Sensuous

10 April — Saturday

My plant’s new leaf is the palest green. It emerges tightly rolled and pointed at the tip, phallic in my eyes, but phallicism like beauty is no doubt in the eyes of the beholder. It has grown noticeably since yesterday.

As far as I can tell, it will be larger than the three leaves already on the plant. I bought a little book on plants, a 950 paperback written in the general tone of one of those women’s magazines they sell in supermarket checkout lines. If each leaf my plant grows is bigger than the last, it is a sign that I am doing something right. If, on the other hand, the new leaves are progressively smaller, the plant, while still healthy, is not doing its best. Thus it would seem that I am doing something right, but I cannot imagine what it might be. All I do is water it once a day and look at it from time to time.

I also love it. I wonder if that makes a difference. Could my plant possibly know whether or not it is loved?

It rains today. Rained when I awoke this morning and hasn’t stopped yet. April showers to bring May flowers, and Mayflowers to bring Pilgrims. I shall dangle my roots out the window and drink the rainwater and sprout new leaves.

I shall have to buy some Vivaldi records. They had a woodwind quintet playing last night on Barrow Street, an all-Vivaldi program. The bassoon player had his hair very long in back and very short in front, so that he looked like a hippie from the back and a hardhat from the front. Tres disconcerting. (Disconcerting at a concert? The lady should choose her words more carefully.)

Making love with another woman is almost narcissistic. When there are just the two of you in the room. Very strange. Feelings of competition with self. Thought for a moment that I could get out of the prison of my self, that I felt less threatened, less intruded upon. But the pattern proved to be the same. Nice, though.

I seem to have reached the point where I can enjoy sex even if it doesn’t work.