Yeah, I write. I made it through the dense underbrush of that trail, and am aware of where it could lead. The lure of the female, the lure of Aphrodite, the lure of sex led me through it. The lure of a note: archaic sadness, longing high like a lone jet-trail, a catenary at the top of my mother's reading voice, something lost which hung out into the rain-ancient raw caw coast and beyond to where the ocean stood or rolled for what could not be crossed--though I've seen her swim out, up and down behind great grey-green rainy foam-holed swells, there she is!--in the cold Pacific.

The catenary of sorrow and of longing perhaps simply lifted her, like high geese carry a gust of chickens across fenced yards; something like an Olympic torch, something like the power lines brigaded out by bold, giant, steel-sketched pylons up those wide mountain swaths where away they stalk, cubeworks, skeletons of robot titans--from deep in the banks of back-time Celtic sorrow the whisks of tough sea-grasses did not seem to raise except in the flights of burning lyric by which some tiny fireball moved out of the heart of some Irish or Scottish bard to sharpen the wings of the melancholy tern with light--to hone and flare its wings with fine gold or outline it with fire.

Or the wilderness and wild Ubermensch-- my father the lighthouse-keeper carried his torch, remembering the name "Kerchak" even in old age--the great ape who became Tarzan's adoptive mother in Burroughs's ubermensch mythology. John Clayton's leap of exhilaration when he (multi-fluent, urbane sophisticate) on a bet among men sitting on a balcony in Africa one night having a drink, stripped off his clothes and entered the "forest primeval" with only a knife and a piece of rope--the Linker and the Cutter over pure animal-owing to a man who received the Animal in himself. To later return with a big cat carcass, perhaps a lion. Tarzan travelled long distances through African jungle in the "upper terraces." I and Edgar Rice Burroughs swung out long distances also in the upper terraces, with my Ariadne's thread and the Cutters, Logos. Here, these. Catching boles and vines in high exigencies and long vicissitudes, free thought, above the ground which might be for the purposes of this metaphor with its numerator and denominator, the human common denominators of your "real world out there."