#ht18

And there was this long enraptured, amazingly unbroken moment in which I just loved him, in a way I can’t really explain after the fact— just was completely consumed by this… tenderness; the fact that I’ve been listening to those songs for so long— To Be Alone With You on a cool pine-scented morning while coming back from a run; many late nights with Death With Dignity; Blue Bucket of Gold alone at dawn on Sunset Road; Casimir Pulaski Day while kneeling on my desk putting up my Camus print— and now… he is actually extant on the same plane of reality as I am, it is actually this guy with the recorder (and assoc. cache of weird instruments) and the vaguely nice shoulder blades and sheet of Montaigne quotes which he produced out of nowhere who is just… there.  Living, breathing, making ironic asides about death and ageing, rather adorably flubbing “You gave your body to the lonely.”   Because it’s lovely and strange to be aware that you have had such an intimate glimpse into him, and at the same time not know anything about him, really, at all.  And as is always the case with me and sensitive artsy white men, I just really, really wanted to… know him.  In a sort of sacred quiet intimate way.