"Writing an
is an ungratifying occupation
at best.
It is a sort of
in which the
report, rather
than being an
account of the
event, is instead only a
memory of the
last time
it was recalled."
Paul Bowles -
July 4/1998 


K. has been gone since Tuesday, and besides missing her, I'm absolutely shocked at how much I've come to rely on her being here.  It's only been barely two months since she moved in, and just a little more than six months since we got together. 

Lonely is such a maudlin word, but maudlin is as maudlin does, and while I haven't spent the week moping, I've certainly done little on my threats of a rakish reprise of my bachelor days.  No afternoons in cafes or bars getting slowly wired or pissed watching World Cup quarterfinals.  No nights on the town with the boys.  No marathon rentals of tasteless, violent action films. 

The truth is that the boys are all pretty much married, I hate violent movies, and I was a lousy bachelor. 

I've done some interviews, seen some films, written a book review, played with the cats, and eaten worse than I have in months. 

I do feel bad about missing the World Cup games, though. 


. . 
Bob came over for martinis, Alan dropped off some records, smoked some cigarettes and drank some water, and Dave and I saw "Buffalo 66". 

"As much as you might deny it," Alan said to me, "but I'll never believe that it's only a coincidence that I'm here when Kathleen is away." 

Alan can be a bit paranoid, but he's half right.  I'd forgotten--it's been a long time, after all--how much time a relationship takes, even when everything's going okay.  For proof, you need look no further than my aimless rambling around the apartment or--most maudlin of maudlin--my pulling out K.'s photo albums from the unpacked boxes in the studio.  And I'll have to be honest about twinges of guilt when I finally agree to see friends I haven't spent time with in months.  They have every reason to suspect my motives.  Most of them haven't even met K. yet. 

I want this to work, but after all these years, I've really lost any certainty that I'll know--just intuit, after all--that I'm doing anything right. 

Finally found a copy of Brill's Content today--I was worried that it wouldn't make it up to Canada.  Even better was finding an article about Stephen Glass, my obsession-of-the-moment. 

Such little things can make me happy. 

index   *   mail