MAY 5, 2004 (WEDNESDAY)
I'm starting to forget the passage of days, hours, minutes, seconds. The only thing that exists outside this comfortable world we have built for ourselves is the dusty street outside, the ocean beside the boulevard, the occasional breeze. Poetry trickles around me in rivulets, as if words have somehow become streams, struggling to join the great sea of words.
Last night, we were by the ocean again: the wind rushing through the palm trees and the moon here and not here, obscured by the passing bank of clouds. I never saw the lunar eclipse; I could only imagine the sudden darkening of silver, that corona of light surrounding the moon. I remember snatches of conversation, the pervasive scent of alcohol and pot, the off-key singing, the flash of the camera lights. There was a feeling of permanence in the air; as if ten, twenty years from now, we would still remember these nights and days when everything seems to blend into a feeling of calm. This is where my universe ends and begins every morning: a need to write, a need to taste and smell and feel and touch everything to remind myself that this is real.
I am afraid to go back, because that would mean that I would not be the same anymore. Maybe it's in the process of going away that I can find myself again - my true love affair is with words.
Something I wrote last night, lulled by the ocean and the obscuring moon:
At night, the ocean retains its mystery.
Like a woman, she wears her undulating clothes
with grace and transience, knowing full well
that the sunrise would remove
her luminescent shadows.