The Iranian Princess Little Tree came to stay for a brief 48 hours. One of our secret rendezvous. Just the two of us in this tiny New York city apartment.

There is something very special about our connection, even though there is a fifteen year difference in our ages, there is just something there that is sacred and karmic in it. we have never had a physically romantic relationship. It has always existed in platonic way. a very loving friendly ... God how do you describe that... like brother and sister except that you also love each other in the other way... But since our last meeting over the summer in Miami beach things have changed for us a bit... we are more accepting of our infatuation with one another. Still best friends... like children, more like college kids or something like that... but now we have begun to accept our mutual love for one another. With this strange unspoken underlying understanding that we will never be able to take it anywhere more than this... but still willing to explore it anyway.

We have to spend most of our time indoors as always, especially here now in New York, because of who she is and who I am. If we are seen it could be very dangerous for her, for me, and for some of her family who still live in Tehran. Imagine, the ex-Princess -- or should I say ‘the exiled-Princess’ I ask her -- being seen on the street, un-covered, and holding hands and kissing the American anti-God anti-government rebel and raconteur who calls himself Fishy. It would not be good.

Three days of getting inside, going deep, neurons firing, making love -- The embassy is closed she says. Lying there naked. Except to the ambassador... she laughs. only the ambassador can enter the embassy... and I enter her..., coffee in bed, bottles of wine and cognac, crackers and cheese, chocolate, long walks down frozen New York streets and sidewalks in the middle of the night when we think we can get away with it. Beautiful brownstones and fancy shops passing us by.  Puffs of smoke from my cigars walking with us. and she always with that eager curious enthusiastic smile about everything...

Walking around the apt naked, just covered in blankets all night... don't look at me... in between long romantic and short-burst love-making sessions... don't look at me... o.k. I won't. laughs... burying ourselves in the other’s kisses.... licking each other like ice cream, in between reading passages from this book of poetry by a friend of ours, Dan coppersmith, The Elusive Here and Now. more chocolate. More wine. More making love. Lots of laughter, orgasms intertwined with tears. Tears of joy. tears of longing for what we will soon miss. Once more. as always.
But thank God we have this. for now. this is fine. This is good enough.

She tells me, “Coming is happy. Going is sad.” And she cries. I write it down. Here. now. And I write some more. I always write. Writing holds back my tears. Writing helps me make use of my emotions. Without writing I would be mad. you are mad she whispers to me as she peers over my shoulder to read what I am writing...

When we make love we enter this other world, I look down at her, her head cocked back, her body arched, her mouth open, we were just transported, transporting ourselves into these other worlds.  The window is open... close the window. Are you crazy? Some one will see us. But I need fresh air. Are you trying to get us killed? Sorry.

Non-stop notes. I cannot taking notes. In between climaxes I lean up in the bed and grab my laptop... ‘I'm so sorry,’ I say, ‘only for a minute, o.k.?’ and I type madly. Scrolling between different stories, different bits, different scenes, and different chapters I am simultaneously working on... the oracle from new year’s was right.. sparks flying out of my head.... the year of creativity and fulfillment, but only the beginning she says. But where is the fucking money? where is the fucking money? show me the fucking money.

She is crying again... but I remain leaned up in bed... typing.... ‘it is so confusing... I cannot figure it out... my mind wants to figure us out... but I can’t figure us out,” she is mumbling as I keep typing. She laughs.... and then she cries. “this is not a mind creation.... I can create without my mind.” She laughs and then begins sobbing again.... there is no chance of us ever figuring us out... I know this... but I don't say anything. Our lives are too different. Too far apart.... we both know this... there is only us. here. now. “I will always remember this forever,” she whispers to me as she cries... but then she bursts into laughter, big open mouthed showing all your teeth laughter with her head cocked back. o.k. good.. I think... she is with me... she realizes the absurdity of it, the beauty of it... the ridiculous miracle that we are in each others lives.... she grabs me from behind as I am typing and sobs on my shoulder.... she breathes deep.... I will never forget this..... please stop writing...” but I keep pounding the keys madly as she sobs on my back and shoulders...then she starts laughing hysterically a few minutes later... I come to smiles.... “this is like a fellini movie!” she exclaims and laughs more... I type more, she cries and laughs more... “would you stop typing everything I say and do!? we are in a fellini movie! I cannot go home like this! I am going crazy. I have become crazy! I am crazy now, like you! you are insane and I have caught your insanity! She yells and keeps laughing. I cannot hang out with you anymore because I am going to become insane like you...

“its the coffee! She says. Its that damn coffee!” “I told you to make half decaf. Its too much fucking caffeine ... its all just laughing and crying.... too much. that's why I am writing so madly I think.. so I don't go fucking crazy. how many cups did we drink? The whole pot. Oh fuck yeah too much. O.k. but still that's enough. STOP writing. come lay with me. I will miss you.. I am leaving in two hours, come here... lay with me. o.k. one more minute I have to just write down that coffee thing we just talked about.. “non stop, stop writing down everything I say and do or I am not going to do or say anything more. I'm just going to lay here motionless and not say a thing....”

We spend a lot of time talking about Iran. Her home of Shiraz, and then Tehran. The Caspian sea. These are only words to us here in America. They have no meaning to us here. The most basic things that we take for granted here.... would be major changes there... just to have toilets in public – there you just squat over a hole in the ground; always worried about being kidnapped... people with masks on burning flags... I cannot imagine this here in our country... women have to ‘cover up’ – they have to be in full cover from head to toe, only their eyes revealed; I look at her and imagine her all covered up in robes and scarves... I get more turned on by her...

It is like we’re back in college. we barely leave the house, except late at night, so as not to be noticed. different things scattered about the floor. Bottles of wine. Empty boxes of chocolate. a bottle of water, palm pilots, cell phones, Avatar books, poetry books. Cds. I am in love with this moment. I am in love with the Iranian Princess and our own little world...

You see, once you spend time, deep time, pure time, with someone from Iran, or from Syria or Jordan or India or Pakistan.... you learn of their culture... of their lack of understanding of Christmas or Santa Claus.... there is something that happens to you... you lose the grip of it in your mind.... you realize how shallow our traditions are... all of us. not just us here in America, but all of us. humans. Our traditions are only OUR traditions. They aren't really traditions at all. just little creations we make up in our own minds... in the moment of now we call history.... none more important than the other... I want to cry now. is there not anything sacred? She reads over my shoulder... we are sacred Fishy.... and she kisses my neck...

We have not slept for more than a few hours in two days... we are exhausted. But exhilarated to share each others company once again, even if for a few days.

Current spin: non-stop serge gainsbourg. French music playing in the background 24 hours a day. One of his early seventies albums. Ou de ’exterior. I am so French now that there will be no turning back. it is inside of me. as we say in Portuguese, ‘entra numa.’ It has entered me, gotten inside of me. I repeat everything I hear in day to day life back in French, translating constantly.

One more thing before I forget:
over the last four weeks, since the clock struck the new year I have been getting rid of things. whatever doesn’t feel right, I just discard. Give it away. clothes shoes candles even. towels, whatever is in my space that doesn’t feel right or reminds me of something I do not wish to be reminded of... I have learned something. things don't matter. They just don't.