ground truth of mad desire hiding under fenders under buried junkyards throughout the world, never mentioned in newspapers, written about haltingly and like corn by authors and painted tongue in cheek by artists, agh, just listen to Tristan und Isolde by Wagner and think of him in a Bavarian field with his beloved naked beauty under the fall leaves.
How strange in all, and making everything that’s happened in the past weeks, the backs and forths and pains of me in City and Sur, all piled up now rationally like a big construction whereon could be built a divingboard which would enable me clumsily to dive into Billie’s soul and therefore why complain?
In the middle of the night she fetches the little 4 year old boy to show me the spiritual beauty of her son—He is one of the weirdest persons I’ve ever met—He has large liquid brown eyes very beautiful and he hates anybody who comes near his mother and keeps asking her questions constantly like “Why do you stay with him? why is he here, who is he?” or “Why is it dark outside?” or “Why does the sun shine yesterday?” or anything, he’ll just ask questions about everything and she answers every one of them with extreme delight and patience till I say “Doesnt he bother you with all these questions? why dont you let him croon and goof like a little child, he’s tugging at your knee asking EVERYTHING man why dont you just let him singsong?”—She answers “I answer him because I may be missing his next question, everything he asks me and says to me represents something important about the absolute I may be missing”—“What do you mean the absolute?”—“You yourself said everything is the absolute” but of course she’s right and I realize that in my dirty old soul I’m already jealous of Elliott.
