Standing at the bar adjacent to the espresso machine at O, a place I’ve never stood before. It’s typically for friends of the baristas; in this case, it’s a “liminal zone,” where I stand, waiting, until a better spot emerges. It does allow me to see behind the bar in a way that I definitely don’t like. I don’t like Contemporary pants: sweatpants with elasticated cuffs and cargo pockets—the pants people think are appropriate to wear to work. This counter ought to be strictly reserved for friends because I, the public, should not have access to this sight.
Moved up to the window. The only wobbly chair in the house. Next to the Frankenstein girl, who is knitting yellow yarns, a purple hardback notebook in front of her. No copy of Shelley today. According to this very diary, it was back in October that I made note of her.
Trying to read some Baudelaire, but I woke up melancholic. The thing I most want to do is stare into space.
LOL—just read an email from V– saying she wants to have my baby, pay my student loans, support me as a writer. She also wants me to fall in love with her, make her my wife and keep her in Montréal. I won’t be able to devote myself to anyone but the one I fall in love with spontaneously—with whom the early parts of the relationship are adventurous, exciting. V– has not changed my conception of the truth.
Right now, the kinds of truths I feel driven to divulge are about being lonely and alienated; about my past, what series of unfortunate events might bring a man to the brink of despair. If I fall in love and get a girlfriend, I will want to tell that kind of truth. The two are (to an extent) mutually exclusive. Can’t tell the truth of being single without damaging a future relationship. The truth of being lonely, self-hating, self-conscious, horny; the truth of how one falls forward into love…