Sep 4, 2001

Monday.

I'm sitting at a Chinese restaurant near Largo Argentina. Alone. I'm not into loneliness but often I like being alone. Me that keeps company with Me can often be very entertaining. Often. But not always.
I keep a little notebook and black ballpoint pen in my purse. Inbetween plates, I take it out and write. And with a glass of wine (one glass, not ten) I relax and spread ink On The Page. I observe the others. And myself. It's fun. It's happy. It's existential.
Sometimes it's the post-existential meal where Alone can get heavy. All of that interior energy you've animated has to go exterior. How? More wine? No, that makes you pathetic. A stop at Feltrinell's to buy more books that you'll never read? No, intellectuals who are consumers become New Wave Bourgeois. Home alone? No, you've already been alone for lunch. (Being You and just You for an extended period of time can be dangerous). Hardcore sex? Yeah! Unfortunately the boyfriend's at work and even if he could come home, the housekeeper's there keeping house. So what can you do? Keep writing because there's nothing like black ink on white paper to keep you colorful.

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