Love Letter Day X.
I promised myself a brisk walk outside but can’t stop thinking about how desperately my floors need to be cleaned, desk organized, mind cleared. This is a tension.
My friend developed a concept car whose noises would harmonize with the city; its claxon would be pleasant. We were so excited by the technology. However, after a year of research he realized cars are evil and scrapped the whole project. The whole lot of that costly research. This is a tension.
I collapsed from exhaustion yesterday after waxing praise for six hours. We are hiring someone to take over some of that work. I felt a voice inside me scream for attention, though I was screaming for attention the entire time. What is this tension?
I am surprised by how my body responds to you and I can’t wait to keep responding. I wrote the following phrase once in a draft of a novel that I will never finish: his erection tested the tensile integrity of his zipper. I’m still very proud of this pedantic poesie.
Tensile integrity. That’s what I shall call it when our spirits hold hands, fingers interlaced and tickling various ideas in silence. As long as we do not let go, there will be tensile integrity.
Post-Script: I know this is making the rounds since the passing of Alvin Lucier, and I don’t want to join any pithy public eulogizing for someone I do not know but listening to “I am Sitting in a Room” yesterday was an ecstatic experience because I knew all of us were sitting in a room listening to this.
I am sitting in a room that is different from the one you are in now.