(no subject)

:
By electronic means, I have conversed a bit more with З___. Last month, our meeting had just reminded me of all the reasons we had grown apart. I had made efforts to speak my voice as soprano and not tenor, since I did not want to complicate matters with issues of gender. The only comment he made about my appearance was a good-hearted jibe that I had gained weight, which was frankly true. (I may say I do not want to become Mother, but even I am not sure what the truth is.) The electronic messages are terse, and my Russian is not conversational. I suspect we will continue to grow apart. (I apologize for disappointing those who were expecting a happenstance more ribald.)

I have been living my life. I had to barter away my first-edition Crespins, but I believe I profitted significantly. I obtained two tickets for the Umbrielian's second-week programme: Harbison's operatic adaptation of The Great Gatsby, still with its original cast. Shamefully, I could think of no one on such short notice to come with me, nor who I wanted to share the extended flight to and from the theater.  I sat next to an empty seat. This was all the more shameful in how the production was in English and thus much more accessible than my usual fare. 

In the opera, the eponymous noveau-riché hosts frequent parties in hopes that the object of his affection will attend. She never does.

This week, had a brief interlude with K___, who reminded me of Gatsby in how she talked about her responsibilities as a hostess for an affair that never brings the proper audience. Not the same thing as Fitzgerald, I know, but I could not help but see similarities. Really, I worry about becoming Gatsby myself, attempting to lure folks to my controlled environment to celebrate together, but knowing in my heart that I will only attract the pale shadows of what I am seeking. I do not like my defeatism.

As I write this, I found rough notes for an aborted entry about how angry I was only a week before, when I felt that others at the klatsch were taunting my aesthetic tastes because displays of my petulant ire amuse them.  I am sometimes asked why I am so recondite, and I was reminded that was one of the reasons -- because I sometimes fear that familiarity with me can fuel contemptuous behavior.  Now as I write, I am reminded again of the alienation I feel from lack of familiarity.  Every now and again, there is a spark in the conversation, a turn of the tide, a darting glance or a witty remark from some other soul that reminds me of the promise the world has to offer me.

I wonder of the lessons of Gatsby. Am I destined to be uninvited? Like his cousin, should I embrace what I am instead of what I fancy myself to be?  There is much to ponder.

Tonight: e.e. cummings' Complete Poems 1904-1962 and the Jeffrey propeller.