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The sermon for Jul. 27, 2002 is: veni, veni pulchra, cum guadio, cum guadio
11:38 p.m. When I first imagined writing this letter to you -- four hours ago now! -- I was driving away from the Pride celebration, down a crowded city street filled with autos playing bumper-car and proud Pride'sters in rainbow-hued wigs, kaftans, shorts, beads and chains playing bumper-butt, I was driving beneath an incredibly gorgeous day with breathtakingly beautiful weather (the sky the hue of an old astronomer's eyes, blinded by the light of so many distant suns; the clouds like a cobwebbing of spun sugar that's drifted somehow off your slender fingers) and I was utterly and completely lost. Disoriented. Rudderless. It was a combination of all the sensory overload (there is a reason, dear girl, why your best beloved John does not venture out of his warm cozy room; and it is not just because of his close and familiar smell) as well as a dizzy goulache of sunstroke, congenitally horrible driving, multiple consumergasms, and only old wives' folktales of something called sugar whispered in joyful hope in my bloodstream. Five hours ago, when I took my eyes off the road (what interest do roads have anyway? they lead forever away from you, beckoning seductively, like a Siren or a tongue. Roads all look like a fucked up face.) to look contemplatively up at the sky (azure like deep summer, clouded like god's perpetually furrowed brow) and think of just what a wonderful letter I was writing you in my head. Part of the letter, I remember, was about how each and every song on the radio seemed to enhance some limb, some figure, some dimension of you. It seeemed almost self-evident simply just to list the songs --
Okay, I'm not an authority on post-1901 top forty radio. Nevertheless, every music I heard seemed to illuminate some facet of the cubic zirocinium that is our love. And I kept singing opera just to enhance my dizziness (actually it was to stay awake, since I had this wonderful letter to write, don't you know, and I wanted to get home to write it to you), I kept singing O mio babbino caro and Che glia magnina frigida, or something. Since I'm not an authority on Puccini arias and since I make up the words to everything I sing anyway, I can't really verify what it was I sing. But baby, it sounded like this: dum dum dum DUMMMM de DUMMM DUMMM (SUCK BREATH> DUM DUM DUM DUM deeeeeee DUMMMM!!! Anyway. That was five hours ago. And my sweet girl, the intervening hours find your idiot John utterly incoherent, though still charmingly dumb in his affections. I just wanted to tell you about the Pride Parade here and how exhausted I was, may I tell you? Yes? Um, I'll take that as a yes. Well, my company bought a little slot in the Pride Parade today, and so a group of us showed up basically to give away all the crap that the Marketing Department had been hoarding in their closets all year and finally ahd decided to get rid off. As far as I can recall, what we gave out were
I'm fading, dear heart. I just got a phone call and I exhausted all my remaining resources to present myself as lucidly and as absolutely not in need of an ambulance as much as possible. I wish I could have written the letter I wanted to write you five hours ago, Stephanie: it would have made you fall completely and utterly in love with me, and everyone whom you ever showed or presented to would have fallen in seizures at your feet after gazing at its pluperfect splendour, it would have impregnated the tissues of your thought with my gooey love for you, and you would have never ever been able to recover from me, from the devastation of my love, my life, never, not while you held that letter in the closed parenthesis of your hands. So I suppose, my love, you're fortunate that I became too dissipated to actually write that letter. The Pride Parade, you see, was something like 600 kilometres from start to finish; and us marchers, queer as we are, are constitutionally unable to travel any distance in a straight line, so the distance becomes increased by an exponent of *snap!*. We have to sashay! We have to march fabulously! And your moron John, as you know, can't do anythintg simply. So this is what I did: I skipped for 600*snap!* kilometres, handing out freebies to thousands and thousands of incredibly greedy but fabulously dressed folks. I skipped backwards, I skipped in circles, basically I described a particle in Brownian motion (though of course I did, since I am an object in Brownian motion). Basically I skipped 560,000,000,000,600,560,070,800,200,310 kilometres, which translates into 6,000,230,412,355,898,258,398,283,589,3810,3002 miles (didn't know that, did you?) And all these folks mobbed in on me, like Pharisees on a jesusless and sinless prostitute, demanding not only that I give them a freebie, but the exact freebie that they wanted. Ugh. I would go on, but I've gone on far too long anyway as it is. I think I keep rambling because at least I can imagine that we're talking, Stephanie. I think I keep rambling about my sunburnt day because I don't want to write goodbye.
 
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