The movie Wilde which we saw tonight has me thinking about the nature of love.
Love is wanting what is best for someone else. Love is a complicated thing.
Our mated pigeons sing to each other in the morning and take turns sitting on the egg.
The heat is backing off a bit.
I can see the spun light coming through the trees in the morning, thick lovely hot light.
And I’m running again even in the heat.
And working hard on a book, a good story, I think.
In 1900 Oscar Wilde, died. He didn’t survive long after leaving prison. Three years.
You could go to prison then in London.
For gross indecency.
For the love that dares not speak its name.
Oscar Wilde, you will live forever.
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.