Turn-on is about getting to certain geometries - marks - positions - of the body. Orgasm is hitting a mark and is a message hurled, like a drumbeat. Percussion: skin on skin, skin on wood, skin on metal, wood on wood, metal on metal. Anything on anything. These particulars might be called tuning, or might be called narration, or genders or figures or personalities or levels.

The extent to which we make the anything, other, the rub, real or present is individual, part of all the pleasure and the pain - but in the end, like the weather - shifting within its constancy. It is and is always changing: one wind, gusting in and out of sync, in and out of contradiction, to the other. So things happen. Sometimes it's hard to leave town because I'm turning my back on my nearest ocean. But I also want to fly home and disappear into the mountains.

Like yesterday: outrageous towers of clouds lording over the east, communing with the mountains, sending down Apollonian messengers in raggedy cotton trails - a multitude of textures, densities, humidities, colors, and levels. While in the west at my back, the setting sun was pouring god-talk all over the lake, sparkling clear and brilliant, and a cool front moving in to temper eighty degree weather, thick air. It was so much action I didn't know which way to turn, on each hip a pleasing problem.

Of the decision, if it can be called one: there is no need to explain why. In fact it's all about getting to the point where I can't. But really getting to that point takes nothing less than absolute rigor. And it seems clear that the act of balancing involves some kind of a fall.