August 9, 1997

It’s Saturday morning, late of course, drinking tea, two kinds, green from Japan and some type of red bitter leaf tea from Jamaica.  Some friend’s of M.’s are here.  They brought him a loaf of french bread from the North.  

We left D’s house last nite very late.  The last ones as usual.  All of us sitting on the floor with cushions and blankets, two cats, passing around a glass ball, cups of tea and pieces of explosively delicious carrot cake begging to be eaten.  On the way home I fell asleep on M’s shoulder.  I told L. I would try to call him when I got home.  Thankfully there was no answer.  I was so tired.  The whole thing is so sad.  I know he will still want to see me everyday when I get back.  I will let him, my skin will not say no [and the left side salamander skin crossing apart will keep me there, Mike Maker will say no, and I will say no, the bamboo culture, raising financial profits and tax shelters, of coursing and a single answer will tuck me all back in bed, so waiting Fugazi, and the song always ends].

Still no word from S.

Have plans with T. today, to see some film made here in our little city.  Should be fun.  

Wondering about B.!  When will he arrive?

And P.!  It’s been way too long.  Dinner with him tomorrow hopefully!

-LATER-

Considering telling M. how I feel, or what it is I feel or something, or something. There’s this lack of movement, this sense of solidifying concrete, stifledness.  I know there’s a reason for it, it’s part of the job, but really I just don’t like it, don’t want constriction, more hippie flow.  Respect can be so destructive.  So I imagined having some kind of talk with him.  I didn’t get very far into it.  I also imagined him going with one of the other girls and this made me happy, even a little relieved.  Maybe I should just think about that.  And hope B. comes around soon.