This is sort of a juicy post by recent standards. I'm not entirely comfortable with the exploitive possibilities that come from writing about my romantic life, but I've gone this far. Back in the day I had some pages about girlfriends, and at the time Christine said that this was charming. I hope that's still true.

It's a trip, you know? I'm in unexplored territory here, being a single man off in the woods. If I'm honest, this is part of why I moved here, to get away from women, to clarify what it is that I want. It forces the issue, being on your own.

It may sound cocky, but I mean it humbly: I've had a very lucky and blessed life in love. One full of mistakes like any other, some heartbreaking idiocy and some plain-old heartbreak, but also great moments, charmed times, high and heady runs into what's created between two. I can't say I've always been at my best, but I think overall I've been Good, and people have been Good to me.

I catch myself thinking about faces from my past a lot these days. Recent lovers and old flames and ones that got away. The other night I was watching Reds (the Warren Beatty film), which gave me a nice jolt of that old revolutionary spirit, but which really affected me most in that young Dianne Keaton looks an awful lot like The Peach, the beauty who came out to visit me last Summer. The film brought back strong flashes of that. We had a pretty lovely week, and I saw her in New York afterwards, but it wasn't the sort of thing that could really work with her there and me here. We're still friends, or at least honestly friendly.

She's one of a few that come to mind, the ones I miss as I sit here, distilling. An empty bed conjures many dreams. I've come to realize I really can't do it by airplane, or at least that it's probably a mistake to try and engineer a long-distance romance with any of those connections flickering off in other parts of the country. It just wouldn't be true. Whole-hearted doesn't fly coach.

Also, I'm too much a believer in the lightning-like powers of Love to think that I can herd myself into anything. I won't be happy without the flash, without 10,000 volts, getting singed, without something coming from out there, outside my knowledge, and whacking me for a loop. Arguably this is some kind of psychological defect, a hang-up, maybe a way of avoiding intimacy, or the secret inner naive dream of every playboy, but I believe in it. That's what I'm holding out for.

So, we're saving ourselves for love? Something like that.

But not really. I ain't gonna be no lightning rod if I don't stand tall. There's a hell of a catch-22 in all this: the only way to find what I'm looking for is to go out and look for it, try things out, explore, make mistakes. Sometimes I get down on myself for all the things I've fucked up, but it's the times we drop the ball that really make us grow. It's not saving myself, it's got to be setting myself free, permission to engage, etc.

Them's slim pickin's out here, it's true, but that's no reason to despair. The thought always comes long before the action, and I've known for a while now that the only way is forward. I feel the tingle of spring awakening.