The F and Plexus

In the midst of a conversation with Julie and Amy who live a few stops before me, I noticed a young fellow board the train with the same edition of Plexus that I have in his hands. It's not hard to miss, with the big letters transposed on a picture of a naked woman. I carried the book with me for a month and I miss it. I have a feeling at some point I will return to The Rosy Crucificion if only to revisit the words I read as I rediscovered my love of writing. I think my heart beat a little faster as he took his spot five feet away from me. It wasn't the same as the Oxford University Press experience of last night, but it was exhilarating in its own right. Any conversation Amy, Julie and I were having was now over. "Have you read Sexus," I asked, knowing he had, but wanting to let him know I was in The Club. "Oh yeah," he responded, with a similar glint in his eye. With Amy and Julie now spectators to this exchange, my new friend and I began a discussion, with the same five feet between us, about the vulnerable brilliance of Miller. His propensity to grab the reader by his or her genitals and rake them over the coals, leaving them, masochistically in a way, wanting more. We smiled throughout the conversation which lulled only when I had to say goodbye to my friends. He came and sat next to me, and we continued discussing surface Miller. You can't do much there in just a couple of stops, delve into the intracacies of every facet of his worth, but we covered just enough. As my new friend left the train moments later, he asked me if I could remember his e-mail address. Yes, I said, and wrote it on my hand. Now if I can only remember his name.