I never knew it was so good to lounge here on Mark’s bed in perfect contentment, he typing occasionally on the computer, and both of us marveling at Prince’s extreme breathiness and range and wholehearted cheesiness – “You say you want my hips up in the air? I don’t know, and I don’t care.” But when I say contentment I mean the specific conditions that make me stretch luxuriously in the warmth of a friend’s room and the free, sporadic exchange of conversation moving anywhere but with little explicit continuity. It does not bother me to be his audience at all, because I know that when something arises in me naturally, he has no qualms to being my audience. We play off each other. I ask questions about his night with Britt; I talk about how psyched I’d be to have Topham’s car, or how cool it’ll be to have Jen and the boys out here for graduation. He types awhile, I talk on the phone. . . we are contained but so softly that either one of us can initiate interaction without disturbing the other. He reads quotes from Richard III.
April 27, 1992 Note: during this time I did not have a fixed place to live, so often spent time at friends’ places (or even in the foothills near campus).