Thursday, March 1, 2007

I Love A Rainy Night

I Love a Rainy Night

I Love A Rainy Night

I think it is time for a long letter.

A love letter.

Not necessarily, or simply, or only a letter of love to you and only you - you, you, you - but a love letter to many of the other things I love about life too.

It is a love that compels me to call you (and call, and call, and call – sorry, if I call too much, I like talking with you, you know.) so that I may reach you, and touch you, and teach you that I care immensely about you, that I think you’re the bee’s knees, the apple of my eye, the libeling behind that sigh I exhale over you (thoughts of you) from time to time (and time again).

It feels like forever since I read to you. I love reading to you, really I do.

I love talking with you too. And walking with you. I love it when you hold my arm, when your fingers cradle my bicep, firmly, tenderly, and then I look down at you, and you look at me and smile – I love that.

Its getting to feel as if this letter is about love. What do you think? Shake your head if you agree.


I think about you (a lot). I think nice thoughts (when I think about you).

Jeez Louise, it feels like a long time since I’ve written you a love letter to you. Far too long.

I’ve been watching Scorcese’s The Aviator this evening. Brilliant, simply-really-amazingly brilliant. And Leonardo DiCaprio is simply stunning, a marvelous, rather impressive performance. Five Stars.

The combination of Leonardo’s expressions and spot-on gestures with the close-up camera closing-ins, create this impressive insight into Howard Hughes’s mind, all over the din of the chatter that surrounds the actor as we see him think. I love that.

I love the cinema. I think the moving picture is wonderful. I love going to the movies. I love going to a good movie and feeling inspired after watching it, I love that feeling.

I love the feeling of feeling like I can take on anything, that I can conquer the world with my genius, with my exuberance, and my appreciation of life and the beauty that surrounds me – like you, like the fine, beautiful, refreshing, brilliant creature you are.

Thank you.

I sincerely appreciate you. Don’t ever let me forget that. You’re allowed to remind me on occasion; gently remind me though, just a nudge and a nod, asking me to remember, asking me to feel, rather than to think for a moment, to remember, and reminisce and celebrate the times I’ve celebrated life with you. I love you, you know, I really do. I hope you know and feel that. I hope when I nudge your smile with my nose, when I turn your stern look into glee, that you’re with me, that you are as happy as I am to be with you. For how else could I feel when I’m with the goddess of happiness? Thank you.

I like it, love it actually, when we laugh together. I love your laugh. I love your smile too. That’s why I love giving them to you. It’s a selfish thing, I know, but that’s just something I’ve got to do for myself, I need that, to see you smile, it makes me smile.

I like smiling.

I think the romance evoked, showcased, and emoted between Howard and Kate (Hepburn) in the film The Aviator by Leonardo and Cate (Blanchett) is amazing. Really, truly a spectacular synchronization of give and take; it is rather inspiring I must admit.

I’ll admit to little (really, really small) dreams of being as brilliant and masterful and mad as Howard; dreams of making it big and gaining the power to make things bigger (and better) - to inspire happiness in others, to inspire them to be kings for a day, or even for their lifetimes. I dream of those things, I dream of being a king, I dream of you being my queen, mi reina (supreme)

“Only at Taco Bell! Get the NEW Reina (Ray-nah) Supreme now! NOW!” (Sorry for that commercial interlude, just felt inspired.)

Even the humor in this movie is great. I love humor, I love having a good laugh. I love making people laugh, I love making you laugh.

I think the scene when Kate and Howard argue over Howard’s dilly-dallying with other starlets (i.e. women) is a good laugh. In a fit of frustration Kate yells, “Can’t you eat ice cream like everyone else in the world!” as Howard chomps away at a chinese-food cartoon full of ice-cold vanilla ice cream. That’s pretty funny….the standard kind-of-arguing we endure when we try a go at the relationship-thing, that’s the funny part. Oh, how easy love falls apart, at the seams, each of us tearing away at the stitches we so earnestly, sincerely, gently and slowly put together, one seam at a time. It is so easy to rip them apart, isn’t it? Love is fun isn’t it?

Speaking of love, I love you.

God, it seems like ages since I told you that. I love you, I do want you to know.

God, how I hope you’re in the mood for love right now, in the mood for a love letter like this; oh how I hope that you are not annoyed that I called you so many times today. I hope I’ve already been forgiven and that my exuberance has been forgotten, and even if this little note reminds you that you of my excitement and my sins, that you’ve already forgiven me enough that you’ve forgotten the feeling of how you felt when I called you again (when, way back when, please, please, please feel that you are forgetting my trespasses, if only because you love me (a little too), if only because you laugh and chuckle to yourself, reminding yourself that I am merely a man after all, prone to such silliness, such irrational fits of “Oh, how I just need to talk to her, to hear her voice.”).

Oh, how I hope that you are not in a hurry when you read this letter, that you are not tired and that this letter is not half-lost in the translation between my love transcription, my love’s transcription, my love manifested, my love manifesto, and your somnolent posture, your I’m half-asleep already, your head on the pillow, as you’re trying to read…my, lorenzo’s letter…

Your end-of-day conked out…your short whispering exhales, cute little sighs and groans that make me smile, when I dream of having my head resting next to yours, when I dream of having my eyes open when yours are closed, and there I am admiring you, in awe of your beauty basking in the glamour of the moonlight or the lovely glory of the morning sun, a sun slowly rising, its light resting upon you and tantalizing me with gold shadows that rest beneath your cheeks; testing my patience with those bewitching curves, the ones that outline your heavy eyes, the shadows and those lips and those warm, rosy temples tempting me, all of them, everything, just pulling me in, wanting me to wake you, to peck at you, to peck at your shoulder, to nudge you gently into the waking hours again, to make love with you in honor of life and love, and our love, and our desire to share some of life, our lives, with the other. I love that, I love when we do that, share our lives with one another.

I love it when you tell me about the little (and big) things you love. I love it when I can see how you feel when you tell me about the things that make you happy, I love the smiles you make when you speak of these things.

I like to make you happy. I love it when you speak of me (I have an ego you know, I am only a man after all, and our egos must be stroked. We’re sorry saps like that some times. Human-like almost, with feelings, were not always not just primates yielding sharp sticks, wanting to stab at things, violently. Beauties like you tame us you know, bestow civility upon us brutal beasts).

I like acting like a beast with you, feeling like an animal, full of intuition, an intense innate, built-in charter toward desire, a madness that drives us to want to rub ourselves over you, a sheer wonderfully delightful madness; some call it a sex drive, other’s the libido, the devil’s snare – I like call to call it for what it is - my pure, mad desire for you. I’m crazy about you baby, darling, dear.

I like you.

Actually, I love you (too). And after a while, you realize that love and like aren’t necessarily, always the same. One can be had without the other. I have them both for you (that is, I love AND like you; lethal combination you know, can prompt a man to make more than one phone call a day to the woman he considers his friend and lover; can prompt him to madly drive at the keyboard, punching out his letter of love, a love letter, that speaks to this madness, this handsome penchant for her, this force of utter delight that fills him with great want and need. Some women yearn for letters like this you know…)

Today I was driving in the car, listening to the radio and I turned to the local Spanish station, Radio Amor, the station of love, “con tu musica romantica,” with your romantic music, and I realized that not only are some of the most romantic songs sung in Spanish, but that said, only a Spanish station could truly get away with a format that is solely about love music, it just wouldn’t work as well in English. Anyway and anyhow, I also realized that 3 out of 4 of the songs in Spanish were about lost love, the most romantic kind of love possible, if only because the cuckold gets stuck into this beautifully warped sense of reality and all he knows is the perfection that his (or her) partner is at the point of being left, of being hurt, of being deprived of utter joy and overwhelming happiness. Ah, love is funny isn’t it? I love funny things (I think I’ve mentioned that already).

I think you’re funny.

*I like to laugh with you (but never at you). I don’t like to laugh at you, unless of course, you’re trying to be funny and you want me to laugh at you. Then, or rather than, of course I love to laugh at you (* see above).

(That’s what I call a perfectly circular argument.)

I often question myself. I often ask myself, “Why are you so god-damned happy sometimes?” I only need to look at you to know the answer. Thank you.

Thank you for making me happy, I like to be happy, I like being happy. You make me happy.

Did you have hot chocolate today? It was a rainy day you know. Rainy days are great for hot chocolate. I love hot chocolate on rainy days. Nice.


Feels like its been ages since I said hello to you. Ages. Funny how time flies when I’m with you, funny how the hours rush by, like gentle breezes, hardly noticed, ushering time along; And then! When I am not with you, time stops! Time torturously slows down to a crawl, a muttering, stuttering-shuddering crawl. Oh, how cruel your absence can be!

Hello again.

I like the idea of tying you up. I’ve yet to tie you up, I’ve been wanting to. Wish there was enough time to tie you up and just jump into bed with you at the same time; alas, it seems the latter impulse always seems to win over any pre-meditated good and wholesome fun; funny how my desire reigns supreme (oh, oh, I feel a commercial coming on again…); funny how it all seems so wonderful to be naked with you; I wish I could be naked with you all the time, baring, being, just wanting to press myself against you (like an animal, like a man, a simple man with simple needs, with little ways and means, with few intentions but to love and lust over you, with the strong impulse to ravish you in between, with a thousand (never too much) kisses. I like kissing you.

Oh, how I like kissing you. It is so incredibly nourishing to my soul. Happiness, joy and glee are nourishing. Kissing you makes me happy. Thus, you must be nourishing to my soul. (Is this letter long enough yet? To constitute a long love letter, let alone a love letter, as all love letters tend to be long, tend to be over-blooming with sentiment and sap just oozing out of the trunk? (don’t try to visualize that metaphor, simile, whatever)). Whatever, all I know is that kissing you makes me happy.

The confidence of the women in this movie (Katharine Hepburn, Ava Gardner) reminds me of you. It turns me on. You turn me on. When you look at me, and you look at me like you know what you want, that turns me on. You make me feel like you want me; it is nice to feel that way, to feel wanted, especially to feel wanted by you.

I like graham crackers with peanut butter and pieces of bitter-sweet Lindt chocolate with 85% cocoa. I just had some. The slightly salty-chalky grit still lodged in my teeth reminds me of the pleasure of nibbling on these squares of delight at midnight.

I like nibbling on you at midnight. It gives me pleasure to think of the delight I have nibbling on you. I like to nibble on you.

I like it when Ava comes and cleans up Howard. She takes care of him. As independent minded as I am, I like the idea of you taking care of me – consoling me, making me feel better when I’m not feeling so good. Applying your salve, like a hundred of your consoling kisses.

I like your kisses, I like how slowly you withdraw when you’re kissing me, I like how you draw me to you when you part. You make me feel like metal to a magnet, a strongly pulling, tugging, alluring magnet, the kind that makes me want to kiss you over and over and over again. I like kissing you. It cleanses me to kiss you, cleans me of dirty thoughts, the kind that soil my soul, the kind that weigh upon me, that make me want more than I need, more than I can afford to have; the kind of thoughts that make me mad and flustered and fret with frustration; the kind of thoughts that make me forget what is most important in my life – your kisses, your kindness, your love. I like kissing you.

I hope you like kissing me too.

I could write a book for you. I just might do that. I’m crazy enough about you that I think I am quite capable of doing just that, writing a book about you or rather my love for you and all the crazy thoughts that I have when you’re not around (its not so easy to write when you’re around, because I just want to kiss and hold and talk and tease and touch and be with you, when you’re around; miraculously, amazingly, writing is far from my mind when you’re around; oh, I may compose an epic poem or two when your in my midst, but I rarely get a chance to write it down, it is hard to make love with you and to transcribe my thoughts at the same time; I probably wouldn’t be able to read what I wrote afterwards anyway, even if I tried.

Besides, I like the way I feel when I kiss you when I kiss you, and I like to think and feel nothing else when I kiss you; I like to get lost in those kisses, lost in a thousand kisses that would never be too much, never be enough to express love.)

I like, I love expressing how I feel for you, to you. It feels good, both the sentiment and the expression, the profession and the feeling. I like feeling, you make me feel. I feel good when I’m with you.

I feel good when I’m with you.


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