267.

A cat's reactions,
Somehow universal,
Global. And a boy child's. . .?

In giving a precept for the composition of fiction, he (H.J.) gives
me a moral for my life: *Be generous and delicate and pursue the prize.*

Danger in the Blood.

*Words I have that can pierce the heart,*
*But what can he do but touch?*

He'll bring me carrot juice, he'll close the shutters, he'll ask me
what I want for dinner. Does he long to be somewhere else? No. And do I?
Oh no, oh no. (Unless it were in his bed.)

*Knowledge increases*
*Unreality*. And we've
*Survived the winter*.

Though he may seem unlike the other lads I've loved, there's some-
thing in him of them all.

A hand whose skin is
Dry writes this. *Oh, on, my darling*
*Man*. Lights go out.

Nights are calm here, no tension. In Chania somehow there was always
a feeling of tension—or at least after I'd had a couple of contreempts with
a couple of local toughies. Krishna looks happy, gives out with joyous
sounds as he comes up the stairs. Even the crows' unlovely sounds are
somehow comforting. My hair grows thinner but the sun stays longer in the
sky these days. It's stupid to keep on saying I love Krishna but I do.

268.

The sunshine shining through his hair disclosed the true color of those
black locks: they're dark red, like garnet stones. . . . <u>an asylum for</u>
<u>my affections</u>. Has he outgrown homosexuality—like the Greeks do at
twenty-one, sometimes, if they've been playing the passive role too long.

How patient should I be?

I don't know, tonight I have my doubts about value received. If
I have such feelings, even for a moment, there might be disagreeable
complications. Shouldn't everything be clear, before we start out? 'Tell
me something nice,' I said, but he didn't know what to say. This
capricious hiding of his 'spare parts' is unnerving at times. Still, what
a relief not to have to be <u>jealous</u> of him, as I was with Helen.

When will this passion cease? Perhaps when I find out (finally)
that any hope of reciprocity is hopeless. . . .or <u>love's first tenderness</u>
<u>die in our gaze</u>. You just can't go on loving someone who has become not
only totally unresponsive but positively recalcitrant (with a smile, how-
ever, the teeth of which he brushes twice a day). If I don't gaze upon
him with desire, he doesn't appear desirable. Tonight he'll give me a
searching look, to gauge my mood, and he's not going to read in my face
the usual affection.

Oh well, today I'm annoyed with everything and everybody, including
myself. Does his future depend on his being what he has been—a satisfying
sexual partner? It is only <u>here</u> (in Kathmandu) that he's indispensable.
How to make him understand? Even without words, I think I could get my
drastic message across. And the passport? We'll see. . . .