11 march

...but he is translucent and that is so novel. there is no mud, i can see right into and through him like a clear plastic bottle; my feet can touch the bottom. there is so much of him, but it isn't pocketed away in folds of consciousness: it's like a map, spread hands up and inside-out at the universe. you were sealed off so tight that i couldn't see you, couldn't really love you: i've got to know you too much or not at all; i've got to fall down deep inside of somebody and figure out how the fluids flow, how the blod clots.

if i were an ironist i would say: "translucence covers a multitude of sins."

today Dr. Brower caught us holding hands in the lobby and said, disapprovingly, something to the effect of: "jacob, please find another lap to hold both of your hands." such an odd feeling, reprimand. i have never been reproved like that before. i have never done any grand thing wrong. it's a kind of masochistic refreshment that comes quick and rarely, like a slick new cut, coolly welling blood; kind of morbidly liberating: i do not have to be perfect the rest of my life. i'll want to remember these things when i'm thirty.