November 29th, 1979
The deprived personality begins to seek illusory satisfaction. Deliberately, I am nearly 15 minutes late for the subway today. Knowing he would be there; knowing that after our boldness at rubbing legs yesterday, at my boldness of turning twice to bid him adieu across a crowded subway platform– today our speaking to one another was inevitable. And then? Does he sound stupid to me when he speaks? Does his face appear entirely different to me? Do I just hate him? Pop goes the bubble of enchantment surrounding me these past few days. Thud, everything hits the ground. Another mismatch.
Another failure. I counted this year’s list of tricks today– over thirty men, thirty tricks, many that led to minor or more, relationships. No, I am tired. I am tired of butting my head against a wall; trying to love or be loved. It never works and I am sick of trying.
So I sit home tonight in my bathrobe listening to Maria Stuarda, drinking beer and smoking dope and digesting a veal parmesan TV dinner.
And washing clothes: planning what to wear tomorrow morning. Perhaps I shall decide to see him.
You see, I am afraid of myself. I keep battering myself over and over again in relationship that leave me in the absurd position of the victimized woman. And it’s happened to me so repeatedly that I must now presume it to be a self-provoked event.
The romantic mentality will tell you that dreams really can come true. Ecstasy really is possible. So the romantic waits for that day, that chilling frightening moment when one’s eyes meet another’s across a crowded room. Music begins and a soft focus transcends the moment; that moment, that glance becomes suspended in time and space. The movie begins; and continues for the duration of life– it sustains you and nourishes you and carries you blissfully through your life.
But no, old Laredo’s had a smear this year ranging from deluded Jews to pretentious decorators; alcoholics, deaf men and stinking Germans. You’ve been besieged with walking pneumonia, surgery for warts, a twisted ankle, conjunctivitis, and you’ve watched a pigeon spurt blood from its mouth and die. Your car was wrecked. Your door was beaten in. You were beaten up.
And, after a couple of years, more really, of this crap, don’t you quite honestly begin to wonder if dreams really do come true? It is best to keep your imagination protected from reality. Keep it there, inside. Don’t try to drag it out in a subway station. In fact, don’t drag it out. Leave it there for your writing and masturbation– but don’t destroy it by subjecting it to the atmosphere of reality.
Delusion is an intellectual misperception.
Illusion is an emotional, sensory misconception.
The problem is how aware I am of what I want. I am imbued with elaborate ideas of what would make me happy. The perfect mate for me hangs on the edge of my consciousness, always. The details are well-formed. Intricate. Like chairs, I drag these dreams through my days– and smash my head against my own wall.