Tues. 13 Apr 76
Same thing happened to Life as happened to Academe. The “story” simply disappears. She “presents” characters then cops out. Every chapter would make a good first chapter for some other novel. D. and I drove to the beach in Plymouth and lay in the sand. Now I lie naked in a field beside a cranberry bog across the road from 80 Main St – well sheltered by trees. The sun is hot and redeeming. Rebirth seems possible. Turning failure into success always a possibility. 4:30 PM Finding two ticks on myself I had to search my body more carefully than any lover. Wouldn’t do to have the Hope of American Literature felled by Rocky Spotty Fever. Now on the stoop, I dry my hair after bath and drinking coffee. Last night Devon brought back a pizza and triple sec. I was excited as a kid – haven’t had pizza in 6 months. We discussed his desire to enter seminary. I said I could definitely see it but shouldn’t he explore more religions? Unitarianism for example. Said his Mom would never accept that. Maybe counseling? Girls would flock. But he seems to have made up his mind. Relieved that I accepted it. (Angela wouldn’t.) I said his life is up to him. We have to go where we have to go – it’s hard explaining it even to ourselves. Then the sex. Simply glorious. I was going to give it another night before going for his penis, but he was all over me so I “went for” it. I was a little bothered by all the clothes. I still refuse to come with him – I explained we’re doing “process” so forget about “product”. He was intrigued. Says he “admires” my “discipline.” The difference in our sexualities I guess. 9:00 pm – Sitting on the sofa slightly bombed. Colin made a roast and I made salad; we talked and when I mentioned Devon’s “gentleness” – Colin said he’s the “angriest tennis player” he’s ever seen. I guess he saves his rage for sports! Strawberries for dessert. Colin produces a magnum of champagne. 8:20 AM – Fri 16 Apr 76 Sitting in McDonalds’ waiting for my train. Eating small fries and knocking back an orange drink - probably shouldn’t because my stomach’s in a state of collapse but what the hell. Devon and I had a Farewell steak and wine dinner and saw Wertmuller’s Seven Beauties. Followed by the best sex ever – he played with my asshole and vagina at the same time until I was delirious. Came all over the place (to his great satisfaction.) This had its usual result – my feeling that we exchanged souls. I’m in love and it was murder saying goodbye. What a mess I am. My nightgown came off entirely – his penis seemed to want to be sucked – goodness knows I wanted to suck it – I asked Is this OK and he moaned – Yes, I’m weak! Afterwards I said, I can imagine us making love and he said, we just can’t – I couldn’t apply to seminary. It would plunge me into the abyss. I agreed we don’t want that! He introduced me around the bus stop as his “woman”. It is always one step forward two steps back with this guy. When we said goodbye I’m afraid my eyes filled with tears, poor guy. I can’t even remember whether I gave him my Washington address. And now I want to cry on someone’s chest for about three days but whose? Dad’s new buddy/friend/entrepreneur Marc Kramer who lives in Boston and told me to Call Him Anytime does NOT seem like a good candidate. He’s all business. I wonder how my sister Genevieve can stand New York after Boston. Boston is such a cool place. Men shout out of cars at me, “You’re beautiful!” And I love it! Maybe this is what happens when you dress like a bird of paradise. Think I saw Sylvia Plath sitting on a park bench in the Common. Thinking about suicide, no doubt. I’m thinking about sex. This coffee is terrible. 2 PM – Train to Philly – a zombified redhead in suede coat, oversized purse & glasses. Lacking mirrors, we lose our faces. Got to get my emotional house in order but I can’t think how. I used to have a roadmap and none of this was on it. What am I? An idiot? No. Just an addict of spiritually orgasmic sex. Still, all is grist for the art mill. My gothic hero is hopeless too (he’s 63.) Reading the Fortunate Miss East, a charming, charming little novel. Aunt Fred picking me up – I’m scheduled to read my poetry at Baldwin School.
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Alysse Aallyn
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