October 26th, 1967

Rachel has moved back to the city.

We go to see The Doors & Procul Harem at Winterland.

I’m joking on the way over, really glad to see her. She lights a joint. I don’t really want to turn on but I do. When I get stoned, my internalization becomes so intense that I become passive to the outside world. The only object I can pay attention to is the one that does the entertaining.

We’re dancing close to the stage. Jim Morrison’s blowing my mind, curled around the mike in black leather, singing:

I found an island in your heart

Poetry in your eyes

The light show pounds the walls, the strobe light beats her body. I become more & more quiet, the music & I becoming one.

Then I feel her getting uptight. The more her quiet demand increases, the less I’m able to respond. But I feel very good dancing with her in the strobe light, she’s so beautiful—like a dancing ghost.

When we get back to her place, she comes on very affectionate. I joke about her enthusiasm. I’m also teasing her, but it’s a bit strong & persistent. All of a sudden she stops & says: "You can't take love."

"What do you mean?"

"You've been pushing me off all night,” she says. “I've been trying to be honest about my feelings and you won't accept them."

I’m stunned. I crave love, want a beautiful thing to happen, but when she gives me the opportunity I turn away from it. Now that I can be sure about her feelings, I can’t be sure about my own.

I throw up more defenses. She’s talking seriously & I start laughing. I don’t want to laugh. It’s a kind of hysteria.

I’m about to laugh again when I bury my head in her neck & kiss her. She throws up her hands & says, "Fuck you."

We get to talking again.

"It's not easy for me to come out like this," she says. "I can withdraw if you want me to. I don't want to be like that, but if you don't come out, I don't have any choice. I try to talk to you about my feelings, but you just sit there and stare. You won't respond."

Another defense: My mind refuses to think of anything. Complete withdrawal.

All I can think about is trying to remember this amazing incident so I can write it down in the diary. I know I’m insane but I can think of nothing else.

This only pushes her further away.

"Are you trying to fuck up my mind!"

She says that if she’s going to give up her freedom that she wants something of equal value to replace it.

I’m intrigued by these persistent demands that I must offer her undivided feeling. It’s like one of Rilke’s existential moments when, if I ignore it, I’ll be sorely retarded emotionally for the rest of my life. I’m also very tempted to just drop the whole thing.

She’s crying most of the time. All I can do is sip my tea.

I try to tell her about my withdrawal syndrome. I tell her I want to feel for her.

"I don't think I can love anyone,” I tell her.

When I realize the intensity of her feeling, I begin to wonder if telling her I loved her wasn’t a lie.

She says she wishes I never told her.

I start talking about genuine feeling—at what point does one say, "I love you."

But she really does love me. What adds to the immensity of her feeling is that she's at a turning point where she can choose to go in any direction she pleases & that she’s chosen me.

I talk about how every time she gets depressed, she leaves the feeling a vague negative thing, doesn't apply it to anything concrete & consequently is no better off after it than before.

"I'm fucked up and you're not willing to admit it," she says. "You want to think I'm something I'm not."

Tells me she's not satisfied with herself. She doesn't know why.

"That's hardly a peculiar problem in the 20th century," I tell her. "I'm not satisfied with myself either, but I don't sit around sulking about it. I find what I'm dissatisfied about and try to improve it."

"You're always worried about improvement."

She talks about how her father fucked her up. Married 3 times & there's her bitter mother alone, drilling the evil of men into her. When he was getting married the second time, she went to his office (he owns a rubber band factory in North Carolina) & tried to talk him out of it. He had his feet on the desk talking coolly to her. She started crying & threw all his papers at him & ran out of the office.

She tells me she either wants to structure her life around someone completely by living together or be free. I tell her she'll change her mind tomorrow because of her repetitive hang-up about submission. The big problem seems to be that she cannot remain independent while being in love.

But all this conflict brings us closer.

"What color are your eyes?"

"One day in grammar school,” she says, “the teacher dismissed us by the color of our eyes. When she said blue, I went up & she sent me back. When she said brown, I went up & she sent me back. She kept sending me back till I was the last one. So I guess they're hazel."

As a kid coming home from school on a rainy day, she would pick worms out of puddles & put them back in the ground so they wouldn't die.

In the morning we sit around reading Yeats to each other.

In the afternoon we get the munchies & go to the grocery store & buy a dozen kinds of fruits & nuts, oatmeal bread, wine.

When it’s prepared & we sit down on the floor, we start laughing about the possibility of how good it’ll taste if we get stoned. So we get stoned. Takes 2 hours to eat the meal.

Later we take a drive to Sausalito, beautiful houses on hills overlooking the sailboats on the bay. Want to live with her there. Just want to love her in spite of my stand on independence & freedom in terms of writing.

We come home & make love all night. The strangest thing builds before the second time. There’s no sexual need, we just start kissing & smiling. We just smile & give these simultaneous indefinable gasps of amazement over what we feel for each other. Keep thinking how could I ever be in any other situation, did any other situation exist? The feeling seems interminable. I see no bounds or end to it. The possibility of the night ending doesn’t exist. There’s only one way to articulate these feelings. We make love.

» October 27th, 1967 : Letter From Nam III