Simply, without rancor, I ask Allan to leave.

Actually, it’s been on his mind to do just that. He doesn’t really want to keep this apartment and is considering finding a share in a loft in Soho.

All that rage recedes like a tidal wave into the background. The completion of the gestalt.

Overload at work. Here we go again. Coming home from the office a wreck. I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job.

□ Oh, shut up bitch. You love your job, Miss Thing. Flipping around your grand office being Madame Boss.

□ □ It’s true, but I can’t control this despair, this fatigue.

□ You just watch me bitch. Shall I faint and pull at my hair and be taken to a sanitorium in the country?

Top dog rears up on high heels and decides to run the show.

I’m watching this carefully. Trying to know these feelings that create this behavior. The essence of compulsion for me— in all its forms— is craving— need—

DESIRE

Driven by desire in a thousand different masks.

I remember from studying Buddhism: desire is the cause of suffering.

Last week I had a very moving and beautiful experience in therapy. David induced a mildly hypnotic state in which I encountered and claimed myself as a child. I have never felt self-love in such a direct, absolute way. I found this little boy on a lonely Missouri country road at dusk. A beautiful, bright, sweet little boy. I took him away from those monsters— those idiots— those maniacs who had left him out on the road. He is mine. He belongs to me. And I have brought him back to New York— where I will be his daddy— where I will love and care for him and give him the best home and all the love in the world.

The moment that I picked that little boy up I found the center of my being.

It’s all changed now.

The way I am is different now.

Watching the Jerry Lewis telethon— big finale by Wayne Newton, Las Vegas Superstar— grand hype hoopla. I adore cheap sentiment— gaudy displays of emotion and drama. Show girls and feathers and boas and beads.

A part of me is humiliated at accepting this odd relationship. But, the first time I visited him this spring there was a formality to our being together; the next time we kissed goodbye. Tonight he was physically affectionate. It may take me years but I will get him in bed again— I will make him love me.

Of course, all this is horseshit, and I know it. Walking to the train after leaving him, I actually ached with the pain of unrequited love. Like a burst of illumination, I realized that this is exactly the plot of Gone With the Wind— Scarlett O’Hara and her obsessive passion for Ashley Wilkes— for what she could not have. And Morey the perfect Melanie. I was delighted at identifying with such a rich drama.

And I realized how much I enjoy this— suddenly aching didn’t seem so much like pain. I love my little melodramas thank you— and I have full and complete permission to have them.

And I love Phil and I love Joe and I love my Bohemian life in Greenwich Village and my Fashion Avenue advertising career and the acting classes I am about to take and my fabulous new apartment I am about to get and my trip to Italy next Spring and that—

I have permission for the first time in my life to have it all. I can have my way.

I go to bed now with my marvelous dog and my romantic little heart beating quickly.

I am proud of my father. He is strong and powerful. He is my daddy— he will protect me.

“It’s like peeling an onion— peeling away the layers”

I choose to be a fat sissy.

I choose to be financially insecure.

I choose to be in a living situation that denies me the sense of it being my home.

I choose not to have a career that I regard as useful and satisfying.

I choose to be lonely.

I choose to be ashamed of my body.

I choose not to be happy.

I am the way I am because at some point I determined that it was in my best interests to be that way. I chose ways of being because of the specific payoff I perceived in relationship to being that way.

There is a specific reward to my pain. I get something I need by my suffering.

What do I get by remaining a pathetic, insecure, unloved and hopeless lonely fat man who loathes his body, his life, his job, his apartment and who never seems to find what he is looking for in life— love and a home and a great career, money, good looks—

What pleasure does this pain bring.

Who would get off the hook if I were to be happy and get everything I want out of my life?

Is this a way of punishing my parents? Am I unable to forgive my father and mother?

By giving myself these things, I would be denying myself the chance of getting what I think I really need— which is their love— and proof of their love by them making me happy and providing me with a home and security and love.

And so I sabotage all attempts at happiness— the money I could have joined a gym with got piddled away on a dull vacation in Providence. I am unable to relate sexually to Joe.

This is all verbiage. I still can’t feel what it is that I get from not being happy. If I could connect with that I think all these pieces would fall into place.

That’s how I think this puzzle should get solved. But that doesn’t solve the problem.

It occurs to me that what I’ve done tonight is a mini-fourth step— made a fearless and searching moral inventory. I think I’m going to work the step on this situation— Larry the victim.

□ God! I’m so sick of how you annihilate the people who come into your life. Joe is everything you say you’ve always wanted— that good ole boy— basic, unsophisticated— unpretentious. You treat him like a boob and—

□ □ Oh shut up! I treat him like a boob because he is a boob— and if you think for one minute, darling, that I’m going to saddle myself into a relationship with some goofus dishwasher YOU ARE CRAZY! I haven’t dragged us through the past decade, cross country from Springfield, Missouri to Greenwich Village to commit my life and my heart to some sad sack loser of a dishwasher!

<Silence>

Well, Miss Thing, you’re certainly having your way tonight, aren’t you?

This is the part of me that demands, relentlessly insits of romance and passion and glamour and excitement. This is the part of me that WILL NOT allow me to settle for less than my deepest fantasies.

This is the part of me that keeps me from having relationships. Nobody will ever really meet all these MGM movie epic requirements.

Look, this also does not erase the fact that Joe is a wonderful man! God what a pleasure to be with someone whose good humor and joy is so uncomplicated and genuine. And his true love for animals and his warmth and sincerity are rare and marvelous qualities.

I don’t see why you both can’t have your way.

You, Miss Polyana, can feel free to see Joe as often as you like— and to enjoy and celebrate all those qualities which you find so endearing— homemade dinners and television and kissing dogs.

And, you Miss Thing, have carte blanche to pursue your life of Passion and Glory to your heart’s delight— become a Broadway Star! Follow swarthy dark Arabs into dark alleys—

Both of you have full and complete permission to do whatever you want.

Late night phone call from Joe. I explain that in my romantic excitement at meeting him, I had neglected to pay attention to that part of me that needs more breathing space— more blank time. And that, we need to see less of each other. He doesn’t totally understand. And his feelings are hurt— but I haven’t lost him. Or me.

I’m so proud of myself for figuring this out. For listening to my voices and expressing my needs in a loving, healthy way.

Joe and I went to a play last night— “If this isn’t love”— Then he spent the night— and today. This morning we went downtown in search of discount shoes at Syms. We went through Trinity Church and wandered among the tombstones. By midafternoon I was tired of his company and longed to be alone. My feelings for Joe are so moderate! I feel warmth and fondness for him— BUT NO PAIN. I want to feel desperately in love. There’s no desperation with Joe— just an easy simple fondness. My sexuality has been forged with pain and domination. It is difficult for me to relate sexually to Joe. To give myself whole-heartedly to him. The dark fantasy is of lurking power and passion. It’s hard to drum up sexual passion for such a nice, non-threatening man.

My meetings make it easy for me to get rid of him. All I have to do is say I need a meeting tonight. He totally understands.

So tonight I am alone— back in New York and feeling very frisky.

I am glad to be home. I am sitting in the living room listening to the late afternoon sounds of the village. Joe is on his way over and I am excited about seeing him. I missed him. My romantic feelings for him rise and subside, but remain. It has been two months.

My August vacations feel like the transition from one year to another for me. I mark the seasons of my life by Autumn. I stare at my calendar and figure that if I really set my mind to saving money, that I can have $2,000 saved by the end of the year, counting, of course, on a $1,000 bonus.

Providence has the same unnerving effect upon me as Beach Haven. Being surrounded by a world of stability— houses and yards and families— seems to magnify my own sense of rootlessness and insecurity. Stability: financial, emotional, seems like such an impossibility to me. I realize with a certain horror that in my entire life I have never lived in the same place for two consecutive autumns.

Simply, there are days when I wake up and do not want to be alive. When the helplessness and aimlessness of life is overwhelming. I would like to put a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger. Or a bottle of gin would do quite nicely.

I am listening to a symphony of crickets, cross-legged on a mattress on the floor of Wendy’s temporary living room in Providence, Rhode Island. It’s a lovely little city. Their apartment sits high above the buildings in town and provides a grand view. Cinerama twilight. John is at sea, sailing until mid-week. This is their temporary place for two more weeks when their apartment building next door is available. I drove here today with Phoebe’s brother, Robert. A week’s vacation. A week away from the chaos of my job. Rest.

I have hidden no feelings. I have owned all my voices in dealing with Joe. I’ve allowed all my varied and contradictory feelings to be valid.

Joe is a good man. He is a gift, a blessing.

Major changes have been going on full blast at work. We’ve moved the production department to the 4th floor all under my direction and supervision. I have a grand new office— a huge office with a view of 7th Avenue, carpeting and a sofa. This is all a big change— from cute lovable Larry who manipulates all the people around him by being so sweet— to Larry the Boss— the man in charge— the man who gives orders— the man to be pleased.

My stomach rolls in turmoil as I write this. Standing up to the tyranny of Leslie— Being Powerful.

Larry— you are a good daddy. You are a perfect parent. You must not be afraid to use your power. You must not be afraid of being powerful.

You are a good daddy.

You are powerful.

You are a good daddy.

Turn it over to god and let his power flow through you.

Turn it over.

Turn it over.

TRUST

TRUST

TRUST

Now, do not sit here and chew your fingernails over tomorrow’s script. You are not the director.

At the meeting tonight at Washington Square, a man spoke about how all the elements of his life were wonderful and yet he felt possessed by a sense of incompleteness— a void— Others responded and identified with that feeling, and everyone had a similar comment. Basically— you just go through it. You just keep on keeping on. Life is not an MGM movie— with tight dramatic scenes that fade into each other— and a plot that thickens and reaches climaxes with romantic music swelling in the background.

I am not going to wake up tomorrow and be Elizabeth Taylor. Tomorrow morning I will be Larry Waite. A thirty-one-year-old alcoholic who shares a small apartment in Greenwich Village with an old friend and who works in a very hectic ad agency in midtown. I will weigh 164 pounds and have gray hair. I will pretend to be Elizabeth Taylor.

I went to great effort to get in touch with Joe— hoping perhaps we could arrange to meet. I left word with his mother that I would call at 7:30. When I phoned after leaving the park and walking blocks to an available phone, his mother said that he had already left and to tell me that he would be wearing a purple shirt.

Really.

250,000 people and he thinks I will find him.

Poor, stupid little man.

Obviously, he’s not been to any of the cultural activities in Central Park— like me and all my cultured, educated, intellectual friends.

□ Asshole— stop beating yourself up. You think it was a stupid thing that he did. And it was. And it does offer a pretty good clue that he’s never been to an event at Central Park.

□ □ Oh shut up and go to sleep.

◨ Oh please, I’m doing this for your sake as well as mine. Someone needs to monitor the seizure of your girlish heart. How embarrassing you are. Flip back through these pages. Every other entry is another breathless account of how you’ve finally met HIM— the man bearing all your gifts, the one it has been worth a lifetime of waiting for. All these Mr. Rights have been a motley parade of strange characters who you’ve had no business being with— and with each, you’ve barely been able to silence the power of the words “I love you”

□ You’re never going to let me have a lover, are you?

◨ Not until you start coming up with something a little better than 36-year-old high school drop-outs who still live at home and who wash pots and pans in a hospital for a living.

□ It’s clear to me that you’re never going to approve of any of my boyfriends. They will never be quite good enough for you. Why don’t you go find a man?

◨ I probably would have by now if I hadn’t been burdened with the obstacles you’ve presented through the years. I couldn’t get you away from sucking on a six-pack for years. Now you’re chain-smoking, coffee-gulping flab— The men I’d like to date are not at all interested in you. And you’re living in this run-down teeny apartment with an asshole roommate— and there is no let-up in sight. You prevent me from dating the kind of successful intelligent men that could make us happy.

□ Sure, like your Westchester date, maybe? Rich, successful, exciting— gorgeous home… I hated him. He was a pretentious faggot. When I was with him I just wanted to put a needle in my arm. I want a man— a real man. Not some manicured French Poodle in Gucci sandals.

◨ Look, I know what you’re saying. Basically, we want the same thing, OK? All I’m saying is that Joe ain’t it, kid. How can you even consider someone who’s 36 and makes $10,000 a year as a hospital kitchen worker? He’s vacant inside. There’s nothing bright or quick or exciting about him.

□ Sounds like the indictment against my father. The truck driver. The rough, crude truck driver who killed himself making a living for his wife and faggot son who were embarrassed by his cowshit-smelling boots. They were busy with their scrubbed affluent versions of themselves— PTA meetings, subscriptions to the symphony, movies— and he was nothing but a wild man who would never fit into their life.

So this is really yet another re-run of a program taped in the fifties, Your Little Boy/Victimized Woman need to be loved by your father— the rough, brutal man— and my need for intelligence.

Feel it: I need to be loved by my father. I hate the son of a bitch.

OK kids, let’s connect the dots:

Ha Ha, you both lose. Now, let’s do a third step and get on with the business of the day. Lordy, I’ve got work to do.

HAH! Two weeks with Joe and the destruction has begun. He spent the night last night— sweltering muggy heat. I do not want to be bothered sexually. he paws at me all evening. In the night, I am awakened from a sound sleep to his head between my legs— he will not stop. I am rude and threaten to sleep on the couch. His feelings are hurt. This morning he is quiet— moody. I called him tonight and it was the same— I ask him what’s wrong. He denies anything being wrong at all. I have no patience for this.

This is never going to work out.

Trusting God means living in the now. This moment. Moving beyond this moment means speculation and imagination— which entails plotting, maneuvering, scheming— which is my will— not God’s. Accepting God’s will means accepting this moment and not going beyond it.

I cannot entertain contemplation of destiny— except as it is revealed to me now. I cannot run fast-forward fantasy tapes of my future with Joe. What I have is the reality of today with Joe. And the still-fresh scent of our bodies together this morning. And his holding me and both of our voices barely silencing the power of the words: I love you.

Anne and Debbie will be here shortly and Joe is coming over. Treating my surrender with tenderness.