Detroit, 11:05 PM, Thursday 29 Dec 77
At the adorably, impossibly 20’s Tudoresque manse my sister Merrill is restoring – it’s lovely here. Merrill and her husband say dancing is “sex work” and “sex work” is “OK” if its “regulated so “sex workers aren’t exploited.” I get annoyed that nobody can tell the difference between dancing and prostitution! Lots of things cause “erotic titillation” – breathing for example. Still, I find I’m inclining toward taking a two-month break in March and going to the island to write. Is this family management? But one of the reasons I like dancing is because you can “pick it up and put it down.” Well, we’ll see. Thurs night 29 Dec 77 9:30 PM I find as I distance from R I remember some good things and that makes me happy. He was so unique. It was fun knowing him, watching him perform impromptu magic for street children and restaurant patrons. More extraordinary really than poor old Jervaze who in spite of his glamorous looks drinks way too much and hates his job. Also R knew me as a “not dancer” which J doesn’t – maybe that persona obscures who I really am. I remember the excitement of watching Ryder make his television show – unexpectedly sweaty physical labor in choosing camera angles and shots, timing, music, close-ups – building the tape as the excitement was happening – more in common with sports than some couch potato activity like editing. Greektown for dinner after the Renaissance Center, so the night ended in a wild bouzouki. Day occupied with antiquing – especially fun since I am reading Rumer Godden’s China Court, which is basically a love song to things. It made me worry that there are not enough details in Demon – what should I add? Perhaps buy a Vogue to see. Dreamed about Devon last night. Wonder what he’s up to. Maybe I’m being psychic again. Getting some peace of mind about him as well. Merrill’s daughter comes to read over my shoulder, then when I move to hide the diary says, “Don’t worry, I can’t read cursive. “ Plush Palace – Tuesday, January 3, 1978 – 9:25 PM Back at work. Can’t concentrate on The murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey, which is the book I brought because I keep thinking Jervaze will drop by. Dead silence from him – no call on Christmas. I sent him one card but of course I only got back yesterday. I can’t bear to take all of the initiative. Oddly (especially after my dream about him) had a card waiting from Devon. Maybe I am psychic. Evidently he regrets that loveletter – encouraged me to “hang loose”. Quotes from Sister Goldenhair. In other words, don’t try to get him to plan to meet skiing, that’s just way more planning than he can handle. Kind of a pathetic specimen. Plush Palace – 10:05 pm Thurs 5 Jan 1978 Jervaze came in Tues after my 10:00 set – with lots of little presents for me, perfume, bears, cards, pins – in a Christmas stocking. He wore a gold-banded black cowboy hat covered with snow and a shiny black down parks, his platinum hair swinging around his face – it was like a visit from an angel. Or possibly a Chippendale dancer. He is too pretty; mine eyes dazzle. He stayed till I got off at 1 then walked me to my car – one kiss – asked me out very formally for Saturday night. I gave him directions to my place and he wrote them in a book – tipped his hat, climbed into his Shelby and vanished, leaving me wondering, is he gay? Is he even real? I continue to struggle reading The Young Romantics – artists in 1840’s Paris. Avril and I found a perfect black sequin tube top while we were out walking yesterday – I’m going to wear it with my black silk trouser suit. She thinks she found herself the perfect apartment too – a studio in a skyscraper with a great kitchen, huge closets, only $216 month utilities included, says she is going to look for another week before she decides. M & D don’t want her living with me because I am a “harmful influence.” We saw Armon in a bit part on TV last night – there weren’t any credits, but I knew it was him. Listening out of one ear to gossip – Gina says the bartender at the Starlight is bisexual and that Tony the bagman is her male lover. She is big, he is little, I can’t imagine them together. He is called the “bagman” because he runs between the clubs in a Lincoln filled with bags of money. Gina also says that she is a priest in a mail order religion and that her breasts are real and her ex husband raped her nine-year-old daughter. I can tell for a fact those breasts are fake so it does make it hard to believe anything she says. Last night went out with Erika to see the new Bunuel (in spite of her claims to revere him she failed to notice he used different actors for the same part) and to eat at Chateau Gesundheit. Depressing conversation about how terrible men are – says her ex-husband is a cross between a psychopath and a momma’s boy – she naturally assumed because of R that this would be my favorite subject. She also says all exotic dancers and showgirls were molested as children and as a result are lesbians who hate men. Asking or inviting? All I can say is that all little girls have unpleasant memories of Adult Men but this is just a chip on her breeze. A breeze I think I better stay out of in future, perhaps. I also get tired of hearing the Marxist slant on Life. Love doesn’t exist, people do everything for “self-interest”, etc. etc. If that is true they are doing a piss-poor job of it. I think people live for fantasy and some people’s fantasies are very, very cheap. Hoping drinks with Maeve will be more fun.
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Alysse Aallyn
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