The individual has nothing, really, to do with love. That is, his individuality hasn’t. Out of the deep silence of his individuality runs the stream of desire, into the open squash-blossom of the world. And the stream of desire may meet and mingle with the stream from a woman. But it is never himself that meets and mingles with herself: any more than two lakes, whose waters meet to make one river, in the distance, meet in themselves.
– D.H. Lawrence
This happiness is not for you… This happiness is for those who have not in them what there is in you.
– Tolstoy, War & Peace
Bomb “threats” in Phuket on its third day streak. One comment on a Facebook post I can no longer locate says something along the lines of ‘Must be a Brit or an Aussie.’
I was perusing an anthology of essays earlier this week and happened to be struck by a line courtesy of A.A. Phillips: “In the back of the Australian mind, there sits a minatory Englishman.”
Such glibness about it all, isn’t it? Am I not be allowed to be glib? I hate dickfests. Always have, always will. Isn’t the golden standard enumeration of the greatest television shows of all time just a bunch of men dick festing-fencing-flexing with each other? Mad Men, The Sopranos, Breaking Bad. Give me a fucking break. No depth, very little breadth. Old boys’ club. Dicking around to fend off their own impotence. If anyone would like to flex their dick, I am available for target practice.
Maybe I overreacted. Maybe Sasha was right when he said that I was “in love.” You know how I’ve always been a highly private person. Always tight-lipped about my personal life. But we’re post-suffrage, guys. Lay off, yes?
I will publish my personal correspondence on June 23rd because I stand by every word of it. Maybe I don’t want to be a mere milkmaid anymore:
But let’s not talk about this further because it is a sore point and a sordid premise. I guess one last thing I will say on this topic is that the lynchpin to all this or at least on my side perhaps lies in a kiss. It took me almost forever to unearth it from the perennial vault of useless episodic memory and you know how I loathe kissing in general and always have with any intimate partner but Anton – sore and sordid as he is – was undoubtedly the best kiss of my life and he delivered it with such intensity and desire that wouldn’t have made sense otherwise had he not known me before. I think people reveal a lot in moments of vulnerability. For example, I figured out that his English was absolutely fluent some days ago when in a moment I shall not indulge with or divulge to you out of love and respect he slipped and used flawless phrasing on the spur of a moment – a repartee to a developing situation that shows flashes of witticism and the full mastery of the English language (“occupied”, “full”, “engaged”). But this is neither here nor there.
Salisa lohavittayavikant 