2002-03-12 - 4:11 p.m.

I cannot recount myself. I feel like I have no story. What of me, bereft of myself and this body, could be said to exist? I reach for a thought. I think of engravings. Engravings upon a wall. Engravings that would be for naught if the wall were to be destroyed; but engravings that were the fruit of an artist's hand.

I have no skills. Nothing of myself is transferable. I am neither wall nor engraving. Nor the soloist. I feel as if I am walking out of step with this earth.

I don't complain. I vouchsafe myself at present the 'likely exile'. An emigre. Disorientation is merely an aspect of expentancy.

I've been to see Iris with a Patricia. Not a third, one of the previous two. I do not know that I like seeing movies in companionship. Solitude is the father of inveterate boredom, and a creased brow accompanies multiples. We are together and I am bereaved, but then she is only a friend. It occurs that I leave you without words of the film. These weeks I've been away; a film, a play (Amadeus), drinks and my omniscient yearning. It knows me and just where to touch. She brings out the knives and I offer the flesh obsequiously. Who am I to object? I am a writer fit to be written upon, or scratched at.

My tormentra knows that I dislike buxom and blonde. I'll have none of the Beer Hall putsch. No imperious dreams. I am the smiling and scarred courtier of your ancien regimes. I can't remove the mask publicly, and yet I would lie down with her for hours to speak. She is my tormentress, my tormen-trix, this dream. A dream without object lessons. A dream without borders or limits or definitive countours that would pose as such.

'Bring me your tired, your hungry'....

They are brought to me for an evening, only to depart. A coda not of belligerence or angry words exchanged, but gentlemanly misguidedness.

A lady of mine own, to speak of. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.

troilus

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