A Dream of A Thousand Loves

Last night I dreamt of a thousand loves. This morning the words hung on my lips, as I carried myself out of bed. I never dream of my fiancée ... what this means, I dare not ask. Instead, I dreamt of a girl with whom I made out. A girl. Perhaps a student. Typically I dream of conscience infidelity.

I wonder if I speak of this theme continually, if my readers will observe that I am not asking for comfort or compassion or understanding. My reader, it might be better to say. Marianne. I know nothing of you, except for your midriff. One of those areas of the body that make men losen their ties and breathe more deeply, hoping to draw the odor of another part of the body.

My body, on the other hand. 'Tis long. I have green eyes. I have brown hair. I have fair skin. I have small hands, small feet (need I question the "I" and the strangeness of attributing possession to it, when rather, these possessions are I!). I have scars. Or they have me. I have a scar on my crown. Several, in fact. I have a scarred bone, the bottom of the left tibia. Two fractures. I like material things that have memories, but some of my first and most powerful emotional responses were of material things that would never be the same. "The same." Philosophy has nothing to do with it.

And of course, there is your own deep attraction towards lovers, despite your marital bliss. Whom your husband does not know, no?

I don't want to speak again of Anya. I need this badness. This evil. It makes me feel strong again. A different kind of strong than the kind I have with her. The kind of strength that I have with her is of extreme quietude. With her, I am a Buddhist cow.

I have been thinking of Myra. Oh Myra. Her boyfriend/wannabe-husband has gone to Italy. I know she is now alone for the next month. And I want to contact her. He has cheated on her. With a woman (AT) with whom I have cheated on Anya. The symmetry is frightening and hilarious. Last night I dreamt of him, which was really a dream of her. He was getting into an old VW van. Backing out of the driveway of a house in Syracuse NY. Why did my dream get situated there? In his back, as he was leaving the house, literally as he was going out the door, I saw the small of her back.

This, as I may or may not have informed you, was that vital area of the body that inspired the step not beyond (le pas/pas déla). At this point, a homosexual dream would be delightful. Even merely homoerotic. But I am blind to all but women. Yesterday I walked through the supermarket. My sister has been diagnosed with MS. I am taking care of her while her fiancé travels to visit his parents in the old, old country. This just happened a few days ago. I might as well tell you that I am thinking of changing this to my regular journal. A far cry from my threat to abandon it altogether, no?

Would this mean that I would identify myself, as "Bryce," has (a moniker with which I am starting to tire) with the vile actions with which I engage, that otherwise populate only my subconscious ... j'ne sais pas.

In the shower I thought this morning, philosophy should be defined as the act of following. Whereas the poetic inspiration is what leads. Now don't be confused. I am not saying that poetic inspiration leads philosophy. It does sometimes. But while poetic inspiration may provide the initial direction, philosophy, when it is good, follows a continuous trail. There is soemthing truly creative about that. Philosophy (Kant being the example par excellence everyone says) doesn't know where it will end. Neither does poetry, but poetry dances. It leaps.