Alysse Aallyn

Category: Relationships

  • The Book of You – Haiku Diary by Alysse Aallyn

    #Haiku: The Lovers

    Falling upwards

    Into you

    My other wing, my second

    Clapping hand

  • Inspired Pleasure – the dance diaries of Alysse Aallyn

    Castle – 2 Aug 79 – Wed

                                         Seems hopeless to TRY writing in this book – things happen so fast – a month is an eternity. Last night celebrated our 11th“divinity loss” anniversary – and a difficult anniv. It was. T came to see me dance for the first time – with Avril so it wouldn’t be so bad but had to leave he was so upset. He didn’t like me smiling!

    Like –

    I’m ENJOYING myself! The PLACE didn’t bother him (“reverent & reserved” were his words about the audience) but my pleasure in movement, beauty & freedom was a shock! Uh oh! He goes back to my parents’ argument: IT’S TURNING MEN ON. So what? I get impatient with that – that way lurks the “hajib”. 

                                         We have to educate each other. At the end the 

    atmosphere seemed cleared and we both cried with relief. Even though I know my love is in the larval stage, I’ve never loved anyone the way I love him.  We had our last dinner at his 641 E street digs – steak and wine, fruit, cream, brandy. He asked me if there were any boyfriends’ the report of whose marriage “depressed” me (he was referring to my marriage) and I had to say no. 

                                         He opened a letter from Mindy, ex-girlfriend he was thinking of re-starting a relationship with except she went to Nepal. A letter I would have thought perfectly reasonable two months ago now strikes me as ridiculous – an ounce of love is worth more than all these pages of barter. 

                                         I got a wonderful letter from Devon – he’s found 

    “another girl” (with three more in reserve I’m betting) and wishes me the best.

     But T was upset because he closed with “I love you” a word NOT thrown around in his world! (Mindy and Cindy don’t say it!)  He says it’s the only part of the letter he believes – “the guy is a total phony.” I said Devon’s only victim is himself. We then made love on the floor on top of all those letters. 

    Gloriously. Got a poem out of it.

    The Bridesmaid

    Yes, I know everything

    You’re my poor

    Relation.

    I know of your daddy’s desk where you

    Fucked with formaldehyde fingers

    I know of your lonely

    Rosary of abortions

    I repeat, I know everything.

    We made love on your letters 

    Undisturbed

    As two icons.

    She’s imperfect

    He told me.

    Unslung by mortality

    I take my place

    With the king’s crazy mistresses;

    Brewing menstrual blood coffee

    And mandrake root tea.

    Swim away, little bridesmaid,

    You’re young

    I’m in love

    We’ve got

    Too much in common ever to meet.

                                                   Need to see dentist & gyno, overhaul bike, 

    pay bills. T. meets Ralph Nader at 6. Lucky me snagging someone so ambitious and competent.

             Party Castle Mon 6 Aug 79

                                                  God, I need Maine. I love T but I need to get away from him. I am used to being alone 4-5 hours a day. Starving for that. 

    Wonder how many otherwise perfect relationships break up for this reason! 

    T. is a little TOO driven. A little TOO single-minded. Makes me argue with him –

    – I can’t help it. For example: he talked about the “ugliness of the desert landscape.” It’s not my “thing” either – because I grew up somewhere else.

    But Georgia O’Keeffe taught me to see the beauty of it. What he REALLY meant was “I don’t like it” but he raises it to a short-sighted religious principle ;“New England is better.”                                         

                                    That’s embarrassing. I constantly feel he’s trying to “re-educate” me –

     – for example he didn’t like my turquoise silk pants because he “doesn’t like colors that don’t appear in nature.” When shown an aquarium of tropical fish he doesn’t “count” them, their colors are “cultivated” and somehow “wrong.” The truth is bright colors make him nervous. So, say THAT. 

                                         Sat night we went to an office party of his people (to which I wore the aforementioned pants) and praised the house over-

    extravagantly. (He does NOT like my yellow velvet furniture. I’m giving it to Maureen.) “One good picture” per wall, beige Danish oldern furniture – 

    -unbelievably boring and sterile. A chipped china frog would have done the place a world of good. This could warn of decorating liabilities ahead.

                                         His younger brother Dominic in town – when I 

    complimented his Mazda sports car and said I’d love to have one someday. 

    Toss said “we’ll see” as if I could never buy one for myself! These 

    flare-ups are important signs.  Must work on my self-value.

    8 Aug 79

                                         Packing for Maine came across D’s letters. Not a 

    “good” one among them. “Phoniness” is NOT his problem – that’s not the right word – he’s not even “tone deaf” which was Bruce’s disorder.

     I think it’s a “temperature” thing – he WANTS all passion sexualized 

    (not that he would ever admit it) and doesn’t trust intimacy, closeness – as if he doesn’t “believe” in it – doesn’t want to believe it exists. He fears never freeing himself from the physical so he cultivates a lonely “spirituality” but he’s mired HIMSELF in sex. So that’s pathetic. 

                                      I enjoy responsibility – so he probably felt hounded by my love. Thank God I escaped is all I can say. There’s a nightmare in there. I’m betting he was gearing up to torture me for a lifetime. 

                                         I let T read my short story about his mother. That was probably a mistake. (He plans her death!) He made some idiotic “writing class” comments – I said it wasn’t THAT far along – but there’s something appealingly mythic about this undigested mass. Worry about it in ten years!

             Shadowe Island ME – Mon 7:30 AM 12 Aug 79

                                         Toss just left on the ferry so I can relax. Wish this diary ended here – I need a New Life. But Not Yet. Rainy with a gray sea. Dogs stretched out snoring on the Greek carpet.

                                         This visit has been everything I wanted, but the first night was classic in its ghastliness. Guests showed up at cocktails and stayed through dinner – unexpectedly – this mob scene making our announcement a bit tougher. 

                                         Toss whispered, “Want to go through with it?” 

    I said, “Sure.”

                                         We opened the champagne.  The guests loved it 

    – Mom & Dad really surprised. Dad started talking about his difficult 

    father-in-law and how things would be different but flat out calling me a liar when I chimed in about how Wilbur returned his prison mail unread (he told me this story HIMSELF last Christmas!) I kept my temper – oh I must have got it wrong. (I didn’t. We’d discussed it later ad nauseam.) 

                                        Avril attacked me later for “embarrassing” Dad – but he’d been TALKING ABOUT HIS DIFFICULT FATHER IN LAW. Toss was surprised at Avril’s hostility – used to her as an ally. He said, “They obviously think you’re invulnerable.”

                                         Probably. If so they’re all idiots!  I thought A was upset about her own out-of-his-depth boyfriend, Vigo.

                                         Anyway, T rescued the evening bringing tears to Mom’s eyes by talking about how he’d always loved me. M & D apologized & congratulated us. 

                                         Sunday the four of us toured the island – trying to get along with Vigo. (Avril says he has only one testicle as if that’s all that’s wrong with him.)  At dinner watched slides of my growing up – T tremendously moved – then lobster dinner. 

    Tues 13 Aug 79 – 5 PM    

                                         T called last night on his WATS line and we talked ½ an hour. Says he used to play an “airport game” of “Looking for his future wife” but thought “I AM married!” Wow!

    Sun. 19 Aug 79

                                         T’s letter came! Glorious. I do not feel worthy. 

    Tension between A & V – he teases her too much – we all try to ignore it – 

    -tough to figure out how to call him on it without opening up hostilities. Hope she dumps him. T on phone!                                   

    Ex-island boyfriend visits. A says he acts like he wants to knock me to the floor and French kiss me to death. Seems accurate. Glad T missed him.

  • Inspired Pleasure – the dance diaries of Alysse Aallyn

    Party Castle – Mon 9 July 79 – 7:50 PM

                                         26 hours without T. Spoke to him last night and 

    again this afternoon. His acceptance of me is total, but it comes from a position of strength and I have fears of being annihilated.

    Last nightI experienced hallucinatory states – drove home the wrong way – felt something was happening to the car – re-experienced my swallowing problem. Resolved my panic by starting a poem.

                                         Sat night Toss and I read the diary passages where we lost our “divinity” (his word) together. He cried and told me what he’d felt like from his “side”, wanting to be male & in control, feeling helpless & immature. Agreed if we had married then we’d be divorced now. 

    11:05PM  Trying to read Oneness & Separateness. Not well suited to me right now! Much as I want to be a mother the thought of a demanding infant between me & T now is truly horrifying. Insane fears of rejection and abandonment – why on earth should I trust this man? Called T at work! 

     Complete craziness. He reassured me we will have private alone time –

    -a real vacation in the Berkshires. He said champagne arrived. 

    Called A & we discussed Mom & Dad – how they rewarded “self-sufficiency” and responded to neediness coldly. Makes it hard to be honest now but 

    I hate this weirdly formal relationship with my own parents.

    Avril says there is no retraining them.

    Sat 14 July 79 – StormFall Farm – 11:15 PM

                                         Oh, my God who would believe it – here I am 11 

    years later!  Told T about my uncle last night as we made sexual 

    “confessions”. He was completely calm about it so it’s no longer a 

    Big Secret. He insisted I read his ex-girlfriend’s letters.  She was a 

    Piper Cub to his Concorde, believe me. He kept carbons of his letters to her!!!! Not very loving letters – but downright fatherly. In a bad way.

                                        T’s actual father and he smoked cigars last night 

    after dinner leaning against the mantel – they were so beautiful together I felt stunned. Wrote a poem: 

    MY HUSBAND SMOKES CIGARS WITH HIS FATHER 

    BY CANDLELIGHT

    Your profiles cut my heart like glass.

    Go ahead. I’m a bleeder, I’ll

    Still be here when you look back.

    Your father is a silver-headed

    Walking-stick; his elongation glows with far less heat.

    You’re his nemesis; and he’s used to it.

    The wooden floors are washed cornelian

    Perhaps by sunset

    Perhaps by jealousy of girls who

    Lost you; judged too soon the temper of your eyes

    Wrote too many letters or

    Not enough; the wrong kind

    Addressed to the pale law student with

    The cinderblock heart;

    Traveling commentator with the hundred

    Dollar bill rolled inside his shoe,

    The long-haired Pinkerton guard.

    You learned to suck the cherries

    Scarless from the tree; it’s no mean art

    Broke a few at first; we all did.

    By what right am I the winner?

    You chose me in thirty seconds leaving

     enough time to smoke another cigar.

                                         Everyone wants us to marry before May. But I feel I need some time in Kentucky first. Toss told me last night that on paper he is a millionaire. Here’s luck, because if I keep on keeping on, I’m a pauper! 

                                         Tom’s grandmother’s response was “I am not surprised.” 

     She committed herself to reading my  published “thriller”. 

                                         At dinner he announced I’m the only woman he’s ever wanted to marry. Tom’s dad said he thought his son would be a bachelor forever. 

    Privately we affirmed absolute sexual fidelity forever. Will we be able to keep it?

    Plush Palace – Wed 18 July 79 – 4:55 PM

                                                  Boring day but good tips. Magnificent party at 

    The Third Edition last night for Avril’s birthday. (I didn’t care for Avril’s latest “honey” Vigo but was secretly furious at myself – she should date as widely as possible. 

    Maybe I was affected by T who is a snob and a purist.) Drinks, fruit & cheese – then dinner at The Old Angler & Frank Langella in Dracula. (Not a good version.)

                                                  “Finances” discussion with T. He talked me out of selling my car. I worry about being dependent on him but he says it will be fine. 

    Sounds to me like he is living on a knife’s edge – working part time, going to law school, selling stock when he needs money (which he is loathe to do being naturally frugal.) Too tired to make love last night but we started up in the middle of the night – both asleep. Unknown doors keep opening – then there’s another one.

    Castle – 1 PM – Thurs 19 July 79

                                         So happy I can’t take it all in. Feel like someone 

    recovering from a long illness. Read Cheever’s Goodbye My Brother – as satisfying as a novel. Last night we made love for hours and hours but –

    I just couldn’t come – kept holding his face saying, “Is it really you”? Dancing with Barbara the Kikuyu and blonde Joyce of the day-glo costumes that light up in the dark. 

    3 PM Party Castle – 24 July 79

                                         First real friction last night – very predictably, about my job. I’m irritated over the assumption that its sordid and brutalizing. It is totally NOT the same as the dancers in DC!!! LIFE certainly CAN be sordid and brutalizing – but I like this club because it ISN’T and I’ve tried others. We discussed HIS job of muckraker/professional advocate which also has its sordid and corrupting aspects. 

    Duh. His last girlfriend gave him shit about it (and refused to read his newspaper!)

    So it’s a sore point. He should really understand. There was a horrible moment when he felt foreign and alien – but I expected it – too much intimacy always causes a backlash. Trying to read Sisters & Strangers.  The Victorian novel is not yet dead.  

  • Inspired Pleasure – the dance diaries of Alysse Aallyn

                 Party Castle 12:05 am 2 July 79

                            Wrote D an angry farewell poem.

    “HOW DID YOU MEET?”

    You saw me naked

    I saw you too close- up.

    Between the green glimpses

    You cut mountains down to size;

    I’d no idea that one could take such charge of space.

    You hovered, teaching –

    Drinking vodka,

    I drank wormwood –

    Everything’s my fault. 

    Now I’m a toad-dweller,  

    Nostrils pierced by thorns 

    Falling face-first through every hole;

    You were the king the ghost pines saluted.

    How you dove and danced!

    Speeding through your love-drunk universe, you

    Infected me with your own whiteness

    Dizziness, till all my blood drained out.

    You challenged God;

    I was just the echo following after.

    Yet here I am after all this time

    And nothing promised remains of you.

    Or, “Good luck with Sleeping Beauty’s castle!” That’s what he gets for messing with my heart. Can’t show anyone – most certainly not him – 

    – and it isn’t really finished – and I don’t think it ever will be. But thank God for diaries. Diaries can be told anything.

                                         Reading Secrets in the Family – it is so superb

     I am going to buy copies for all my sisters. Looking forward to discussing it with Toss. I’m beginning to miss him now – he’s so deep and interesting to be around – so alive on many more levels than anyone else – challenging all my levels. Falling in love – happy, crazy.

                 Thurs 11:05 – Plush Palace – 5 July 79

                                        Back at The Plush – it’s catch as catch can in my 

    present situation. I am alienating managers left and right. But I am happy crazy and who cares?  

                                        Because on the third of July Toss asked me to 

    marry him and I said yes!  Here’s how it happened. On Monday night we ate white clam linguini and Crenshaw melon while listening to Keith Jarrett’s Koln Concert  – then – came together in delicious, soul-freeing sex; two perfectly matched combatants recognizing each other not just from childhood and youth but school and dreams.  He was eager to learn how I could best be pleased – so I surrendered to the inevitable. Fireworks!

                                        He left me sleeping there in the AM – I heard thumping downstairs but I know he has roommates so didn’t think anything of it – 

    – when he came back for lunch he discovered the door broken in and my purse missing. Keys, wallet, everything. I had to call into work – had to call a locksmith to give me keys to my car. 

                                        Toss doesn’t know what else they stole because he doesn’t know what else is supposed to be in this house – called his roommates. They came, police came. So we spent a day of intense babbling and the worst kinds of petty annoyances – but none of it mattered because he was there. In fact, I welcomed it; it was an extra opportunity to be together. 

                                        At one point I said, you know, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a man.  He said, if I believed that, I’d ask you to marry me. I said, if you did I’d say yes. 

                                         So he said, “Do you want to get married?” 

    I said, “I think so,” and there it was!  He said I’m the only woman he has ever wanted to marry much less asked. We even chose the children’s names – there are going to be two of them – a boy and a girl of course; a combination of our old addresses! Had to call Aunt Frederica to give her the good news because 

    she’s the one who had to give the hospital permission to stitch me up ten years ago after our first unfortunate night together!  (She was drunk of course. Both times) 

                                     Toss asked me to come back to Kentucky for his

    last year of law school.  I “shouldn’t miss this part of his life.” Dogs too, natch – we are a package deal.  

                                        He has a house he’s rehabbing that has so many 

    rooms it is known as the Hilton.  When I said I would come that was more important to him than our engagement even.  He says I can file for 

    divorce in Kentucky’s understanding Commonwealth. He ordered a case of Moet Chandon, saying now we have to drive up the coast and

     tell everybody. I am a little scared to tell my parents – this suddenness might only seem another strike against me.  We told Avril and Maureen – they just stared – obviously thinking we both have lost our minds – it will take them awhile to believe in it.  I told Avril about Kentucky – 

    she says she can handle the house; she can always rent out my 

    room to a college student if she feels pinched. I want to leave some money with her – at least $1000 – had the brilliant idea to sell my car. 

    Wouldn’t want to be impoverished in Kentucky and I don’t want to be on “retainer” from T.

                         Last night I read Toss The Duel and his eyes 

    filled with tears!  He said the only flaw he sees in this arrangement is that one of us must surely predecease the other!  Could it really happen?  Could we grow old together? Could it be that I will never make love to another person?  Wrote a short note to Bruce, 

    telling him I will definitely be needing a divorce, sooner, rather 

    than later.  Now I am trying to write a letter to D; but honestly, 

    what is there to say?   Summing up our relationship seems only

     to dismiss it.  He has already fallen far, far back into the past.  Toss is my future.

    The Duel

    Europe without you

    Was a funeral feast.

    I recall the procession of your letters

    Far better than 

    The stream of luckless suitors

    Trying to distract me.

    Virgins aren’t distractible.

    Your seductive missives stalked me.

    A fatal ploy was that nude photo

    Adam lonely in his garden.

    I came right home.

    I well recall the ceremonies

    Of that night!

    Your shyness

    My perfume

    Our ignorance

    Wild and hard 

    A riderless horse.

    I did cry out as the candles burned.

    I swear there were some moments when

    We actually saw each other.

    But if this magic sword cuts both ways

    Why was I the only bleeder?

    They peeled me off

    And dropped me down a mile

    Of antiseptic hallway –

    A princess in a bucket.

    It could have ended there

    But at your school I haunted you

    A chilly-breasted demon.

    My daytime incarnation seemed mature:

    I fooled everyone;

    We chatted as you prepared the skin.

    I bit down hard and 

    Tasted  only

    Suture wire.

    You wrote and broke off 

    Our association.

    Years groaned by

    Like convicts chained

    We served our terms with no time off

    For bad behavior.

    Lust had luster,

    Excrement was ecstasy.

    The castaways the whirlwind 

    Flung upon the sand

    Were calm, polite

    We knew our way around. But

    That look you gave me!

    Our unborn children shivered

    In their sausage skins 

    Fully aware

    Their time had come.

    The tale was done

    The frog-mask

    Shivered off

    We saw:

    The you of you

    The me of me –

    Masks 

    Unmirrored

    Scars 

    Unscored

    Virgins not but

    Innocents Restored. 

  • Inspired Pleasure – dance diaries of Alysse Aallyn

        Starlight – Sat night – 23 June 79

                                        What a week! I have discussed it with Avril in depth but I still don’t understand it – I’ll just write it out and see what happens. Got a letter from Toss Sheffield of all people – my blood-mate from high school – a wonderful letter. He read my poem in the Alumni Directory and noted I was “divorced”. (Of course, technically I’m still just separated because of Bruce’s malfeasance.) 

                    Toss is working with Ralph Nader on the  Three Mile Island problem herein DC all summer and wants to see me. The rest of the time he is a prizewinning journalist studying law in Kentucky.  Woo hoo! 

                                        Timing could not be better – my restlessness desperately seeks somebody new – someone I don’t have to explain my childhood,schooling and family to. The Boy Next Door!  At the very least I could use him as a cat o’nine tails on Devon (which D royally deserves).  Last Wed night Devon showed up in the middle of the night on his way out to California. 

     More push me – pull you. Very unsatisfying night as we finger each other gingerly like priceless objects pre-smashed, badly glued and inexpertly set.   

    He invited me out to Calif. in Sept. Long wait, big ticket, which is the story of Any Girlfriend of Devon’s Life.  Might be able to manage if I get that MasterCard. 

    On the other hand he said our parents were “hoping we’d get together” which is major turnoff.

                                        GiGi came into the club again. She obviously misses us. Said she saw Buck the other day and he spoke of me fondly. There’s a load off my mind. Leave ‘em sighing, that’s my motto. 

                                        Toss Sheffield put the phone number of the house where he’s staying in his letter – I’ll call him tonight around ten. Wait till he finds out what I do for a living. Or I might not tell him. It all depends on him. 

                                        He said he missed me at our tenth reunion – only went because he thought I’d be there! I didn’t go because I didn’t want to “explain my life” – and if I tell him, there’s a possibility everyone might know. Can I handle that much exposure? 

                                        Struggling to read Joan Didion’s Slouching Toward Bethlehem but she is pretty depressing.  Read Millheiser’s The Mirror. 

    Absolutely stank. What was Putnam thinking of to choose that novel over mine?  Shows there’s a factor here I don’t understand.  Wish I was a multizillionaire with my own publishing co.

                 Castle 26 June – Tues – 10:30 PM

                                        How to describe my ecstatic dinner with Toss? He opened himself up to me like a book. “Take. Read”.  He loves the universe –

    – but in a healthy way – vibrates to it and wants to be overwhelmed, then empowered by it.  Just like me! He explores the DC area with the zest of one “learning” a foreign country – touchingly amazed that one eats the whole of a fried crab – “Even the eyebrows!”  

                                        We discussed everything  – politics, theology, my marriage – his parents’ divorce – his horrifyingly determined Catholic virgin of a high-maintenance girlfriend – he chose her because she reminds him of his grandmother.  He admits it! 

                                         This is all scary but I feel I must ride with it. He is so 

    intelligent – such a relief to talk to someone who knows the difference between a prodigal and a prodigy and can tell a scherzo from a schizo. 

                                        He showed up for dinner at Queens Chapel Road, driving an immaculate yellow Rabbit.  I was frightened to so much as look out the window – I said to Avril – “Tell me what he’s like.” She said, He’s exactly the same. 

                                        And he was. Gorgeous poet’s face (Rupert Brooke)-

     – long blonde hair – wrestler’s body – maybe a little too thin. (He’s had a rough hardworking year of self-denial following Bad Relationship.) He wore a white cotton sweater and what looked to be the same corduroy pants he wore throughout high school. I wore tight white capris and my pink gauze blouse.  He noticed my body immediately – how hard andslender – asked if I was a runner. I told him my doctor says I have a runner’s heart – but no, I’m a walker.  I like taking my time to see all there is to see.

                                        We had swordfish prepared on my new gas grill. 

    We responded to each other in exactly the same way we did right before 

    he left for college – his eyes feasting all over me – so humbling and overwhelming to realize someone loved me so deeply at such a painful period of my life. We marked each other in every meaning of the verb.  I feel chastened and grateful to have such an effect on another person. We have so many similarities – both listened to Miss Goggins as children!  

    We can each quote whole skits, tossing back bourbon in brandy snifters. 

    As soon as I was drunk enough I declaimed my poem about how we spent Class Day in the treehouse. 

                                        He didn’t remember the frickin’ treehouse!  The memories of people who don’t keep diaries are appallingly patchy. I showed him the trunk under my bed – decorated with flowers and my childish handwriting – and gave him the diary that described those nights!

                                        He was open mouthed;  he stared at me as if I were a witch.

     Who knew diaries can come in so handily to resurrect the dead?  He told me I am a fabulous writer and should never give up.  That the purpose of existence is to find what you were born to do and do it.  No one else in my life talks like this!

                                        There was no lingering hostility over our unfortunate parting – our fundamentally dishonest Dear John – Dear Jane letters. No game playing – none of that.  I can’t even recall who touched who first – 

    – my guess is we lunged at each other – it must have been mutual. 

                                        Well, if I’m a witch, he’s a knight in shining armor. 

    Only he can rescue me from this hellish situation I’ve fallen in with Devon – with all of them.  That devon could make love to me the way he does and not want to 

    see me till Sept has been playing tricks with my mind.  Devon uses me to flagellate himself and I can be so much more than that.  

                                        It’s definitely fun to talk to someone who has 

    exactly the same background as me – someone who reads and gets all my references. I was beginning to feel like an exotic (about to become extinct) rarity. He wants to date me solidly the whole time he’s here –(he leaves in Sept – that mystic date).  Fri we’re going out – also probably Sun and the fourth of July. He says he’s never gotten over me, 

    never loved anyone else the way he loved me. He wants me to come to his family’s place in the Berkshires in August – where I last went at 18 years old – why not say yes?  I turn down work joyously while the managers gnash their teeth. It’s only money.

                 10:00 PM – Party Castle – Wed 27 Jun 79

                                        The inevitable panic reaction has set in – am I out of my friggin MIND?  But it’s my battle and I’m dealing with it. I hear myself saying WAY too much around him as if tempting him to find something to be disgusted by and to reject me – why can’t I just shut up and enjoy this? 

    Because I can’t believe he really loves the real me – we haven’t seen each other in 10 years. I plunge gratified into the dizzying sensory experiences – he is very sexual and willing to talk about it – everything he says turns me so ON.  Heavenly  night of ecstatic sex.  Trying to go SLOW, not empty out my bag of tricks all at once. I resent my own anxieties and my fear of being vulnerable. Here at work I wrote a poem about our past – The Duel.  It’s still a mess. Will I ever be able to show him?

                                         I even like his snobbishness – he’s more elitist 

    I guess you’d say. He assumes we’re  “up there” – and it’s others job to qualify, to climb up to “our level”! That’s so refreshing after Usher Glayne’s oppressive weirdness!  He just takes it for granted we’re in a class by ourselves; special people trying to do special things. And our tastes are so similar. He doesn’t plan to stay in Kentucky – wants to live in New England with its fall, its woodstoves and frozen lakes. I can barely comprehend such confidence much less contain it.   Imagine being free forever from the fear that the party’s happening elsewhere.   We ARE the party.

                                        I said I felt safe with him – he said he wasn’t sure 

    that was justified – looked at me like a beast longing to rend, but restraining itself. Wild frissons! He must be horrified by how fast things are going – 

    I have never met a man who wouldn’t be. But he’s driving this train. Told me he’s been so celibate lately –  very upfront discussing his discouraging relationship with a virginal anorexic perfectionist frightened by everything who compensates by torturing herself and all the people around her.  In a flash I realized, that’s exactly what Devon is also. 

                                        Toss says he feels “stormed” by me –dizzied – by whoand what I am, the summit of my “magnificence”. Wow!  Such flattery very scary. How can he possibly mean it?  Yet he seems so honest, so open. 

    What will he do when he finds out I am human after all – a creature of mud and sludge like everyone else?       

                                        Reading Margaret Drabble’s The Needle’s Eye  – 

    not so good as The Waterfall – beginning to be turned off by her towers of verbiage. My own life is so much more interesting. Good phone con-versations with Toss – I am beginning to trust him. When I told him what I do for a living he was totally unfazed. “I knew you couldn’t get that body walking!”  Tomorrow we explore Annapolis. 

  • Inspired Pleasure – the dance diaries of Alysse Aallyn

                       Castle – Wed 1:15 AM 16 May – 79

                                        Unspeakably rotten dinner at the Cosmo Club with Usher Glayne.  Forget him and his majestic New England genes. He is simply “collecting” me as his latest oddity.  He has “so many warm, women artist” friends but no dancer yet (he’s way overdosed on poets) and he drifts from one “presence” to another, sucking wattage like some radioactive swamp monster. He and his wife have an “understanding” which probably means she has no idea where the hell he ever is and nobody’s had sex in eons.  Can’t I do better than this?

                                         In spite of the fact that I’m a declassee person who doesn’t know where her next sexual or emotional meal is coming from I think I must insist on a note from wifey before taking this matter further. According to his poetry he associates sexuality with evil – not that I’m physically attracted to him –

    – it’s just so piquant to be with a man who gets a fresh barber’s shave right before seeing you. (It’s been awhile). 

                                    I don’t think he listened to a thing I said, just 

    gazed at me rapturously. I tried getting him interested in helping me write a screenplay for Faulkner’s Mosquitoes – to me a completely ignored, obviously filmable work. He dismisses, “It’s been done.”  

                                        Well it may have been “treated” BY SOMEBODY but the point is, it hasn’t been treated by us and it hasn’t been filmed  and it would be WONDERFUL. Couldn’t ignite him. He really doesn’t want to talk about writing with me – I guess he has other people for that. I was so happy when our “date” ended I could have wept for joy. On the other hand I am sorry to see these millions slip away.  My children could have used them, not to mention all my fantasies of early retirement busted. Looks like I have no one to depend on but myself.  Enjoying Monica Dickens’ enchanting The Moon was Low. But had to buy a Quaalude from Maureen to get to sleep.  

                                        Finished  V. Sackville-West’s The Devil at Westease. 

     I can’t figure out why she wrote it. She speaks entirely in lost codes.

                                         I really dragged myself in to work today. That’s how you know you’re working too much. Letter from Devon – he’s off to California to “find himself.” What he really wants is any way to figure out how to be a minister in a state of sexual abandon and he instinctively knows if the answer is anywhere, it is in California.  

    On the other hand, will this really turn out to be what he wants?  Not if I know him. The only good news about him is that his genes are impeccable.  Plus, I’m very depressed about my writing. 

                                        Spreading myself too thin – thinking about one project while working on another. My Secaire book is starting to get ridiculous, but I want to follow up this “satanic rites” thing to see where it goes. Why did I come up with it? What does it mean? Who knows? Cheap and derivative everyone would probably say at this point. Yet it holds some interest for me. 

    Love and sex as hostage-taking. The question is, who’s the hostage and who’s the keeper? 

                                        Could it be hours of research, prose and bitching produce only a single poem? Lucky if so.

                                        Even if it’s a mess.

                                        Also miserable about money and my body. Buying the house was a great idea – I love it – however, there are constant expenses I can’t ignore that keep me chained to this goddam stage and dressing room. 

    My mortgage calls for my monthly payment to increase next year – I could worry about that if I wanted to.  And then I always respond to depression and worry with a desire to eat which of course threatens my job. (Sigh.) Tips down –

    (maybe I should buy a wig.) And my face is all broken out so I have to use heavy makeup – and my skin doesn’t like that.

                                         Party Castle 8:20 PM Fri  May 18 – 1979

                                        Fasting all day so feel much better. Two more sets. I am the only dancer willing to dance to Baker Street so they keep playing it for me and it is a tiring song. However all that stretching is good for my muscles probably. Reading  A Time to Keep Silence.  Secaire has got me on a religious kick.

                                                          Genevieve’s Apt. off the Park – NYC – Sun 20 May 79

                                       It’s me laughing and joking and eating a whole box of Entemann’s cookies – and it’s not me. Family. The constant ache of having so little of myself accepted. It’s like being with people like Usher, really – they want such a little piece of you. The worst part is, you get so used to the pain you can’t imagine life without it. Thank God I am usually content to be alone.

                                        Went to the Whitney – gave me some ideas to recast Memory – unfortunately not ideas people will like. I want to make it even more choppy and episodic– rather than “telling the story –“ which is what everyone seems to want. But that’s the only way I can get excited about it.

    Reading it would be like visiting an art gallery.

                 Queen’s Chapel Rd – Tues 22 May 79

                                       That trip helped. I feel better, more focused. My 

    new agent submitted Memory to Putnam who loved it but said they had 

    just published a book with incest theme!  Goddamn it all to hell. But theirreaction cheered me up – they didn’t say anything about choppy, episodic, incomprehensible motives, etc.  So maybe I’m a real novelist and not just a bad poet hungry for money. Making plans for The Lives of the Dancers–

    – a poem for each one. Fun. More fun than novelizing with such a hideous plot –

    – can’t seem to get my people out of the airport.

                                        Write a haiku BECAUSE THEY’RE EASY. Relief.

    Harness UP – ON WEARING A BRA

    Two kinds of clothes –

    Comfortable and un:

    Two viewpoints:

    Supportive and –

                                        Fasting again today. So horribly fat right before my period

     it would not surprise me to go into labor onstage. Apparently no one else has noticed I have lost my waist.  Have agreed to see Devon in Boston next month. 

    I am going off birth control so we will see what happens. I feel sure I can get him into bed. But never telling him he is a father? Can I pull it off? I might try. 

    Getting past block in my novel by having different characters tell different parts of the story.

                                        I give up on Pamela Hansford Johnson. Holiday Friend is The Perfectionists all over again– but not as good. 

                 Party Castle 12:35 AM – Fri 25 May 79

                                        Funny how it all comes together sometimes. Dancing tonight has been ecstasy – is it the fasting? I am cutting my schedule at the Plush Palace – the audience here is so much better. They are really quiet and intense. Probably because it’s so close to the FBI. They get the same relaxation from watching us that you get from a tank of tropical fish. Except of course with that sexual frisson reminding you you’re alive. Read Laura Hobson’s The Tenth Month – pretty shocked by a doctor who would prescribe Nembutal to a pregnant woman. But that’s the way they were back in the Dark Ages. 

                                        Now I’m on Highsmith’s Edith’s Diary – which is 

    fabulous – the review in New York Times was downright immoral. Books should not be reviewed by the stylistically tone deaf. Reviewer should be open to many styles –  I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

    Went on stage tonight glittering with body jewelry – big stones. Big tips. FBI very supportive of the warrior look.

  • Inspired Pleasure – the dance diaries of Alysse Aallyn

                 Mon 13 Nov 78

                                        Busted, wasted day. Avril called to borrow $90 so she can pick up el Diablo from Courtesy Motors – fortunately I had it so we went to bank, then car dealer.  Then I tried to get an oil change but they don’t do Fiats. Took long enough to tell me they don’t have the right wrenches. Real estate agent phoned 

    to say I qualify for special FHA loan.  I had to call my landlord because apparently I don’t have heat.  

                                        Avril is having lots of trouble with Brady who is alternately aggressive and suicidal. I think he is more trouble than he’s worth but admit he has very pretty, very long, long thighs. He and Buck went to high school then trade school together – Buck exhibits a grisly picture of them at their prom with their dates. Brady’s date is his soon to be ex-wife. Buck was also B’s best man but I was spared those photos.

                                        Zachary asked me out next Fri night but I’d rather be with Buck – but if he doesn’t ask me in time I’ll tell him I’m ”going out with the girls.” 

    That’s what he tells me he does; “goin’ out with the guys” –  so presumably this is an OK excuse. If he says what girls I’m in a bit of a pickle. But I’m a writer – 

     I‘ll invent some. It can’t be anyone he knows. Fortunately, he has no idea what a hermit I really am.

                                        Still stuck in the childhood of my novel. Can’t wait for them to grow up. Re-read Le Ble en Herbe which helped a lot. (Aaaahhhhh…

    Colette!)  Off to Crown Books with A – then White Flint Mall for Christmas shopping – had coffee at The Perfect Cup. Nice outing.  I bought wonderful rhinestone cat’s eye glasses.  Saw Bergman’s Autumn Sonata – moving. 

                 Mon 27 Nov 78 – 1:35 PM

                                        Time to write in this neglected diary while waiting to have my snow tires mounted. This threatens to blow my entire day. They also had to replace a fuse that apparently blew in the middle of a rainstorm so that my wipers stopped working. 

                                        Visit with Mom and Dad very touchy. (They are staying with Peter’s mother Rita and everyone’s slightly angry I’m not dating him and I can’t narc on his Secret Relationship.)  Mom casually accepted an

     invitation for all of us to go out to dinner on a night I was going out with Zachary, so I said I would have to invite him and got a tirade on my thoughtlessness. Then I pointed out she was the thoughtless one assuming I didn’t have any plans. She apologized, I apologized.  It blew over. 

                                        Then Avril had the nerve to ask Rita if she could 

    smoke – Mom exploded just as if it were her house. (Rita said No. She’s trying to quit.)  M & D piled on me –  I’m insane to contemplate buying a house – even if the mortgage would only cost what rent already costs. 

    Their real objection is that I might “choose wrong” – somehow encumber myself with a property that will make me even less attractive (if that were SOMEHOW possible) to A Decent Man. Not even dragging in Marc Kramer’s sacred name as Advisor helped at all. 

                                         Dad did come see a few houses with us. (We’ve seen 16 so far.) He had to admit it isn’t a bad deal as long as I can get that FHA loan. Zachary behaved very well around M and D – the “Official Boyfriend” –

    – but of course he owed me. Fortunately the evening was over before they could find out too much about him (or he offered them drugs) so his cover wasn’t blown.

                                        Conversation at dinner very boring.  Psychology 101.  

    “Why don’t people say what they want?” “Why don’t people try to get what they want?” “Why do people lose interest in what they say they want?” (Rita’s going through her third divorce.)  Since no one seems the least bit interested in the complexities of achieving Actual Gratification by attempting to mesh one’s constantly evolving desires with those of someone else I can only shake my head sagely and flee at the first opportunity. 

                                        Mom and Dad actually tackled these questions and struggled with them like a pair of marriage counselors. The truth is Rita’s ex has found somebody else and she shouldn’t be so surprised – they were both married when she hove onto his horizon.

                                        Got a very stoned phone call from Zachary last night – he was over at Rod’s and “something” was making him horny.  (I’ll bet I can guess.) Fortunately, I managed to convince him he was in no state to drive – leaving him prey to Rod, probably.  Well, we all have to take our chances in this life.

                                         Saturday night with Buck unsatisfying – he claimed his non-breathing nose is preventing him from going down on me. I let him know his account is in arrears and he will have to do something about it sooner or later. He chose later and fell immediately asleep. So, I left.  I’m not sure I will ever get to Stage 2 with this guy.  He made a point of tracking me down at Avril’s apt, calling to apologize.  A and I saw 3 more unacceptable houses – but the real estate agent says there are plenty more. Fun to be in a buyer’s market for a change.

                 Sat 7 pm Plush Palace – 2 Dec 78

                                        Just recovering from some tremendous bout of food poisoning – must have gotten it from the Sleazy Restaurant Around the Corner – but all I had there was a takeout salad.  Still, it could have been the dressing.  

    No fever.  I was throwing up all Wednesday. I called A to drop by after class but she was so worried she came right over. I finally was able to keep down some chicken soup. Then we went to Bethesda in the eve to see Zach’s Gordon Lightfoot impersonation – I had a little wine to make me feel better. (Free drinks always taste best.)  Finally finished the childhood section but I don’t feel good about it. Novels don’t want you to do anything in life but write them all the time. I am only at p. 133.  

                                        I am already exhausted and needing a vacation. 

    Cheered myself up by wrapping Christmas gifts – baroque music and Victorian gift-wrap did it for me. I especially love those chubby Victorian cherubs who couldn’t become airborne without at least two brawny stagehands hauling on a mighty hawser. Reading My Mother/Myself in between boogie-oogie-oogying.  Dinner party with A, Buck, and A’s old boyfriend who happened to be in town. We ate stuffed Cornish game hen, played Clue and went dancing at the Bastille.

                 Thurs night – Plush Palace – 11:30 PM – 7 Dec 78

                                         Manic night – a dancer literally dragged off the stage by the police because her roommate is accusing her of stealing $3300 of furniture.  

    Thank God she came back so I only had to dance one extra set.  Wed night we found a house!  It has 5 bedrooms, 3 bath perfect in every way except that that it’s packed into a neighborhood of like houses so there are absolutely no vistas. But the price is right. We made an offer but they accepted another offer –

    – ours is the “backup contract.” So, we still might get it.

                 Thurs am 1:07 14 Dec 78

                                        Finished the novel in an insane burst of speed – 10 pages a day for four days. Now I have to calm down and see what I’ve got.

     I still feel pretty good about it – but probably reading it will depress me.  

    And Devon will probably never speak to me again since he is in it. His Christmas card says I am a genius and he is in awe of me.  Hey, it could be true.  My publisher’s statement arrived. $50. $50. There goes that Feb vacation. Pretty sure I need a new agent.  What did “stooping to genre” achieve exactly? I didn’t get a living wage. I didn’t get a publisher, agent or editor receptive to my work. It’s like I’m starting over – again.  

    On an up note: looks like we might get the house! It is SO perfect. Fenced in yard and everything. 

  • Inspired Pleasure – The dance diaries of Alysse Aallyn

                 3PM Sat 4 Nov 78

                                        Trouble bouncing back from the most recent 

    rejection of Gift. Wouldn’t be so bad if I felt they actually read it. My agent compares me to Mallarmé – trouble is, no one likes Mallarmé.  

    My bank has charged me $24 for being $1.70 short on a check.  

    They did the same thing to Avril – and since she has a $6,000 savings account, 

    she figures she’s paying them to lend out her money at 18% interest. And whoever you talk to turns out to be a computer.

                                        Buck and I are having a very interesting relationship. I can hardly believe it’s happening.  There’s no bickering over unmet needs –it’s very restful.  Sex could be a potentially explosive problem area – can’t tell yet – so far so good – I think he’s a learner claiming a lot more experience than he’s got. But there are potential problems associated with having sex with a person who is obsessed with speed. 

                                        My period started today and it seems cruel to task a beginner with this issue. At least Buck goes down nobly like Jacques Cousteau. But he’s not much of a talker. The most amusing aspect is how we’ve settled down socially – we have a lot of fun around other people. I am contemplating writing a story called The Official Girlfriend which will treat this from a sociological perspective. Tomorrow we are meeting his parents at a restaurant – I hope it’s dark in there because they are bound to think I am too old for him. Naturally we are keeping my job a deep dark secret – I have to be a “hostess” which really blows. 

    A week from tomorrow he has another race – we’ll take a picnic.  I love these outings.

                                        Plus Avril’s really getting along with Buck’s buddy Brady – definite prospects of a dating foursome. Unfortunately, Brady left his wife like two minutes ago and is not what you’d call “fully detached” as yet. 

    Fortunately: no kids.

                                        Sun 11:15 PM Buck amazed me by confessing that every time before he sees me he is “sick to his stomach” with worry that he won’t come up to my expectations. I am a “high status date” – 

    all his friends are waiting for him to stumble. But then when we’re together he says he just relaxes and we have a great time. I was really touched by this. It is nice that in the car mechanic’s world dating an exotic dancer is high status. I prefer that to being the Shameful Secret which I assume I was in Devon’s world. 

                                        Next week I’m supposedly seeing Zachary twice – haven’t told Buck – why am I doing this? Insurance? I think I don’t like Zachary. Am I competitive – is it just thrilling to see him come off the stage and touch me intimately? (Everyone’s jealous – the men as much as the women. Rod wants Zachary more than he wants me I think.)  But actually I don’t like Zachary. The trouble with canceling is then it would be just Buck and me.  Me and Buck. Going steady.

                 12:30 PM Mon 6 Nov 78

                                        Bizarrely warm day. Had a wonderful time yesterday at Shadonna’s wedding. Buck wore a marvelous blue suit with blue suede patches. It was indescribable – sort of like country singer performance-wear, and with his wispy moustaches and his motorcycle boots I’m telling you he was a sight to behold.   I wore my “slit to there” diamanté rainbow dress and we danced for hours. Nobody paid us any attention. We didn’t stand out at all, that’s what I’m telling you.

                 Plush Palace – Tues – 9:35 PM 7 Nov 78

                                        Avril said to me this afternoon, “My life is completely out of control and I don’t care.”  She has to drive Brady to his in-laws to pick up his clothes today because his wife took the car. There’s bound to be a glorious, satisfying, soap opera scene with a lot of screaming and object throwing – just like there was the time she helped him extract his clothes from his wife’s apartment. On top of this Brady is apparently extremely jealous – in spite of the fact that he’s technically married and Avril isn’t.  She is seriously thinking of inviting him to Thanksgiving because he won’t believe that she’s not secretly meeting a beau – 

    Or six!  However, he showers her with love, attention and sexual worship! 

    She says the gorgeous deep dents on the sides of his thighs are worth every minute of it.  

                                        Went out last night with Zachary – we had a sandwich and drink at Booeymonger’s and saw Animal House.  He was driving his mother’s car.  He is assembling a band called Prairie Dust and he’s in some kind of power struggle with the lead singer who is female. He needs to be the prettiest person in any band.  He says Rod – playing Daddy Big Bucks – foisted this woman on him.  Combination of protégées. 

                                      Because Rod works in radio and is paying 

    for the tape mix he has Zachary right where he wants him.  (She is a fantastic singer.)  Rod might just find his mojo after all. 

                                        Following the movie, I finally met the Zachary Folks – now that there’s no point in it.  Got along like a house on fire with his Dad because I knew all the obscure Giraudoux plays he had framed posters of on his wall.  I quoted:  “And the sewers will be fragrant with jasmine…”  

    which was my line in Madwoman of Chaillot.  I could tell I was a 

    considerable cut above the street people and space chicks Zachary usually drags home. 

                                        They must be worried as hell that he’s gay – his 

    room is full of what can only be described as pinup pictures of himself. 

     Little do they know it’s worse than that – he’s into anything that would be into him.  Bestiality would be frankly appraised on its merits. “Is it a good looking chicken?”) House full of unbelievably beautiful, unbelievably uncomfortable furniture – striped satin Empire sofas – stained glass windows – wrought iron candelabras – that sort of thing. His mother very wary – fiercely Catholic – thin with a long blonde pony-tail and a long horsey face –but actually quite intelligent and attractive.

                                        Zachary’s room is full of crosses and Gonzaga 

    pennants – I should have realized this boy has all the earmarks of being terminally mauled by priests. Parents frantic:  when will he get a “real” job. 

    College was such an unpleasant experience all shudder when it’s mentioned and no one’s willing to discuss it.   I’m betting drugs were involved.  

                                        Of course Zachary wanted to have sex in his narrow twin bed – right beneath the picture of  “The Holy Father” (he doesn’t even have a lock on the door!)  and  I have to admit I found the Chabrolesque aspects of the situation arousing. He seemed to lose track of the fact thatit was me – but his orgasms were more explosive than ever. 

                                        So there I am again;  “The Official Girlfriend.”  Could I put an ad in the paper – some kind of specialized escort service?  “Impress your friends – terrify your parents!” 

                                    Buck doesn’t know about Zachary and since I don’t care who else Z does he must realize I’ve got a back burner – but the truth of it is that between the two of them they’re barely one boyfriend. 

    One is charming, affectionate, trustworthy and dumb as ditchwater; the other is upper class, complicated, interesting, artistic, totally untrustworthy (most likely a male whore.)  It’s a damn shame things have to get like this. I just don’t know how good at “keeping secrets” I can be. Need to go home and get some sleep. If have to get down to Funkytown one more time tonight I won’t be answerable for the consequences.

                 1:45 PM Wed Nov 9 –78

                                        I’m in need of a “carte d’identite” so I can look at it and figure out who I am. Read the first draft of The Speechless and the accompanying comments of my college writing teacher. She bollixed it up.  Her deconstructive destruction seems purposeful – I don’t believe she didn’t know  how good it was. Can I save it?  I know I should work on one thing at a time but apparently my mind doesn’t operate that way. 

                                        In the mail a letter from a publisher offering to read my poetry – for $50.00. Took me longer after that to sink to the necessary depth to get some writing done. And it still probably wasn’t any good.

                 Thurs night – Plush Palace – Nov 9 – 78

                                        Working tonight with Roulette and Jerrilee – wonderfully hilarious old hands.  We laugh until we fall over. 

                                        “How Deep Is Your Love “ is throbbing through the walls, Maureen’s got me in a costume-trading whirl and Roulette is so heavily into the Jack Daniels she is showing everyone pictures of her dog. (A Doberman.  Who looks exactly like every other Doberman I have ever seen.) 

    Suddenly I’ve acquired a whole new dancing wardrobe. But will it make me a new person?  That’s what I want to know.

                                        With a view to listening to Marc Kramer for once in my life because he’s rich and I’m not Avril and I went house-hunting.  The trigger –

    – wonderful broken down old house in College Park (complete with white pillars) – I called to ask the price.  Real estate agent sucked me effortlessly in, entering into our quest with gusto. I am almost 28 years old and although I don’t make much money – apparently I make enough.  The house was hopeless. It needs $50,000 on the roof alone. But the agent has plenty others to show us.

                                        Bizarro letter from Ryder.  He said “after that visit I thought you’d never trust me again” and  “I bow down to you.”  Which visit? 

    The one where I allowed him to give me a massage? I refuse to inquire further because that’s exactly what he wants me to do. He is just needled that I have so obviously given up on him.   Why am I attracted to these weirdos? I know the problem between us is that I want a mutual relationship and he wants a pack animal.  I want to be with the person I love and “love” makes him want to run away (because it makes him feel “out of control”).  But where is the fun in telling him this? He couldn’t use the maze clue even if I gave it to him. 

     So I write a short note telling him I’m busy with Zach and Buck.  That should fix his jealous wagon.

                                        I didn’t tell him about the hours of sexual bliss Buck and I shared last night!  Buck is warming up nicely – invited me to his parents’ house for the weekend – they will be away. Unfortunately, he snores horribly – sounds like he’s strangling.  By-product of motorcycle racing. Needs that cartilage cleared out with a vacuum hose.  Trying to read Rumer Godden’s Breath of Air. Boring and unctuous. Put it down for Dear Scott/Dear Max, which is of course delightful. 

  • Inspired Pleasure – the dance diaries of Alysse Aallyn

        7:45 Pm – Plush Palace – Thurs 12 Jan 78

                              Called Jervaze and suggested we do something tonight – he acted enthusiastic.  I said, “Should I be calling you?  Wouldn’t want to call too much,” and he said, “Call all the time.” Ryder–induced horrors dropping away one by one.  It’s snowing – I’ll go straight to Jervaze’s. (He’s close to club.)

        4PM Friday, Jan 13-78

                              I think Jervaze may really be an angel; one of Milton’s 

    sexed up angels who took a wrong turn to our planet by mistake.  Some anxiety is relieved. We never did get to go anywhere – stayed in bed. Bliss. 

    But if this doesn’t work I will damn well marry Devon whether he likes it or not – I can’t take much more of this.

                              I’m at my desk hammering out letters – trying to answer one from the island realtor. The studio apt has “no cooking facilities”. I don’t care but the realtor does, she has a house on the pond for $175  “long lease” she wants me to take. Says it has a Franklin stove and I could “bike to town.” I admit I’m interested. Jervaze has offered to come to the island with me in March –

     I really shudder at the thought of introducing him to my parents, how to tactfully say, Please don’t ask him about Ideas and only offer him one drink.  

                              Last night I let myself into his apt, took a shower, tried to use his sparkingly hazardous blow dryer, gave that up, crawled in bed with him. I had lots of Ryder-induced fears that he wouldn’t be there, in bed with another girl, etc.  But no. There he was, nude, gorgeous, asleep – and when he woke up, happy to see me.

        5:25 PM Plush Palace  – Sat 14 Jan 78 

                              Snakes dropping into paradise one by one. First, although Jervaze is incredibly easygoing – it is impossible to get him to state a preference about a movie or a restaurant, for example – (had to drag him to Eastwood’s Every Which Way But Loose)  I can tell he is nervous about introducing me to his brother and sister in law. Should I just suggest we lie about what I do for a living? I guess that wouldn’t really solve anything.  

    Sartre is so right.  Hell IS other people.  Then there’s my mother – the latest demon fondling my ear.  Once a woman has made herself vulnerable to a man, she’s through.  Uncommitted sex brings out the worst in men, blah blah blah.  Because it’s “too perfect” ( his point of view).  I am “causing him moral hazard”. Yes, I tell the voice, 

    and it would be perfect from MY POINT OF VIEW TOO IF YOU WOULD JUST SHUT UP.  WE ONLY STARTED DATING A COUPLE OF WEEKS AGO. But one can’t shut out THAT voice so easily.   Mystified by Willard Gaylin’s  irritating Caring.    He acts like mutual dependence or interdependence is some “failure” of personal autonomy.   

    Powder Mill Road – 11 PM Sunday 15 Jan 78

                              Jervaze “dropped by” this afternoon.  Since it’s such a 

    long way from his place to mine I was astonished.  Is it that I can no longer believe a man will climb mountains for me? Or is it just my sensitivities to Jervaze’s strangely inchoate “disabilities” warning me and sending up red flags?  We had a nice talk – he seemed faintly down –

    then he had to leave because he needs to get up extra early tomorrow.

     I was in too good a mood to work on my novel, bought clothes instead. 

    3 pairs of pants, sweater coat, five pairs undies, one pair gauchos. All clothes 

    size 7. Packaged MSS when I came home so as not to feel too unproductive.      

                              Coleridge poem taken by Virginia community college 

    screed. No money. (Natch.)

                              11Am Tues 17 Jan 78

                              Reading Evelyn Waugh’s diaries over my third cup of coffee with open mouthed amazement.  It seems almost a work of fiction. Try to imagine these whines and wails ever appearing in print! Imposserous as Bert Lahr would say. Thank God for The Victorian High Colonic: a pre-mortem bonfire. Highly recommended, my dear.

                                7:30 PM No word from J so I assume he is really coming to eat dinner here.  The evening’s menu: sherry and smoked oysters, cheese and crackers, burgundy and manicotti stuffed with crab.  French bread, banana nutbread and coffee for dessert, if we make it that far without attacking each other.  Need to watch the drinking – had two glasses of sherry while cooking and am definitely feeling it.

        2:15 AM Wed 19 Jan

                              J gone – he had to – no clothes here.  I let him go

     fairly gracefully – after hours of sex without anyone coming I was happy to be alone. He’s definitely an alcoholic. He gets away with it by never seeming drunk (only once in awhile. His “tell” is he wants to talk about Alabama.) But he’s also never not drinking. He seems too young but it definitely explains the physical problem.

        11Am

                              Avril came to consult about a bad date. Glad her classes start tomorrow – Limbo an unpleasant place to live. Need to walk dogs now 

    – going to AFI theatre tonight to see Next Stop, Greenwich Village.  

    Time keeps chewing us up and spitting us out.

        1 PM Thurs 20 Jan 78

                              Excellent morning lying in bed reading Byron. It would 

    be lovely to be rich – it would not be lovely to be Byron. 

    Another deeply rooted legacy of Ryder’s is that I now expect others to constantly lie (to themselves, above all)  about their motivations.  

    You can only judge by what they actually do which throws all planning 

    into the crapper and means you’re stuck with a lot of confused, open mouthed standing around waiting for disaster. I don’t make promises either – I just don’t say anything – which fact apparently caused me to assume I’d really enjoy a relationship with a totally nonverbal type like J. 

                                Turns out: noooooooo.   I torture myself about what he must be thinking and feeling which – let’s face it – may not be much.     Wish my royalties would arrive – I’ve spent them over in my mind a thousand different ways. 

    Can’t do anything about island property, travel, car, or self-publicity without them.  Capital expenditures, all. I am making dinner for A at four thirty to hear all about her first day of classes – then I go to work.  Love driving down the highway with the other “night shifters” – I always think I can pick them out.  Our special sense of purpose makes us different.

        Sunday 24 Jan 78  7:30 PM

                              Read Popcorn Venus, saw Julia, so alternately 

    depressed and cheered by turns. Thinking a lot about “impure relationships”. 

    How innocent to assume those are the ones with certain kinds of sex in them. In actuality, it is more the hostage taking mentality that is to be feared.  Can one just “Glance in” so to speak and then hustle the hell out? 

                              I’ve been so scared off,  I am having a non-relationship. 

    When Jervaze is not in my bed, it’s as if he never existed. Would I be surprised 

    if I found out he had some secret life?  Hell no, I’d be encouraged. I think the truth is he watches football alone, gets drunk, sleeps and works – 

    that’s all he does. 

                             I liked Julia because I am interested in the question 

    of what repressed sexuality does to relationships – does it change them?  

    Seems it would have to. Well, you can fool some of the people… Starting to re-think Courtney.  Worst novel ever written?  If so, what can I do 

    about it?  Is it too late?  Tell it from the cat’s point of view – something radical like that. Write it in blank verse like Spoon River Anthology.  

    Jervaze is mystified that I read by choice. Avril says “Don’t you get it? 

    He’s a mud puppy.” What can I say?  I’m such a sucker for male beauty. 

        Mon. 23 Jan 78

                              Enraptured by biography of John O’Hara.  Starts brilliantly – 

    describing his study at the time of his death – framed awards, Cape Cod lighters, bound diaries. Everything just “perfect” the way poor F. Scott always dreamed. The novels were steppingstones to the study, not the other way around!  I am feeling alienated from my study at the moment. 

    Have decided that my typewriter table – a board atop a wine rack – is all 

    wrong.  A and I went to Hechinger’s and studied several “office systems”. 

     Plastic cubes $70 even for a looksee. I’ve set my heart on satinwood so I guess next stop antique stores. What would an antique typing table

     look like?  A dressing table is the right height?  Sans mirror?  Wouldn’t want to look at oneself while working! First step to madness! 

                               When I work without interruption, time vanishes.  Maybe it’s like riding without spurs: you become the horse (one’s deepest self). 

     J. showed up Sun night.  We drank sherry, played cards. He is getting to like sherry, which I’m afraid, is my fault.  Someone needs to go on the wagon and I don’t want it to be me.  Heard via the rumor mill that Ryder broke his leg skiing!  Ha ha! Did he get insurance for that?   Maybe he wasn’t kidding and he was trying to kill himself.  I just don’t understand people like him.  He approaches everything as “it’s you or me” so the mountain let him have it although frankly I’m surprised it wasn’t someone else’s leg that got broken. Maybe he killed the other guy. Sent him a card – he’s “recuperating” at his parents’ house on a steady diet of Italian food.

        Thurs 26 Jan 78

                              Jervaze came in the Plush Palace last night and I talked to him until Eddy got restive. Turns out he has horrendous financial problems – 

    including hospital bills for a kidney complaint. Probably will have to sell his car even though it is a part of him like his cowboy hat. I was feeling carefree and immortal and suggested he move in with me – he’s thinking about it. Now of course I’m aghast. What if I gave him Avril’s room and he started bringing girls home? I could listen to them making love for hours and hours and hours – no one ever coming. Would I be jealous or would I feel sorry for her? See, this relationship is complex – I am wanting to run like hell or place an ad for “Needed: Goal oriented individual – good at sex – not too inflexible.“  Hopeless.  They have to get stiff and then hang loose at just the right times – “Impeccable timing”? A tall order, I know. 

                              Today I had trip to the dentist and letter from Mom –

     trip to the dentist was easier.  (He told me I have a “runner’s heart”.  

    Did not tell him I was a dancer.  Said I was a walker.  True – since 10 mos old.)  Mom says that if I really loved her I’d get a decent job. She and Dad offered to give me money so I don’t have to dance.  Respectful endowment of course would be great.  Unfortunately, they only mean, “till I get over my sickness.”

                              Happy to turn ‘em down flat.  Mom keeps saying a 

    feminist wouldn’t allow men to look at her in a sexual way. This is my 

    mother of the “Marilyn Monroe dress” (still hers and Dad’s favorite.) My mother who has always turned heads and received accolades as a major

     beauty, with drunken men pawing her in European restaurants, dazed Arab men following her down the beach, stoned college professors slobbering over her at parties.  All “her fault” apparently!!  It’s a critical component of hers and Dad’s relationship that he “captured” such a “prize”.  

    But all this must remain unsaid or “someone” will boo-hoo.

                              Who would bother to deny the roles of biology and 

    acculturation?  I’d like to live off my writing – but it is rapidly becoming apparent that to do that you have to write to “their” taste. And they have such bad taste!  Plus, I find I covet anonymity.  In spite of my profession of “being stared at”, I feel like I am the observer. It’s a heady sense of power.  

    This is theatre, after all. They may think they sit in darkness, but I can still see them.

                              Off to visit Ryder and his broken leg.  Took him cookies and magazines – cookies I did NOT bake myself.  I wondered if I would end up telling him about Jervaze – flirted with the idea – he would be scared to death if he ever caught sight of that beautiful, beautiful man.  That’s what J is best at.

     But I would be doing it to hurt him and since he has always accused me of doing everything to hurt him (born on an island, sentenced to prep school, losing my virginity to someone else, writing) it  seems as if actually doing it I would 

    be “giving in” to his worldview.  I must remain a refusenik. In the end he never asked me about myself;  but talked incessantly about him.  Trying to impress me, like on a first date. 

                              Looking back on it I think he’s just trying to stoke any hots I may still have for him.  He’s never bought into his own “friendship bullshit”;

     he doesn’t even believe it about same sex friends. The universe is fundamentally competitive and we’re all crabs in a barrel trying to step on each other’s heads to get a better view. Eat or be eaten, baby!  He made allusions to the fact that  “you” only value things you work hard for… or things you’ve lost.  Ha ha – zinger!   A grenade lobbed at me. 

                              The visit left me feeling uncomfortable – frustrated – 

     vaguely “one down” –  but unable to put my finger on it. From the way his sisters treated me I have a horrible feeling he tells people I was the love of his life but wouldn’t give up my selfishly immoral lifestyle.  That’s what he would do, the bastard, act like he was the victimized one.  I hope his leg heals crooked.  

                              Probably a good thing I didn’t mention Jervaze – he looks so good but he’s totally non-nutritious and collapses like a creampuff on scrutiny. We’d have to live in Alabama – he’s made that very clear. I can’t even imagine him having a conversation with another person in front of me. 

    He has no family pictures. I’d drop in on him at work just to catch a glimpse of him interacting with humans but it’s the Pentagon ! They wouldn’t let me in. He’s only a repairman, too, so he probably has a completely fictitious personality there.  

                              Still working on Waugh’s diaries.  Hard to avoid the 

    conclusion that he became Catholic to avoid giving up his pride.  

    Just another elegantly exclusive men’s club.  Anything to get out of “becoming human”.  You know.  The way Jesus did.

                              Almost midnight – last costume change of the evening. Pink and black lace, pink gladioli in my hair.  Black tassels, the works. Gentleman Jim – now a magnate with a string of clubs  – was in earlier – I was dancing my absolute best – wild applause – the crowd was chanting  my name.  But when I went to find him to ask him for a raise he was gone. Next time. 

                              This is the time of the evening Zombiehood sets in.  Jervaze comes in earlier and earlier – he asks me to come over, I don’t have to bring it up.  

    Made me promise to wake him.  I told him I would be “merciless” with him. 

     He wanted to know “how merciless”.  He is pretty cute.  He wasn’t wearing my ring – said he took it off at work because it was bothering him. Uh oh!

     I can imagine. What an idiot I was to give it to him.  Tips have been good –

    – I think I’ll buy a steak on my way over.  He doesn’t eat well at all. I am so hungry I have been stealing saltines from the kitchen.

                              No excitement here. Neither Gina nor Mary pregnant as they thought. Turns out both have flu.   The new girl, Maggie, has been telling me she’s got $35,000 in parking tickets.  She is one of those see-through thin girls who can’t dance at all – but has a great sense of humor.  She injects bute directly into her knees, as if she was a racehorse.

  • Inspired Pleasure – the dance diaries of Alysse Aallyn

         24 Dec 77 – midnight – Plush Palace

                              The Big Day. Go home, sleep, wake up, do laundry, take dogs for shots, buy snow tires.  In a haze of infatuation – Jervaze was in for 5 hours tonight watching me dance with a sense of unmistakable pride.  

    He asked for my phone number so he could call me on Christmas Day – I gave him all of them.

        New York City Dec 25 77 – Fri night.

                                Life is so interesting, Wouldn’t miss it for the world.  

    Lovely intimate family talks – just what family should be doing for perspective on past and future. In two days Avril and I drive out to Michigan to see Merrill – 11 hour drive – tonight’s a dinner in the Village then an early night. 

    Heard of a studio apt on the island – winterized – going for $200/month. 

                          Of course I will have enough royalties for that…or won’t I?  Harcourt royalty dept uncooperative, editor Lauren very cagey.  But won’t the island kill my already comatose sex life?  Whenever I’m away from dancing I miss it. 

     It’s a great substitute for sex but not a complete one alas.   Physical activity vital to my peace of mind.

                              96th St off the Park- New York City –   26  Dec 77

                              Genevieve’s apartment is triggering horrible flashbacks to how sick I was over Ryder at the beginning of last summer. Scary that a man could do this to me. Don’t ever want to get that sick again.  

    Makes me sorry this diary exists – my trusty friend – because it gives misery an actual corporeal reality.

     Burn these sickening wails before I die.  The Victorians always did.

                              Well I’m raring to get back. Not only do I miss the dancing, I miss the bar.  Ah, the nightlife. Always a party atmosphere but I could feel superior for not drinking (or getting high).   I like our status and protections – I like getting paid for exercising, being admired and having fun. This pleasure just cannot be shared – Mom’s face crimps closed – and I am lost in the unredeemable beastliness and ugliness she feels certain it must be. 

                           The fact that I am a feminist and consider myself spiritually in tune with the universe also is incomprehensible to her. (Wives can get into big spiritual trouble too, but I am too tactful to bring that up.) Unfortunately there is no way to defend myself except by attacking back – her  “safe”, closed, restricted world of handmaiden to Dad, feeding and burnishing him like a racehorse, talking him “up” as if she were his sports coach, does not seem to me more inherently saintly. 

                              But to Mom self-loss is what “sainthood” is – you totally do not regard yourself in your care for someone else. The fact that you are puffing them up like a grampus, encouraging them to be completely selfish, is I guess too shockingly cruel to mention. So: I’m stuck in Patient Griselda mode with undeserved imprecations heaped on my innocent head. 

     I wonder if it would be too nasty to talk about how I am sacrificing myself for those poor lonely men who need to look upon a perfect feminine ideal while they swill beer?  Guess I better not. 

                              Mom is fond of saying that love doesn’t work unless 

    you open your heart to the other but you can’t do it without marriage!  

    I say Jervaze and I are “courting” which is a very different thing.  I don’t think I will ever open my heart again. I think perhaps it opens by itself –

     naturally. One might as well tear a flower open and complain about the quality of the bloom.

                              Interesting being here with Brett and Genevieve and 

    watching someone else’s marriage from the outside.  Does not look too enviable. Reading “Eclipse of the Hero in Victorian Fiction.”  He’s in eclipse everywhere else, too, I may add.

        Mon 27th Dec 77 11:00 AM

                              See Dracula on Broadway – pure pleasure with some 

    honest scares.  Frank Langella very sexy.  At Italian dinner Mom and Dad push the idea of the island hard, but I know the old people would never leave me alone.  They’d be worse than Ryder. Still, there’s something magical about being protected from the real world by the ferry – places you can’t get to easily are wonderful just for that reason. 

                              Mom and Dad say further I can’t be serious about my writing or I’d have a job in publishing or magazines!  I’m so rocked back on my heels its hard to even argue. It sounds so sane. But why won’t it result, really, in another “hostage taking” of my soul, which, so, so regrettably, appears to be so damn fragile? Becoming one’s self  is life’s greatest challenge – and so far it does seem necessary to abjure group (gang? Team?) endeavors. Writing doesn’t satisfy unless it comes out of the wild side of me – my secret side. There’s always the temptation to rip open the spider and get the silk out faster. Dad rolls his eyes – it’s the old “I’m an artist so I can do what I want” argument again. How to tell him yes, he’s right. Yes –

    I’m taking advantage of my education, my family, my “privileges”; it’s who they made me.  No going back to some invented Dust Bowl life of drudgery just so THEY can “feel superior & good”. They insist they don’t WANT to “feel good!” It’s about what’s “right!”  My turn to roll my eyes.

        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 Ryder 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 Ryder 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.

                                        Greek Town 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. “