Inspired Pleasure

Diary of a Dancer

20 Aug 76 – 11 AM
Inside I start my psycho-thrillerThe Mass at St Secaire for the thousandth

time with one good idea: Manage transitions by IGNORING them.

Just start abruptly somewhere else and worry about it later! Outside

R sits in a lawn chair playing the guitar. When he falls silent he’s writing

down notes. He says I have a good effect on him, getting him writing again.

In the meantime, I made a list of literary essays I want to

write and to my surprise there were more than 20. When I get back I

will make a folder for each one and start collecting notes and ideas,

beginning when I feel I have enough. How to finish a book of poems,

finish and send out a novel, write 20 literary essays while working a

45 hr week? My heart quavers. I’m afraid I won’t be able to get a job

that isn’t straight typing – then I have to type when I come home.

Balzac could have done it. Trollope could have done it – I don’t

think I can do it. But I certainly don’t want to lose R – he is a rare

being. I need a deus ex machina of some kind. Maybe my gothic

will sell.

So glad this is our last day. Couldn’t say that to R –

he would think I hadn’t enjoyed myself. Last night he stretched

me out naked on his lap and played me like a guitar – most

delicious thing. Waves of ecstasy bulging, rolling and crashing

inside me. He says I’m so fun to please. Talks about how he

would like to adopt deaf children. This means I would have to

learn sign. Sounds good but I feel lazy and stubborn. Feel like

a fledgling – flight pattern undetermined.

R. wrote a song called Blue Lake Blues.  Bad. I wrote a

poem called Diaries. Don’t know what I think of it.


I don’t remember anything –
I’m an amnesiac so
I write everything down
Stuffed in my closet
Beneath discarded ball gowns
utterly useless but
too beautiful to throw away.
Recollect & treasure
Acts of writing
An up and over downtime scrawl;
Recall a surgeon
Cutting flesh
Tugging, swearing, splitting ,sweating
peeling waste & want.
Fierce liftoff –
Airborne I’m granted
Hawk’s-eye vision
Backwards , forwards
Past & future.
Too much dig is spoilage-
Freedom mined

  Club Shalimar, Mon 23 Aug 76

Should be glad to be back but I’m so depressed.

Everything so mixed up. Promised R I’d get another job so

now I have to look for one, which won’t be pleasant. God

knows what I’ll have to say I was doing.  Once when I was

married I tried to get a loan and of course they wouldn’t give me

one without “collateral” – something of which I’d never heard.

Dad told me to tell them I had a basement filled with gold bullion.

I guess I could just tell employers the bullion ran out.

Then I walk up to the club and whose car should be

there – but R’s. He had told me he wouldn’t come in as long as

I was working there. He said he just needed to talk to Rick because

Rick is helping him feel better.

I think what will happen is that I won’t work there any

more but R will drop in when he feels like it. I want to “ban” him

but I even more don’t want to be having these conversations.

He says I just do it for the money and because it’s easy and of

course that’s perfectly true. If I got $500 a week from writing I

probably wouldn’t dance. 

The fact that something feels natural and pleasurable

and doesn’t leave you feeling depleted at the end of each day

isn’t a point against it to my way of thinking.  He’s just an old

fashioned sexist pig. On the other hand he is a special person

and I definitely don’t want to dance forever.

Sometimes I think the whole problem is that he’s

getting a divorce and he’s so unready for a relationship he’s

giving me hoops to jump through.  But even if we got married

I’d have to be at financially independent – he’s just too different

from me for me to trust that he will agree with me about what’s

right for me. My theory is it doesn’t hurt to look for a job. Maybe

I’ll find something special or interesting.

11:20 PM – A called – R staggered in dead drunk,

said “Call Alysse and tell her I’m here  and set the alarm for 5:30”

and then passed out on the sofa.  I told them to hide his car keys

in case he wakes up and tries to go someplace. I’m glad he’s safe,

on the other hand I’m annoyed that he’s been touring the bars.

He plainly didn’t go to his apartment, drink and  then go to my

house. My guess is total strangers up and down Wisconsin

Avenue have been hearing his heartrending saga of the misery of

dating an exotic dancer.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: