269.

Patience, thy name is love.

'Ready,' he says gently, bringing my dinner in on a tray.

Whatever I ask for is never too much.

Figures move through the
Mist, gray watercolor through
Gray watercolor.

Being constantly erotically attuned to Krishna's presence is
perhaps inappropriate, seeing how it's not reciprocated. Whatever his
reciprocation consists of, it has the dignity of sweetness and content-
ment—these qualities should suffice. But what about that *rod and its
butting head*—? He's a boy, he's a boy, he's a boy like any boy—but is he?

Crow on a limb has a hunk of something in its beak something with
a tail, he places the morsel on the branch, holding it down with a claw.
 Yep, it's a piece of skin of some sort, tough and stringy. Another crow
sits near, beak like Alice B. Toklas's, hoping to get a bite. A crow is
a crow is a crow. Tired of waiting, Alice B. wings off.

No! screamed Sylvia when I asked, rhetorically, Shall I sell my
house in Crete and buy a flat in London?

If you think of James as being a-sexual you're wrong. *Everything*
with him had sexual connotations. Even the purchasing of a pair of gloves:
'Keen withim me was a sense of deflowering, of despoiling the shop.'

A nice-looking youth was doing some gardening at City Hall this
morning and I stopped and proposed, through Krishna, that he come and
take care of my garden, once a week. Tomorrow morning when we go again to
City Hall he's to be on the corner and pleasing personality—pleased like
incredulous at having been singled out. Good vibes and good teeth.

270.

I thought I heard Krishna's
Footsteps. But they were the footsteps
Of the rain.

ix

He's back in my heart. Remembrance, lifting her leanness. . . .
One can't say that Yeats was too provincial (though there's no provinciality
like Irish provinciality) to have made the best poetry—who could have been
more 'provincial,' literally, than Rimbaud? James writes of Turgenev as
if looking in a mirror:—'the effect, for the commonest truth, of an
exquisite envelope of poetry.' James, all his life a struggling artist.
But what true artist isn't?

Karate! So's he'll have some self-defense if there be a mugging
attempt in New York—'He can't go out alone,' Sis has said. He doesn't
think in terms of sex being a repayment for favors received.

A man's genius,
A woman's looks—need
Reassurance from others.

You strive to produce, not only works of art but a life to your
liking. My new gardener is here, he's Newari, has one of those smiles,
like ineradicable. He's wearing clean tight pants with narrow vertical
stripes and a jacket. He's brought his less pretty brother along this
morning to help him get started. Ram is his name, or one of his names.
Krishna refers to him as 'cutting man.'

Krishna's papers seem to be all in order, photos pasted on, etc.,
the go-ahead for the coveted passport. I guess he's mind—I've tried my
best to make him feel so. Breakfast by dawnlight, it's the clearest of
dawns.

271.

... every sign or symbol of one's being in the least wanted,
anywhere or by anyone, having so utterly failed.

We want and we need each other to the utter exclusion of everyone
else.

Our lives are entwined (and our bodies shall be again).

Gardener Ram arrived with small rooted things which will turn into
blooms—I put my arm about his jacketed form and led him to where a huge
vine is growing and which he had the intention, Krishna told me, of chopping
down—'no flowers.'

'No,' I said. 'It's alive and green!' Ram is like a flower himself.
Nepal is the land of quick-growing everything, trees, plants, blossoms,
vegetables, terracotta pots everywhere, just as in Italy. Italia mia,
I loved you once. And now I'm trying to lull, as James put it, my 'sense
of precipitation.' Anything is better than nothing is a very bad approach
to sex. (Burroughs) Sex is a very bad approach to sex. (Cato)

Krishna's face is becoming less inscrutable, more intelligent.
You see, what I wanted ultimately (aside from a total and uninhibited
continuity with a woman) was a decorative helpmeet, household and traveling
companion. I was to find such a one not in a blonde young Westerner but
in a dark young Oriental. And everyone licks his own life, like a dog
licking its wounds. All right call in the special effects boys and give them
supernatural powers. Some people succeed in hiding their bodies with
clothes. Not my gardener, however.

'Dear Carlo: Can you come on Sunday which is my birthday. Bring a
poem if you can.

272.

1. Who is the Director of the Palace of Mirages?

2. Who said 'It is raining on a skull?'

3. Have you captured any strange beasts today.

Best from Aaron

the ladders are stacked!

And so I have come up with a poem for Aaron (somehow he does trigger
a shoot off):

HENRY JAMES WRITES A POEM FOR AARON KOCH'S BIRTHDAY

Let us sit together on the battered bench of reverie
The city is out of control

Sudden palaces appear in the minds of lepers

But we are the perverse creatures of chance

Embalmed in disconnections let others prefer

Fried sole and marmalade to great handfuls of vision

We inhale at once this vague golden February

Shining with august particulars an economy of apprehension

The face of symmetry is exquisitely complicated

Indescribably futile more touching than strange

An unholy dame with folded hands

Walks towards the fountain of initiation

Let us now assume the dignity of ruins

A murmur of elation runs through the museum of the soul's curiosities

Perhaps he's like a Greek neophyte who's liable to change from one
day to the next—he just decides he's too big a boy. . . . If I _knew_ that
he was never to be possessed (bodily) by me again, I'd have to shift the
perspective of my love, a perspective to include _not_ going to bed with him.

If he's endowed with the Wisdom of the East he must know that to make my
love last (and he must want it to last) he'll have to give in to my—lust.

273.

A lust for life, unparticularized lust for love. (I see a
<u>domestic reason for sitting tight wherever I turn my eyes.</u>)

I don't know which is the more exasperating sound—that of the dog
with the deep, gruff, measured bark, or that of the whelp with the yippy
yap, fast and fatuously foolish.

Krishna, there's a lot of joyful amusement in store for you—your
capacity for it is one of your chief attractions. I feel at times like
'Let's get back to civilization as soon as possible.' But I had a taste of
it, a deep swallow I'd say, for the entire month of October last. And
what was the feeling during all that time in New York? 'What am I doing
<u>here</u>?' Let's go back to the dream!' I am not 'clinging' to Krishna any
more than he's clinging to me. We are simply enjoying living with each
other. How much I treasure him he's not sure of—he was not even sure I'd
return from America! He had fearful doubts when I was a day behind
schedule. It is too soon to know just how grateful the future will make
me. And it's quite useless to speculate on whether he's conscious of
the situation as regards his carnal attraction. Whether he's conscious
of it or not it's a reality that's there, and thus <u>true for him.</u> All
nostalgia for happiness with a woman vanishes. Helen, you were the last!
Here with Krishna we can sit silently and there's <u>love</u>, between Helen and
me there just wasn't any. Love is self-generative. The mystery of the
Being is beyond concoction—what's there is miraculously, inexplicably there.
Still, you can put your finger on some of the attributes. Krishna
attracts me physically, yes; we began with that and it's evolved into
a state of affectionate harm only (which could be called love). The appeal
of Helen, too, began with her sex appeal—but our 'relationship' simply

274.

did not evolve into a love relationship. It was _destined_ to failure,
unseen by either of us until the reality was there. The psychic balance
with Krishna is fantastic—there was no such personality balance with
Helen.

Thomas Merton perceived the evident: 'The Tibetans seem to have
a peculiar intentness, energy, silence, and also humor. Their laughter
is wonderful.' I did enjoy Dharlo's laughter and I'm sure many Germans
are enjoying it now. But how many are enjoying his ass? _Highly_
enjoyable. . . Pasang is someone I'm tired of having around—and he
senses it somewhat, not being totally devoid of sensibility. I think the
Nepalese are more sensitive to hints than the Greeks are; less opaque, they
know when they're not wanted without your having to hit them over the
head. One dreadful thing about Greeks, the Greeks, they can't stand the
truth. A dreadful people they've always been, how can they change.
Manolis? . . . faltered, faded, finished—une liaison dangereuse while it
lasted. I feel totally (with a slight reservation) attuned to Krishna.
He's responsive on the kissing level but shies at being grasped below the
belt. His appendage is pretty and suits his personality—and this is
true of all of us (I mean what we're hung with is almost a mirror image—
if you can read it). The Reading of Penises. A Manual for Prospective
Brides. Tell your fiancée's character before he goes any deeper.

The insolence of total frankness. When encountered it's often
taken as a personal offense.

. . . godsend, talisman, I know love when I feel it, if I don't
at this point I'd better give up thinking I do . . . _the harmonies of_
accident . . . _incapable of a wrong deflection._ How can he be so reticent

275.

with a hard on? To leave it ambiguous would be to risk too much
resentment.

Professor Higgins: 'Why can't a woman be more like a man?'

Professor Cato: 'Why can't a man be more like a woman?'

Few can remember
clearly when innocence came
to a sudden end,
the moment at which we ask
for the first time: Am I loved?

(Auden)

Don't wait too long to let the bombshell fall. Give him time to
recover and reconsider.

Krishna and I to the Koch's and there they were, with black
spangled drek all about, a few cookies to nibble on, we stayed half an
hour. Heidi says she's making progress on her violin—I know you don't
like—it is, the instrument, Lenny had repeated (Lenny is a broadcasting
station) my remark that the violin is the dog of musical instruments,
yipping and yelping . . . <u>one's reflections don't really bear being
uttered.</u>

To try something new,
To try something new. That's our
Bane, and blessing too.

I'm not going to worry about whether I would 'spoil' our menage
were he my titular lover. After all, he _began_ that way—why can't he
continue? There's the rub, O Hamlet mio! How much can he learn? How
talented can he be? He's not stupid, I know. But wouldn't he be

276.

stupid to resist making love with me, and so throw away the future that
a life with me should create? He's got his blue pants rolled up, reveal-
ing the other trousers worn underneath. I didn't like Aaron much yester-
day. The same old crap and ego. He seemed stoned on something, not quite
humanly malleable.

To annex Krishna and make him a citizen of the world . . . <u>my own</u>
<u>absolute need and passion</u>. You go out on the streets and any number of
faces spark erotic stirrings. Winter sun, winter sun, you're turning into
summer glare! <u>My last word about the matter</u> . . . has to be that <u>my</u>
<u>decision is absolutely tied up with my innermost personal feeling</u>.

I wonder if I'll get my American Express credit card—I need it
desperately to buy two air tickets away from here. Wystan brushes aside
Joyce, Sade, Genet. I brush aside Yeats, Goethe, Wystan . . . What
respected poet will brush me aside, as soon as I'm big enough to be
noticed. . . ?

But Auden has a quality of maturity that's admirable—most of us
never outgrow our adolescence. Still, he had too many unenviable
qualities—his set-in-his-ways routines, his constant wine-bibbling, his
untold number of prejudices. He was right to study and stick to meter and
meters—his poetry needs such reinforcement.

Ducks quack, rifles pop, planes roar, a rooster crows, a tiny
wild canary has the most piercing whistle.

Krishna seems impassive and could even appear brutish to Western
eyes, but he's a sensitive flower ('Lotus Flower' was more apt than I
knew) and bruises easily. I'm ever gentle tender and considerate with

277.

him, and he repays me in kind. The sun goes down in a blaze of mist.

To renew my joy in this place, leave it for a while. The same
procedure would hold true for anywhere. In a month we'll be on the point
of—

It's awfully like a summer's day, could be a time for masturbating
under the apple tree, had I not already masturbated and if there were any
apples on the tree. I'm impatient because I feel he's in my clutches—
perhaps, even, that's why he does resist, to reassure himself that he's _not_
wholly in my cluthces. . . . These flat slim graceful Asiatic bodies I
dig—so much more charming than Anglosaxon or Scandinavian clumsiness and
bulk. I'm going to dress my Asian doll real groovy, so far out you won't
believe it. . . _games that call for patience, foresight, manoeuvre, like_
war, like marriage. My child came up with an invented dish—parboiled
cauliflower sprinkled with pan-roasted cashew nuts. A living ivory boy!
Lenny the other day said, 'I thought masturbation was supposed to be
healthy,' to which I replied, 'I find it leaves something to be desired.'
That field dog is barking again. Either shoot or poison it, or _make_
friends with it. A dog of my own to bark and rant would help me over my
phobia.

I was thinking that I might telescope the major happenings in
**_Theater of the Meaningless_** into one day—with backgrounds and previous
incidents caught up and compressed. The major events _could_ take place on
the day of departure of the troupe.

The bedraggled rose

The gardener brought has become

Quite a beauty.

278.

Life is nothing but one constant sexual stimulation—routed in whatever channels. The gardener's neck is almost as full of dirt as the dirt he works in. He remarked on my radio. Some Saturday when he's not working I'll invite him over to sit and listen—and then what? In the ancient times slave boys were used to being had and then going on with their work as if nothing happened.

> . . . the inexhaustible charm and mystery of great works of art (Jameson on *The Scarlet Letter*)—one can say as much for Tchelitchew's great painting Hide-and-Seek; but then how ridiculous a dictum if imposed upon any work by Jackson Pollack of the same or approximately the same measurements. Still it's Pollock we hear called a genius, while the name of Tchelitchew is heard seldom—and certainly not universally acknowledged (as yet!) to be one of the great names in Modern Art. Tchelitchew carried the sense of nuance and tone far beyond any point reached by any other painter of this century.

And on Hawthorne's Note-Book of entries: ' . . . better practise to write about trifles . . . a greater tax upon one's skill to make them interesting.'

Is there any experience that I would like to have that money can buy? Krishna this, Krishna that, Krishna go for the mail and mail a letter. Is he mine or is he not? In all his felicitous forms! It's hard to say what my feeling about this beaumanoid will be when I get ready to leave in three months. What worries me, au fond, is Krishna's reluctance to make love. *Will I have had Kathmandu?* That is the question. A determining fact might be that I'll be short of money. I'm happier here than I could ever be during a Cretan winter. The thing is not to get the

279.

feeling that I've *retired* . . . Darling Krishna is studying his lesson,
darling Krishna is quite an acquisition.

Androgynous allure.
All's harmonious. With
Divergent aspects.

He and I run this house together—each needs the other for the job. Houses must be prayed to, made obeisance to, loved—they have souls. After Aaron and Heidi were here, the house *communicated to me* its pain and displeasure.

For the first time I call my boy stupid—he was carrying around *two* keys for the garden room, in which he leaves the bicycle, and lost them both when he lost (or had snitched from his back pocket) the key ring (containing as well the keys to garden gate, front door lock and his nail clipper). Only minutes before I was thinking how sensitive he is to the moods of his master, like a pet, and how upset he'd be if I became displeased with him. This key losing and my reaction will be a major cloud in his sky today—but hardly, to me, a blot on his shining escutcheon.

He's much more upset than I am. I shouldn't have let the word stupid pass my lips, I think that's a word he understands, he's heard me use it time and again in reference to others. Sooner or later he's going to see me angry for quite other reasons. . .

Heavens above, earth
Below. Why blame anyone.
I don't and I do.

Krishna's going to look searchingly at me . . . no, he comes in

280.

with a smile, 'I found'—found in his bed—so I hug and rub my face against his but he's scratched by my stubble so my demonstrativeness was not a total success.

Glorious the day,
So forget other egos.
Cultivate your own.

Play with your ego if you like, but *not with your cock*. And don't scratch boys' faces with your beard—they don't like it. Do I really love him or merely want him (what's the difference). Ram the gardener probably has a small piece, but that doesn't make his perfect body any less wholesome. His gums could be less visible for a really perfect smile. He smiles at everything, like as if filled with a constantly exuding joy—joy is an erotic feeling isn't it.

Poor Edith Sitwell, writing her novel about Swift (*I Live Under a Black Sun*) in a hotel in Levanto—'the food is worse, the noise awful, and it is infested with gibberingly appalling people.' (Letters of Edith Sitwell) And I'm complaining about a few barking dogs! Though surrounded by a climate and a people, apart from the House, which and whom I enjoy more than I do the climate and the people of Crete. Not that I don't have a half-suppressed desire to recapture, perhaps with Krishna, the joy I once felt in the Grecian island world. You have it here beautifully, so make the most of it, I keep saying to myself . . . *love has a spider's eye*. The poem as a game of chance. All you have to do is *see*—and technique will come of itself . . . *those shades of color produced by the mysteries and fascinations of vice*. . . Poets are not people. Sitwell