Monday, January 5, 1986 Somerville Theater with Sandy. Just saw Singing in the Rain. Dancing (tap). Singing. Makes me want to study tap dancing again. Rise is back from her vacation. Told me the wrong time. Got there late. She was waiting. The big news is a new love affair with an old childhood friend. He prefers attached women. Having an affair with one in another town. They hide it from her man. That's normal - for him and most everyone. He finds Rise and Joe's relationship weird. She tells me about a developing situation between her mother and her. Mom, I suspect, has expectations of her. Namely, that she will find a nice man, fall in love, get married, and have children. Meanwhile, various peculiar events, and pieces of evidence, keeping popping into Mom's universe, and these things are becoming difficult to explain from that frame of reference. Of course, Rise could enlighten her mother, tell her about a whole other world . But she doesn't. So mom explains that world with interpretations, explanations of things that didn't actually happen. Normally, for most people, while growing up, the situation is reversed. Parents explain things and create a magical world for the child. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, True Love, Sexual Fidelity, etc. But Rise has managed to get control of the universe for her and parents. Of course, her mother could know, really, exactly what's going on, but being steering things by virtue of only recognizing the direction in which things are supposed to go. Tuesday, January 6, 1986 More tales of what is behind everything everybody does - so readers can skip this whole day if they don't want to know any more of what I think on the subject. Rise describes a professor from school. She has taken all his classes. Some just so she could stare at him. A dreamboat in her eyes. Black hair and blue eyes. I'm sure she's thought of more than looking (yes), along with lots of other female students. There's a question of whether or not he's married. She doesn't know. It hardly matters. Aha! Yet another example of the drive to reproduce. She admits that if it were possible for their offspring to be like him . then there's a chance she might do something. Probably some already have. One hears stories like that all the time. Much literature, theater, and music is written about it. This joked about subject goes all the way back to the beginning of recorded history. But its still only joked about and alluded to. It still is not a part of every day life. I can imagine a centuries old fear of confronting this to be what keeps it down. An open, active sexual life makes people feel themselves so much, and there is such fear of not having it anymore, that the individual, and society, has to deny it, perhaps as a way of pushing away one's disappointments with life, the feelings of being starved for contact. For me, personally, it's something like that. I do not have all the love and sex I want. Money is another insufficient item - but its just another way of getting the other things. A usual I am late with this summing up of things at the beginning of the year. Of course, I sense there is much more. But a starving person doesn't notice much about their ragged clothes until that higher priority is met. Jennifer admits to me, today, that things are going between her and James - still. Exactly what, I ask. You can guess, she replies. Yet another woman gone bad! This is a good thing for her and James. He gets just what he wants from her. She gets hers from him and Gary. She tells me that Gary knows what's going on. Hopefully it's so. $300 came to him in the mail today. The two of them may use it for a trip to California. Gary, according to her, got all coked out last night and is feeling worthless. His parents are on the verge of kicking him out of the house. Just what I needed - one more tenant at Hamster Place! Sandy and I were embroiled about an hour ago. Right now she is playing, practicing, while this is written. The old question of whether or not I love her, and how will she know if I don't tell her. It goes on a bit. She gets two choices: we go for a piano lesson or I leave. Some tears. Memories of how things went for her and Jeff. He also left. Maybe it's really you, I propose. Possible, but she doesn't see it. I get up to leave. It's over for her by the time I'm through the door. Very quiet on the drive here. I point out the ice skating rink near Central Street. Wednesday, January 7, 1987 Ron is at Wrentham Street reading poetry to Cynthia and Rise at the dinner table. I'm told not to interrupt - go to the store, or anywhere else to he's finished. Who does he think he is? He's the most opinionated person I've ever met. What is he, some kind of guru? This was sort of Ron's reaction to me last night. He loves Cynthia and Rise - even though we all think the same of him. Big trouble with Pamela last night when he got home around 1 is. She thought he was staying in Dorchester. Her imagination of what might be going kept a hold over her even though he didn't do it. Just another couple dependent on each other, but hiding at the same time. An inevitable problem unless you either completely suppress other desires or create an intimate atmosphere between yourself and several people. Got myself into big trouble with him when I suggested everything between him and Pamela was not out in the open. Neither of them speaks their minds all the time. They both notice things in the other - and let them go by. He got outraged. Told me to leave her out of this, as I didn't know anything about the situation. The whole thing started with a discussion about the connection between sexuality and art, and if there is a connection. From his friend Don, and other artists, his experience, etc., he says no. I say yes on the basis of my experience. Then I proposed that he could look deeper into what's going on with Don by asking questions. For example, when something happens between him and Don, or between Don and another person, and he has an idea or impression of something going on, of something being hidden, to say what he thinks, or to ask a question such as, is such-and-such going on here. He asked me, at one point, to suggest some questions to ask Don. I couldn't think of any specific questions, but to look for a particular kind of situation, where there is some tension, something hanging in the air, something that has been left unsaid, or something he wants to say, but might be afraid to say because he's afraid of the other person's reaction. He claims not to be afraid in that way. I ask Cynthia if she believes that. He gets outraged at my bringing her into the picture. She mumbles and walks out of the room, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire, and having just the kind of fear we are talking about. Not wanting to say something that you know will most likely offend a person you are emotionally dependent on. On the other hand, I would say my relationships with women have come about as a result of saying what's on my mind, and what I think of a person, regardless of how emotionally dependent we are. I don't have money, am not tall, dark, and handsome, and am not a sexual virtuoso. But these other two things I do better at than anyone else here. And, luckily for me, there are some small numbers of people who are moved by that. How can we make tomorrow different? Sandy says it won't be. She wants to bet, shake on it. But tomorrow will be a revolution in thought and action! We will grab the moment, seize its veritable balls, and, in doing so, ride history on into the future! Even as we . talk about it a significant change comes about. The excitement of the possibilities begins to overwhelm us! Thursday, January 8, 1986 What do you mean, "You don't get enough sex?" she said. You have someone every night. Well, it's still not enough. A little but short on quantity. About one more would do it. Rise or Linda, say. And a bit shorter still on accessibility. This going all over tarnation to get it is a drag. Then there's Sandy's recent adventure with Mr. Poo. He regales her and Lotti with Simone and Richard stories. For instance, that time she unzipped my pants, pulled it out, and began ministering to it. All the while some others, including Lotti, were there. He describes how he and Dana would make up stories for me to write about. Of course, they don't know the stories I made up about them. A dream last night where Sandy and I are walking though a residential neighborhood, crowded, somewhat like Cambridge, when we come upon a large building out of which music is emanating. Inside we sit in a large auditorium. The stage curtain is down. We hear classical music. I want to go peek behind the curtain. She tells me not to do it. I do it anyway. Guys in pajamas and slippers are standing around with their instruments. Some are playing. It seems random, chaotic. But it comes out orderly. Very short practice last night. A little up and down the scales for fingering practice. Then a bunch of "Heart and Soul" that nearly drives Sandy crazy. I don't even hear it. The question for me is to overcome the feeling of chaos of which my fingers are always on the verge of. In that dimension it goes different every time I play it. I want to eliminate the panic that occupies the biggest part of my awareness. I can feel it getting a little better each day. Of course, I have to be careful not to drive my teacher completely bonkers. Dinner at Wrentham Street with Cynthia, Rise, Jim, Duncan. Cynthia, Duncan, and myself go running before dinner. My health has definitely returned. No problems running. No weakness at all. We meet some nearby neighbors (of the Welles Street house), passing the parents, baby, and dog three times. Cynthia interviewed the woman at AIB. They remembered each other. Lynn, the mother and wife, seemed especially hungry for contact. Friday, January 9, 1987 A long phone conversation with Diane Kett. So long that I am now late for my appointment, lunch date, with Sandy and Rise. Someone (Diane) who met me about a year ago at the MASH party. I don't remember her. She does me. Thirty years old. 118 pounds. 5 feet 5.5 inches tall. Once weighed 160 in the eight grade. 42-year-old husband of 7 years, who has, on infrequent occasions, beaten her up - once on a street in Paris. Younger sister who is a born-again Christian. Straight - A student in high school. Did well for two years of college. Can't decide between being an artist or scientist. Seriously thinking of leaving her husband. A man she finds inflexible. They haven't talked about remaining faithful. She hasn't told him about thoughts of leaving. Why has she stayed in contact with me? The voice in my writing is like her own. Words and thoughts similar to hers. Needs someone to talk to. A long time? Hour and a half. She didn't want to hang up. And what is your personal interest in me? Do you have any? There is a very warm feeling between us. She can admit to that. A question about how many others like her. Only you, I say. Thought she wanted to know how many women I'm interested in, intimate with. That was her next question. Two, plus, every now and then, a very skittish colt. She imagines me in a trophy room with medals and pictures. Like a playboy, you mean. Sort of, she says. But then what playboy ever had a talk like this? I tell you about the women in my life, ask you to get an AIDS test, and don't dance around about what I want from you. A long talk. She wonders if I'll trust her about the IADS. I'll bring the papers, she says. Sandy is getting a bit carried away about my writing here. You would rather write about her than fuck me, she says, turning away, and, to nobody in particular, that I'm doing all this while wearing a T-shirt from Simone . Meanwhile complaining about how her life is over and that taking a shower earlier was a total waste . Meanwhile, groaning in mock-horror at the end of her life! Today I noticed how much better she's gotten in this respect. In the beginning my mentioning another woman would drive her oranges, and several other tropical fruits. Now she has, often some distance from it, and, like just now, some humor. I've had contact with lots of women since meeting her. Very little has come of any of it. They want to be in complete control of someone, or have to keep everything hidden. I don't know what will happen, with Diane. I like her a lot, and will take things quite a ways - if she wants. But this way of doing things may not be for her. Although she and I share a lot of common ideas. Sandy continues on with her obsession. Talks about having to leave me because of someone new being better than her. Then I tell her the whole thing was made up. It's my fantasy to have a woman fall in love with me over the telephone. Everyman would like it to be so easy. But it won't be that way for her. We might fall into each other's arms the first time or two we meet - as long as it's far from our every day world. But a long-term relationship, with conscious effort being made to overcome jealousy, possessiveness, and dependency, is another kind of row to hoe! But back to Sandy, who started crying, and felt so foolish on my telling her the whole thing was made up . I've invented a new game show for prime-time television: Stump Your Nookie! The goal being to make up stories, and to tell some not made up, and test your mate (or significant pother) to determine if they can separate the two. She's feeling a lot better now. We've made a joke of my TV program, and I tell her how Diane watched the Letterman Show for many weeks - hoping to see me, after I made up a story in the Harvard Square writing, and on a postcard, about being on his program. Sandy has fallen into a tearful, serious funk about the importance of telling the truth. I hear the story of how her father related that Mozart wrote several symphonies by the time he was seven. He asks how many she's written, at the age of seven. She is devastated and goes to her room to cry - thinking that dad has called her a failure, and doesn't love her because she's disappointed him, hasn't lived up to his expectations. Meanwhile, he's laughing about the state of mind she has fallen into. Now she's sitting up, crying, almost, and telling how this story (I called Diane today .) is just like that for her. 18 years later she can laugh at the Mozart story, and one day this Diane story will also be funny - at this moment the tears (pseudo - sort of) turn into laughing. She covers her face with the blanket to hide the comedic embarrassment of it all. Thank God we didn't have to wait another 18 years for this to become a funny story! She wonders if Rise or Cynthia or Lotti would be able to tell what really happened. Rise would be able to tell best. She wouldn't let the story have much influence on thinking it through (well, of course, because she's not sexually involved, or as emotionally influenced by you as the pothers, Sandy says). Rise is the least paranoid and irrational. But Sandy still claims not to know the truth about Diane - all because I haven't told her. Sandy, Rise, Tom, and I had lunch today. He is a student at Harvard. Rise says he proposed they live together in the dorm several years ago. It wasn't for her - not then, anyway. She thinks it might go different if the question was asked today. Political philosophy is his major. Isn't that a completely useless oxymoron, I say. He goes on to define it. I have to turn myself around and eventually completely agree that, by his definition, it's the only thing worth studying. Then, carefully, and with considerable cunning, soave faire, elegance, etc., I introduce the FH concept and reality. She tells me I did quite a thorough job on him. Didn't give him anything to fight back at. Kept him interested for two hours. He's even interested in visiting with our next FH visitors. Rise says she had a lot of warm feelings about me today - a lot of them from that. Sandy wants me to put this pen down and pick up my pecker, so you, dear reader, will have to wait another day for the story of what happened immediately after the period at the end of this sentence.