I think it’s great for two people to be together. That is a good number. I think, that to keep it alive though, you can’t spend every day together. It wears out the magic, Love means nothing to me if it’s not fortified with fierce, painful longing, brief explosive instances of furious passion and intimacy and then a sad parting for a time. In that way, you can give your life to it and still have a life of your own. I think some couples spend too much time together. They flatten out the potential for experience by constant closeness. Passion builds over time like steam. Let it rage until it’s exhausted and then leave it alone to let it build up again. Why can’t love be insane and distorted? How can it be vital if it has the same threshold as normal day-to-day experience?
Why can’t you write burning letters and let your nocturnal self smolder with desire for one who is not there? Why not let the days before you see her be excruciating and ferment in your mind so on the day you go to the airport to pick her up, you’re nearly sick with anticipation? And then when desire shows the first sign of contentment, throw it back it its cage and let it slowly build itself back into a state of starved fury. Then when you are together, it all matters. So that when you look into her eyes, you lose your balance, so that when she touches you, it feels like you have never been touched before. When she says your name, you think it was she who named you. When she has gone, you bury your face in the pillow to smell her hair and you lie awake at night remembering your face in her neck, her breathing and the amazing smell of her skin. Your eyes go wet because you want her so bad and miss her so much. Now that is worth the miles and the time. That matches the inferno of life. Otherwise you poison each other with your presence day after day as you drag each other through the inevitable mundane aspects of your lives. That is the slow death that I see slapped on faces everywhere I go. It’s part of the world’s sadness that’s more empty than cold, poorly lit rooms in cities of the American night.
people think Satan is a mythic beatst breathing doom and fire laughing rapaciously as he plucks your eyes out a comic book ghoulie with bad breath and a skin problem
Satan is a bus station
Satan is a cold fried egg on a plastic plate a cup of weak coffee beside it while the telephone rings
Satan is the bland smile of the cashier at the bank when he tells you you’re overdrawn or the glittering one on the face of the angel in the blue dress on the tv show making you an offer you can’t believe at terms you’re unable to resist
Satan is when you run out of cigarettes and out of money at the same time when every part of your body hurts and you’re only 36 when the miles you’ve logged start showing up in the way you laugh
in the way you count your change when the whiskey bottle’s dry Satan is the crackle of the police radio just after they’ve put the cuffs on as they laugh about the baseball game
the color of the walls in a county hospital emergency room the papers they make you sign before they’ll give you medicine
the bad food you eat when you’re poor a cough that won’t go away the kind of hopes that get pinned on a lottery