Broadcast Agency Thurs May 19, 77
Only $134 in my saving acct and $7 in checking, curse that clutch. Crisis brewing with R. He is jealous and suspicious that I am out so much in the evening. He’s the one who wants to be non-exclusive so let him sweat. I have too many negative emotions about him – that he’s a coward, for example. Which would make him angrier – if I was dancing or screwing some other guy? (Which I have no desire to do and he should know me by now.) I think he sees my privacy and aloneness as infidelity. While he’s doubtless experimenting with “goofy chicks” who’ve “never been touched”; I’m only “unfaithful” with Shelley & Brontë. But that’s STILL too much for him.) After all this time if he still doesn’t realize I’m the best, the hell with him. Worry about the dangers of scars. They can seem to heal, but sometimes they re-shape the life beneath. All I know, is, contempt is the ultimate relationship killer. To love is to be happy with! Boy scout methods won’t work with me, the sabre-toothed tiger. Our relationship may already be fatally spoiled by resentment and revenge. Last night audience bored and hostile, but who cares? Bouncers won’t let them show it! We are goddesses to be revered and if they won’t worship at the shrine they’re out. Compared to the Shalimar, Palace is sheer joy. We are never hassled. God forbid if they try to touch us! They are bounced on their heads in the parking lot. If I have plain grits when I wake up at 9:30 or 10 (also coffee and orange juice) I can last till 4. Hunger peaks at 5. Salad, then rush to work – when I get there I’m not hungry anymore. Would like to cut the burger habit. Need to sew my G-strings but Merribeth can see me through the glass and she won’t leave. Reading Robt Fish as an antidote for poor Charlotte Brontë’s pain. 1:00 AM Plush Palace – 20 May 77 Four dancers tonight. Less work, more intellect. (!) Fred, the cook, insists I try his potato pancakes and they are DAMN good. Can’t say no. Long wailing phone call from Maeve this afternoon. Why is it we can see other’s relationships so clearly? “Dump him”, I always say. Am I telling myself something? R & I make date tomorrow night. Now wearing black velvet, smoky eyeshadow, black stockings and glitter I look in the mirror and am astonished by my own beauty. Take that, Ryder, you poor bastard. Eight mins and I’m up – One more dance and home. Front table of impressionable navy cadets eminently shockable. 11:30 AM – Sun 22 May 77 It’s all over, baby blue. Getting up my strength for our date tonight by sunbathing in back yard – literally cooking in coconut oil. R. complained on Fri he called me “all night long” and I wasn’t home. Aww. Could have told him I was writing but lying just postpones the inevitable (because next time he’ll come over.) So told him I would explain on our date. A poem came suddenly :THE CENSOR’S CENSOR. Exhaustion from the violent motions of the pendulum. I made dinner, but he refused to eat. He said, “I think I know what you’re going to tell me. “ I said, “I bet you don’t.” “It’s another man.” “No. I’m dancing again. I’m living here alone. I need the money.” (I should have said “it nourishes me UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE” but I’m a coward too.) He said very dismissively, ”Well, if that’s all you think you can do.” He who read my novel! Bastard! He said, “Well, the ball’s in my court.” So I guess, that means “Game on!” (Was it ever off?) And he left! Put his dinner carefully away in the freezer (I’m not made of money) and took the dogs on an hour’s walk. Now I lie here again in Paradise - baking, basting, trying to recall every detail of the last time we had sex. Because that’s all I’ll ever get from him. 11:30 PM Session this aft with Chloe at Pacifica and a young PBS guy named John about writing a radio play for kids. I threw out some ideas. Then out for dinner with Chloe who complained that her husband has a mental illness given to him by the Army – he only wants to fuck never kiss. He fantasizes about “swinging” with another couple. I stolidly drink red wine and eat bad cake pizza. She says he’s always on the verge of suicide, but she would never leave him. Play around, OK, but never leave. And I think that I have problems. I reject “victim” AND “slut”. The poet alone in her lofty palace. Feels like an abscess has been lanced. Heard about a great apt in Takoma Pk that’s OK for dogs. Broadcast Agency – 4:20 PM – Mon 23 May 77 Present tenant says do not mention dogs so I am out of love with Perfect Apt. Would rather have a house. A lot of calls today. I seem to be getting fat – but I look so good – much too good for 128. How I hate to starve but it’s the only way. Need to be a fine-honed racing machine. Considering entering Courtney in the Saxton fellowship. Can I get a readable copy? Lack of sex keeping me awake at night. Now I know why people take drugs. Devon writes to say he’ll be in Maine on the island but not at Genevieve’s wedding for “financial reasons”. I plan to do my best to seduce him. Reading Mitford’s Wigs on the Green – not as funny as it is sad. Pastiche, really – Wodehouse is better. But I feel that way about E Waugh’s humor too – that it is basically tragic - “this is all we can expect”. R. called this AM as I was rushing to get ready – I said I was surprised to hear from him, he said he “knew I was upset”. We could have had a little argument about who’s more upset but I said what have you been up to? Horseback riding out in Sperryville. (Doubtless not alone. What would be the point of that? He is such a pain.) Asked me when I was moving, when going to wedding. He couldn’t be hinting for an invite – if I show up with him my family will have me institutionalized for sure. They never could figure out what I was doing with this hysterical little man. We’ve said our fond goodbyes. If the ball is in his court, it died there. Need to buy a dress for wedding. Macy’s? My mother criticizes me for: 1) Making money 2) Caring about making money 3) Needing money AND 4) Buying inexpensive clothes. AND fake jewelry. A lady never – etc. You figure it out. Finished Farber’s essays – very bad book. He seems to regard the female orgasm as some kind of personal insult – “Now I’ve got this to contend with!” We’re not doing it to annoy you. Hopelessness on the subject of sex a grave inadequacy in a philosopher I would say. Merribeth sent me to the bank today - I was thrilled to get outside – when I came back Keith called down to say he was having lunch at the Hyatt Regency and had seen me walking and wanted to say hi! Nothing to say after that. I thought of inviting him to the Palace but what would be the point? Everyone would think he’s my boyfriend and it’s a tips killer.
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Alysse Aallyn
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