March 7th, 1981

Two weeks ago it was Boots and Saddle and late nights and unfinished business after a piss scene in a 14th Street apartment with a man who had a lover. It was the last act.

Jules suddenly/finally

the fast dance that preludes sex, the conversation that is loose footage; forgotten as soon as it’s spoken. I attempt resistance. This is Allan’s territory. Small talk, eyes betraying the strength of need; the strength of a long-known need.

In bed I see with clarity the same brushstrokes of my portraits. Knowing that he is part of my life; the way I knew Wendy the first time I saw her. Cellular need, grave and beautiful, wistful with the melancholic sense of the terror at the center. Heaven is a creation that requires untiring supports.

My grandmother’s death is an inheritance. When my father died I was left all his gifts. When my father died, I became an adult. When my grandmother died, I started to love.

Saturday afternoon. Jules naps at home and I drink beer and type. Early afternoon Village suffused with that cerulean brightness that only happens in New York.

The early afternoon light floods my apartment in light amber shafts making the wine colored carpets glow with some deep contentment. I sit cross-legged on the floor wrapped in my grandmother’s afghan and listen to my dog snore under covers.

It is a new page of shared life and a thirty year old man and his loves: the city, the work, the friends, the man.

Jules. Now we have each other. And we have time and it is a culmination.