Theme for the day - letters. We wrote letters. With pen and ink on paper, put them in envelopes and paid the post office to deliver them. Apparently I was falling down on the job. I'm not surprised. If I still had to communicate by letter, I wouldn't communicate. One of the reason I lost track of so many folks over the years is that I would let a year or two go by before answering - and then I would write a small novel - but in the meantime, someone moved, left no forwarding address, got lost.

Maybe that's another reason this relationship got lost. I wonder what would have happened if we had been able to be together all this time. Would I still have left? Did I get tired of writing letters? If I had not left, would I have left eventually. I still think I would have. If I'd married him and gone to Woodstock, would my craving for adventure have been swallowed up in married bliss? I don't think so.

He says he finally got another letter after a hiatus of a week. He wonders if I forget to mail them. He assumes I write every day. Maybe I did. Or I was supposed to. Or something like that. I don't think it would have made a difference if I actually had done so. Or perhaps it would have. Perhaps my ability to write a letter a day would have meant I was truly ready for this relationship. That I fully realized that he would be my adventure. There was never anyone else who would be that adventure, although I tried several on for size. For him, I think I was the adventure. I was never anyone else's adventure either.

December 3, 1962. I think the 60s are starting at last. He is writing oon the Brown Hotel stationery from Louisville, KY where we stayed together over Thanksgiving. It is a song to hotel rooms and beds in general and activity that can happen therein. I won't go into details. He actually doesn't go into details. It is all done in a tone of wonder and happiness and excitement and love. I don't know that anyone still writes such letters. Do they have the same sentiments? Or is sex so usual anymore that the magic is gone. I don't hear much anymore from people young or old about the wonder, the excitement, the absolute joy of sex with someone you love. Do people still make love? Or do they just have sex?

He couches this encomium in a fantasy idea of university classes in this wonderful thing. I think that finally happened. I think we ended up with Dr. Ruth. I think the sex pedants talk about making love, but I really think they only have sex.