Journal Entry #2

(1995)


I cannot sketch tonight. I feel like Anais searching for Henry.

Yet I listen to Jao Gilberto's bossanova... It has enamored me, its seductiveness, its languid, subtle hungers and heated obsessions cause me to feel moist, sticky, and alive. His voice croons and suggests, the Portuguese drips and rolls from his tongue in nectar-like breaths. I write naked on the bed.

Last night I had traveled to the cafe in my Oriental silk dress and silver tap shoes, my hair softly finger-waved. His own hair has grown longer, and he is more lovely than before. The entire evening I am consumed by him, his mouth, his body, his delicate skin. My own T.S...  

I yearn for his presence, his voice, his words, even if they do not experience the same passion towards me. I crave his idiosyncrasies, his hurt outwardness, his anger, sexlessness, visions, wonderment of the world, his devotion to himself. I see myself dying with him, for him, in him...

The twelve-tone construction, its linear aspects, its mathematical intricacies, do not encompass its appeal, its profoundness, its meaning. The limitations of the tone rows I consider to be not for an absence of tonality or tonal center, but for the holistic effect, the ambience, the new emotional and inner plane of its expression. I do not hear Alban Berg's fascination with an end to tonality in his music. I hear his physical, haunting, masculine beauty, his lovely silhouette against the dark, hazy, bleak panorama of his times. The madness and primitiveness of an artist in a blackened, horrifying, and answer-less era.