2001-12-01 - 10:11 p.m.

A la recherche du temps perdu

In search of lost time

Rememberance of things past

Alla ricerca del tempo perduto

Albion, indeed! It is a preternaturally cold Maltese night, and I suspect that these miles have acquired one too many bespectacled Canadians. Or so I must believe! A rim sits, troppo pesante, on a bridge somewhere - flibby nose dropping lazily, with gravity no longer a malcontent. And the weather changes.

Would that I were merely taking a mid-evening respite. I have ushered myself into an internet cafe, mere minutes from a movie theatre. I was not looking forward to tonight. I am nervous. I've never been into a bar before, and tonight I must go. There is no room for fear. I must meet her.

Two weeks ago I behaved quite foolishly. I dug up the name of an old classmate and before you or I knew I'd found her e-mail address. I do not know why. I had not found her particularly intelligent or attractive. Doubtless she felt the same. We had not spoken five words. But she beckoned me towards her; silently, from within (without!) the movement of her hands I had extracted a message.

"Everyman, I will go with thee and be thy guide, in thy most need be by thy side."

It is not a matter of pleasure. I wrote to her, once, and we began to speak. Short letters. She is now a speech therapist by day and barmaid by night. And I who am loath to simplify cannot counteract this base treachery. I do not know her. I'll never begin.

But I am to see her tonight. She is working. As if I had been inserted into a Kunderian scenario, I go hoping for erotic entanglement.

I'm going to see 'Tigerland' prior to the meeting. I need to kill time. I need to dull my senses in Joel Schumacher's Wagnerian compromise. It stinks, but there are no other options. I could stay here writing, but what am I trying to prove?

I write because I want to prove to myself that the weakest voice can be heard.

troilus

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