March 12th, 1979

A rarity– a night at the house by myself. Much has been happening and it’s been some time since I’ve assumed this position with my beer and cigarettes hammering away my life’s story.

I have been dating Bob B. for three weeks. The B-movie drama that characterizes most of my romantic pursuits makes me hesitant to record how it has been with Bob. Bob is open and honest and sweet and bright and funny and seems to be hopelessly in love with me. I have been wined and dined and treated like a king. He has given me long stemmed red roses and his heart on a platter. As much as I hate to admit it, I realize that I have finally developed defenses. I’ve been through this bullshit of falling in love too many times. Now I bow to the judgement of time– and know that only time will tell if this is any different.

Long telephone call just now to Allan (my truest love, my dearest friend). Nothing settled– his life carries many of the same themes. Not being able to bring together the contradictory personality parts. Sexually needing neither sweaty Latinos or greasy cowboys. Knowing that anybody I needed sexually could never be anyone I could relate to emotionally or intellectually. God, how did this happen to me? How did I wind up with sexual needs so opposite to all the other needs in my life…

Long telephone call just now to Nancy in Canada (following a weird phone call I had at work the other day). Marriage trauma– her husband walked in one day and told her he was bored with the relationship (marriage) and needed his freedom again.

Ain’t it the same old story.

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At this very moment my Grandmother is lying in an oxygen tent in the intensive care unit of Cox Memorial Hospital in Springfield: the very room where my father died. She had what has been diagnosed as a “mild” heart attack Sunday. I am told that her presence in the Intensive Care unit is a normal precaution– to insure maximum protection in case of another heart attack.