The house has been redecorated so I can sell it, yet it is more beautiful so I don’t want to sell it.

I have been having long, stressful conversations with the realtor and the bank.   I pray, I stay in consultation with my peers.

A woman I was at school with wrote to me recently and reminded me of a poem I had written when I was eleven.  I think it’s rather good.  Good enough to share with you all.

There’s a hole in my mind/

And I do feel inclined/

to cover it with leaves/

so the hands of thieves/

cannot touch it.

It’s quite a telling little poem written by a mad little boy drowning not waving.

The past days have been deadly confusing. Is this what happens when grown ups fall in love?  Is that it?  It’s really hard to write convincingly about love because the symptoms of love remind me of the symptoms of addiction, of drugs, of hangovers.  It is all so damned intense.

Who doesn’t want to fall in love and feel all these things?

I cannot move-does love cause this geriatric immobility?  I cannot think.  I am frozen to the spot – then in the next, immediate moment I am running around making important decisions that I should have made months ago.  I an revitalized, confident, hopeful.

I decided to sell my art collection.  I called a gallery owner.  He will come and assess the art I keep in Hollywood then on the tenth of February (when the renters leave Malibu) he will assess the rest.

I can’t wait to see it all go.  Every last bit of it.  I am tired of all this STUFF.  Too many things in too many places, too many plates, too many forks, too many vases, too many paintings, etchings and far too many sheets and pillowcases.  Too many rooms for too many guests that I no longer feel like entertaining because I want to bury myself in him.

Now I am eyeing the furniture and the silver and want to liquefy it all.  The odd thing is-if I get the correct price for everything I can be debt free, run my little farm, get off the grid and beholden to no one.   That’s what the goats and the chickens are for: to clear the brush and lay eggs.  Of course, some of you don’t like the idea of me eating the goats but that’s what we do when we live off the land.

Isn’t that the dream we all have?

When I am in Hollywood I lay in my bed listening to my neighbors screaming at one another.   They scream the most disgusting, violent things.  He tells her to ‘shut the fuck up’, to ‘get away’ from him.  He tells her that she is a ‘fucking bitch’.  Then they repeatedly slam all the doors in the apartment and she gets deathly quiet and I worry he may have killed her.

Whenever I see them in the lobby they behave as if we don’t know.  As if none of us who live near them can hear.  As if we are deaf to insult, blind to knives in rotten flesh.

No one/someone/no one/someone/none?  For almost everyone I know the choice is obvious.  My mother scoffs at people who have no one.  She would rather be in any relationship, however bad, than come home to an empty house.  I would rather come home to an empty house than any half measure.  Loveless, passionless half measures.  No, that’s not for me.

If he is unavailable?  What of that?  What if he had someone else?

Ben Wishaw and Hugh D’Ancy are performing in a play called Pride in NYC and my new friend Jake Bauman went to see it.  He texted me during the interval that Hugh fucked Ben.  I knew what he was thinking.

I read the reviews.  The comment.  The predictable gay outrage because Ben won’t make his fucking mind up about what he is.  Good for him.

You know that I am writing this for you?  You know that after I finish writing this I will hear your voice and I will be complete?

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