The notebook is still locked away. I am there with it, locked up, unread, hiding.
I started this project for the sake of writing, and bringing to life something I mainly do online. Not that I don’t write in longhand. The bringing to life bit is the interactive, human aspect of sharing my words with other, real, live writers. Meeting someone in a pub for the first time, and thrusting the notebook into his unsuspecting hands. Sending it over the sea to a lovely woman in France. Returning to my thing I’ve had for so long about Canada. I drew a map of Canada, oh Canada, with your face sketched on it twice.
But the sexual aspect has crept in inevitably. I say ‘crept’. It was always there, stamped blatantly (if invisibly) on the cover of the notebook. The people whose words I have most wanted to read have been men. Men whose minds I have wanted to unravel, whose bodies I have imagined, in sections, pieces. Cock. Shoulders. Feet. Though slightly narcissistically I have wondered more about their reaction to my body. One or two of them, our bodies have come into contact, cushioned and protected by clothes, and etiquette.
Maybe I should have just fucked you.