I feel that I write you far too often. I also feel that my letters don't
 often have a purpose beyond my own existential machinations; they're letters
 without questions, or without questions to which there can possibly be an
 answer. Unfortunately, today shall be no different. I'm thinking of the
 tension between beauty and loss, between presence and desire. I wake up in
 the morning with this immense, implacable longing in my gut. It's a very
 physical thing. What is it? Where has it come from? I go to work with the
 longing there, and I work, and laugh with my co-workers, and we talk about
 things mundane and, improbably, things beautiful. The ways, and times, when
 people open themselves is remarkable. Sometimes the longing eases. Sometimes
 it eats away at me, and I find myself standing in the middle of the golf
 course, looking up at the sky, feeling like all I want to do is fall down
 and say, "Fuck this, please just leave me alone." I just want to lie on the
 ground and stare at the sky and do absolutely nothing.

Susanna got home on Monday night. I went to the airport to get her with her
parents and with her friend Rachel (the girl so redolent of Marie, Marie who is
now all those beautiful years in my past). I picked Rachel up from her house,
and while she got ready I talked to her father in the yard about literature.
We've become good friends, he and I. We confide our fears about writing,
about poverty, in one another. "When Rachel found out you were coming, she made
sure to look nice today," he said, though he loves Susanna like a daughter,
and knows I love Susanna desperately.

So we walked into Susanna's house, and Susanna's father
gave me a hug and said, "I haven't seen you in too long. It's good to see
you," and then he kissed Rachel on the head like a daughter of his own. The
four of us, plus Susanna's brother, drove to the airport and waited in the
lounge. We brought signs. Sus stumbled off the plane, sleep deprived and
beautiful, and burst into tears. And then we walked out of the airport: I
had my arm around Susanna's waist on one side, and Rachel was holding her hand
on the other side. It was this gorgeous, ethereal, strange dynamic that
seemed, somehow, quite perfect. Susanna was so dreamy and happy, and we sat in
her kitchen drinking wine, her legs slung over my waist, her parents
laughing, and God was I happy. Later, Rachel and I left. I drove her home. It
was hot and humid and my windows were down, and she had her hand out the
window, making waves in the thick air, and she was smiling sweetly at me,
and I thought, "My God, I love both of these girls."

Tuesday night we went to a barbecue at Rachel's house. They have a grand old
Victorian home with a big front porch. It was one of those hodge-podge
parties, where everyone helps with a different thing: some of us cut food,
some of us prepared pizzas, some of us made drinks. Small, intimate groups
formed and then fell apart without warning. I talked to Rachel's grandmother
about memories of Midwestern churches. Susanna and I kissed alone in the
kitchen. Rachel and I smiled at one another from across the room. Susanna and
Rachel cradled each other in their arms, dancing to some internal melody.
Rachel's father and I sat on the front porch, drinking beer and talking about
writing. We all ate on the front porch, some of us in chairs, some of us
sitting on the floor, and watched a cataclysmic summer storm roll in from
the west. Sus and I walked home in a cool, soft rain, holding hands, and
she said, "I feel like me, you, and Rachel are in a coming of age movie where
the three of us are going to have a threesome. I love both of you very much.
And I think, in some way, you two are begining to love each other, too."

I don't know how to organize my feelings about any of this. I don't even
know where they begin. I think I love the two of them, together, more than
I've loved anything in my life. It's such a strange, impossible arrangement.
Life is such a strange impossibe arrangement. I don't ever know what I want
from it. I think I want to be a writer. But then, I don't want money or
fame. I just want people to be moved. I just want to know that I can write a
great novel. I think I want to wander Europe, and then the loneliness of
wandering is nearly crippling. I love Susanna, but then I look at her best
friend and think that maybe I love her just as much. There are so many women
I've loved and lost, so many women who move my heart. It's such a grace,
but also something that breaks my heart. I'd like a dozen lifetimes, one to
be lived with Susanna, one to be lived with Rachel, one for Marie, one for
Hanna, one for Rebecca, etc. There isn't enough time. Time is so short,
and always growing shorter.

I had a dream last night. I was in a sleek industrial city, the kind that
feels like it’s always on the verge of ruin, or the kind that’s built in a
world that’s on the verge of ruin, although this hideous, bunkered city would
somehow survive. In a long, dreary room I met up with Hanna. I knocked,
first, this I remember. I was with a traveling companion, but he waited
outside the room. Hanna had to change. “Do you want to see me?” she asked.
“I would love to see you,” I said. She was wearing a tank top and white
panties. “Not yet,” she said. I went to a long window and looked out upon
the decrepit, dismal city. Smoke was rising from the elongated, flat
rooftops of warehouses and factories. Then Hanna wrapped her arms around my
waist. I felt her head fall against my back. “I love you, you know,” she
said. “I know. I’ve loved you a very long time,” I said. Then she turned me
around and we kissed, and that’s all I remember.

My life is a wreck, a beautiful wreck. I'm sorry there are no questions to
be answered in this email, no discernible point to it. I just needed to
ramble. I hope you haven't given up on it yet. Thanks for listening, my dear friend.
I hope your life is full of grace, and transcendence, and love. You have my
love, always.