ever thinks about
riding with the wind.
I am unspeakably excited about the people that I am going to see. This week, next week, next month, next year… everywhere, anywhere. All I have to do at this point is wake up in the morning. One person is passed to me by another. I’m afraid that I’ve lost all concept of what I must and mustn’t do; at this point, those ideas seem somewhat remote. The important thing seems to be to pay attention and remain nimble. To try to speak clearly. Yet while calling out for clarity, I write in small, undersea bursts.
“All I ask of people is that they fascinate the hell out of me. Is that so much to ask?”
Frankly, people often fail to be compelling. Dali would not disagree.
Bucks says that they are perfectly capable of it, but lack desire. I think it’s more that they get lazy, or fall into cliques.
Cliqueishness cannot be fought; people behave like iron filings, and that’s a fact, and to rail against that is like standing against the path of the planets. I myself am helplessly drawn to excellence; I will cross rivers, continents, or the rules of decorum to twine with it.
I will always try to be that for you, extraordinary, excellent, not lazy, not your yes-man, not where you want me to be. I will surprise you and I will say things that put you off-balance, so I can study you while you recover, I will always be working to beat you at chess, to cherish you over cocktails, to hear your secret heart. I will leave when you want me to stay but then, if I feel like it, I will miss you in my solitude.