2002-09-14 4:51 p.m.

There is something which I love even more than Accidental Nocturnal Ultraviolent Sodomy Syndrome and my jar of horse testicles. There is even something I love more than knowing that people are extremely offended by my writing yet continue to read it every single day. That wonderful, beloved something is Andie.

Like I said in my last entry, while at Clear Lake, I decided to write a love poem to Andie every day and give them all to her for her birthday when I saw her at Burning Man. It did not really work out that way. Instead, I only wrote two. I figure that two is not as good as seven, but two is so many more than zero. The first one is here. This is the second one:

When I think of completeness, I think of a state of fullness; I think of satisfied needs; I think of finished tasks. A balloon, for example, begins deflated, empty, lifeless. And then��for some strangely compelling reason along the lines of "because it was there"��someone fills it with air and ties the end. And then we call it complete. If it is over�filled it explodes, and all the life�breath poured into it dissipates back to the universe for all to share. There is some critical point at which this happens, and people tend to stop before then if they can��who likes unexpected explosions?

Or, consider a sack of grain. The sack's entire purpose is to contain the grain. It ought to be filled to capacity, and then closed up tight. And when it is, we call it complete. If we misjudge, the sack may burst open, the grain spills onto the ground, the effort seems somewhat wasted.

Our lives follow a vector��a longing��to be just satisfied enough, just full enough, finished with our tasks. We breathe our life into our moments like a balloon. And then we call a moment��or a series of moments��complete. And then we start over again.

It is so strange, though, how I once knew my capacity�my fill mark, my popping point, my just right. Any more than that and I felt like the flayed pieces of burst balloon. But, in the way that the first airplane flight smashed the minds of reeling observers, I am dizzied when I see how the complex addition of your life into mine has increased my capacity for completeness.

My eyes' once tiny pupils are now vast canyons cut by deep, wide, rivers of life's azure beauties. Somehow, my arms are longer for embracing��they could reach out and hold the disappearing horizon, even though it too is so much farther, wider, heavier than before. Each moment is more dense, more rich, more succulent. And there seem to be so many more moments.

There once was enough. And now there is more.

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