On a December night. The roosters crowed. Night itself quiet. Quietly searching books. Imagine history on a rooftop. Vague Diponegoros and Suhartos. Did villagers believe in the Queen of the Southern Sea? Mountainous clouds wait. If I’m healthy I’m happy. Observe the shapes of the roofs. No hurry for sex. It’s a natural thing. . . when I do have it, it’ll feel like I’ve been doing it forever. Change my shirt in the bathroom. Becaks [bicycle pedicabs] dampen social unrest. The commies would debate hard about them. A new spot on my shirt. My white shirt. Its one thing I am not relaxed about. On a train, my clothes dry. There are stately roofs. They’re made of tin. You feel infinite attractions. The undefinedness wells like an unfocused itch. Age is nothing. How is her spirit? Her ears? Her legs? Her laugh? The continuum of appetites is spherical. Not mind-body. There is a singing. Its in me when I eye her. And only partly in my groin. Usually just a symptom of the spiritual/erotic leap. I think of China. Vagueness snagging on branches of fact or anecdote. Will TimTim [East Timor] ever be free? He pauses. Yes. The most fearful regimes are indeed: full of fear. Insecurities harden; then brittle. Falling is easy then. But wow, the sky last night! Openness cannot smother. Girls smile. A little of me runs with them. And evaporates. Klaten, Klaten, Klaten [hotbed of Communist organizing in the 60s, viciously suppressed]. How could you have won, and freed the people’s voices? Workers hold out hats. Their hooting reaches through the windows. Some throw money, West of Cirebon. Seeing is not experiencing. What if I begged? See the similarities and the differences. Her beautiful hands. Muddy water in the fields. And too her feet. Farmers on the road. She’s not been long a mother. Everyone who turns that windy corner laughs. Clothing is whipped. See weather coming. On a ship. December and the high wind of gentleness book: December 3, 1993.
This was the opening page of my journal; I think I wrote it on train and ferry rides.
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