Sometimes I think V-- and I live double lives. We inhabit every form of duality. Similar current relationships, similar views on marriage (and on what will happen when those views, so frail, in truth, fall to the wayside of our loss of youth and beauty and charm, so artfully deliniated by my favorite female).

I am wildly and wickedly bohemian lately. I spent last night composing spontaneously on a walk with John, changing most all my philosophical views on writing and on my process, on storytelling, on the essence of narration. Then, I toured two fantastically beautiful homes, drank a French table wine that was out of this world, watched an art film (but really talked throughout it and only payed attention to the first half, which was completely worthy of my time - my inattention is no slight to the film), and painted pre-colombian war paint on myself and on my friends' faces. I spoke passionately about Mayan poetry, about Faust, about a Protestant shame and feeling of pretentiousness when I spoke about my own writing. I quantified what publishing does to a writer. I felt brilliant and charming. I am still buzzing.

Ah! So much to love down here. I feel inexplicably free.