I'm still thinking about Lyle's call the other night. I have this
low-grade terror I'm going to end up marrying him. He said he was
delirious when he broke up with me the last time. He said I should
forget all about it, but I'm not forgetting. Delirium is a normal state
for him, so I have to take his delirious comments as the real ones.
That's what I told him, and then he read me poetry for an hour, against
my will. Last time I saw him, he went off to talk to strangers, because
he was feeling too comfortable. He was feeling like an envelope getting
sealed, he said, and he wanted to stop the licker. I'm thoroughly mad at
being accused of licking Lyle shut. He's so weird. He plays the same
song seven times in a row (on his record player) and thinks that's
love. He wants to chase me forever because he doesn't know how to have
me. He actually asked, "What's wrong with that? Why can't I chase you
forever?"
I know I should leave him for good, but he's always leaving me, so I
don't have to. Besides, I get swept up in his swirling superreality. I
can find my way around in him, even when he goes on about Hinduism and
how Jim Jones was sensitive and misunderstood. Now, Jim Jones was not
innocent, but I love to have such abstractions dumped into my ear when
I've been sleeping just an hour and it's dark and I'm still dreaming.
Lyle and I talk like we're on speed, saying, "Oh! Yes! I know! And —
and — !" That's how it was when we were together — disturbed,
hysterical, ecstatic and very conducive to song-writing:
He goes from peanuts to bicycles in his mind
He'll focus on anything
He's the very impressionable kind
He said, "You're too fast, too slow,
I don't know."
I heard he just doesn't need girls
He's got all the time in the world.
He lights up another Dorel
He gives me a punch in the arm
And all I can do is sigh and say,
"You make my stockings run when you look my way."
I'm trying to stay broken-up-with, but I miss him. What am
I going to write about if I don't have him to worry over?
