August 18, 2004

And on August 7, the 24th day of my bike tour, I had this to say before boarding a boat to Flowerpot Island:
Dearest Martha,

I have reached the very edge of loneliness. Tobermory is where you go if you want to be surrounded by barren crags and burning sunsets. As I approached this ragged corner of land, I saw wilderness melt into rock, rock give way to waters as deep and as green as your eyes, and last evening even the water seemed to evaporate in that goddamn bleeding sunset that set the clouds on fire.

And in 20 minutes I will board a boat to nowhere and disappear as well. Martha my dearest, I wish you were with me on this last, mad dash towards solitude. I’m sitting on the dock looking at the boat that will take me away, a fire-red beast that burns through the translucent waters with all the fury of yesterday’s sunset.

The ride to nowhere will only take 15 minutes — enough time to orgasm repeatedly and savagely in someone’s arms on the jerky and exhilarating ride. After the drop-off on the isolated island, I’ll run madly away from the departing boat and into the bushes to find all the fantastic works that time sculpted.

If I run far enough I’ll find pillars of rock on the far end of the island that stand white and motionless against the waves, their contours harsh and sphinx like. Their riddles will be wrapt in silence, disturbed only by the rattling of my feet on their holy ground. The rocks under my feet, white and numberless like dead men’s bones, will echo hollowly as I’ll step on them.

And because I won’t dare disturb the silence of those sphinxes carved by the agony of the waves, I’ll rush back into the bushes to find caves as ancient as the hills, orifices of rock against which I’ll yearn to smash the life of my cock. In those dark crevices I’ll burrow my longing, but the cold, ancient cunts will respond to neither passion nor compassion. Their stony silence will be enough to make me cry.

And crying I’ll walk the infinite forest paths to find water in which to wash the wounds of my soul and refresh my naked limbs. Oh, Martha, if you were with me on the island I would only need your embraces to refresh me, your kisses to heal me. And we would return from the island transformed, our limbs fused by tenderness, our minds locked in the same solitude, knowing the same desire. The two of us could unlock the silence of sphinxes, we could undo with our sweat and burning tears of passion the cold, monstrous work of the waves.

But I’m alone on this desperate shore, and I feel hopless. I need you with me. The fire-red boat waits impatiently to take me away. Perhaps one day, when I’ll return heavy with lonliness, I’ll find your arms and show you the scars left on my body by a month of solitude and Tobermory’s burning sunsets.

Love,

—T.