Jacob Lawrence, "Antiques" (1946)
Jacob Lawrence, Antiques (1946)
Can a Game Be Literature?

Mark's Pages

March 3, 2010:

Mark and Name Redacted, self portrait in motel room. Black hair and strawberry blonde, dyed I think, or maybe that was her natural color and the blonde was dyed, I'd be the last to know. We're staggering drunk. She's breathtakingly, achingly beautiful.

She has the cutest nose. The shiniest, prettiest, most expressive gray eyes. Her hair is long and thick and her breasts are full and amazing. She's pure sex, and the really important thing is, she's the love of my life, and my closest friend, and although I believe I now understand episodes from our history, I will never fathom why our years together were so painfully and stupidly few.

We're cheating on her boyfriend, a fat git in San Francisco who manages college radio bands, is desperately dishonest, and plagued with premature ejaculation. My disrespect for him is as total as my love for her, and truly in my heart of hearts I wish she'd set him aside and settle seriously with me. We've been like this for years.

But not really. These months are crucial because while we've each been on our separate roads she's had a terrible breakdown, was institutionalized for a time with real family fears they'd never let her free. She has frequent episodes of debilitating depressive collapse and often speaks of suicide. My whole heart is with her and I'd give anything to bring her back to life, including mine, which in some kind of spiritual otherworldly way I feel I might actually have done. We sleep together from hormonal pull and my generous and tender wish to give her joy. She's happy in the mornings, every time.

Tonight we're in La Jolla. She's come racing down I-5 in some incredible ridiculous time like seven hours or something after throwing a potted plant through Tubby's french windows. We drank a lot at dinner, rented a room, and took our picture together before going to bed.

I miss her so much.