Steve's Edit Suite, Memar, Highlands North

Wednesday, May 19, 2004

Service: N/A
Food: N/A
Ambience: *
Babe Count: N/A

I'm cooped up in Steve's suite, viewing chemistry lessons that will educate Ethiopia's children. Actually, the stuff is so complicated and hard to view that I'm willing to make a prediction... I'll bet that after a year or so of watching these programs -- and it's not just chemistry... it's grades nine to twelve of chemistry, physics, maths, English, biology and civics -- I predict that the school suicide rate will go up dramatically. They're gunna be saying to themselves and their friends, "I'm so so so stupid! I can't understand any of this stuff! It would be better to die!!!"

But maybe it's my mood. I'm waiting for Jacqui's promised email, the one with my good points. Therapy was tough tough tough this morning. Oh man. And Zahava is pregnant. So therapy is going to come to an end in about two or three months.

Jacqui sends me an sms at around 7pm.

I download my mail onto the palmtop. There's an email with an attached document. I read the email feverishly. And it's addressed to "The Red King of the Flower Valley". That's Jacqui's pet name for me. 'Flower valley' is a direct translation of my surname. 'Roy' is French and Gaelic for 'king' and 'red'.

In the covering letter, the email, she thanks me for our ten months together. And she's very generous about that. And she asks me not to contact her again. And she says sorry for changing her mind about resuming couples therapy, and that we won't be doing it.

The attachment itself is beautiful. And luckily I've got my spare jersey with me in the edit suite, cos I bunch it into a ball and wail freely into it. And I don't give a damn if anybody hears me anyway. Fuck them. I'm a man in the throes of deep grief.

And you know what? I'm NOT going to honour Jacqui's request. This whole thing has been entirely on her terms. She's the one who has called all the shots, defined all the parameters. Well, fuck her. I'm also part of this. And her request for me not to contact her is utterly ludicrous. She said some RADICAL shit in Tuesday's email, and she's got some stuff to answer to. She's not getting off that easily.

I don't know if she's reading this or not. In the attachment, she ends off saying that I can write whatever I like about our relationship and breakup, and that she won't be following this site anymore. But I'm curious about something... she's still signed up to receive the email update telling her when content on the site has changed. So who's she fooling? Does she mean to say she's going to receive the update but not look at the site? Why does she want to receive ANYTHING at all from me?

I wonder if she's sent me this confusing stuff as a way of repelling me? Maybe she figures that the best way for me to get over her is to be damn harsh? I dunno. That doesn't feel right. She came across to me in our relationship as a seriously caring and compassionate woman. Why she would write stuff like she did on Tuesday is beyond me. Specially seeing as tonight's email is so love-filled.

So I send her an sms. It says that I reserve the right to make up my own mind as to whether or not I'll contact her. I know that I'm in serious reaction here, and that I'm not about to leap into any decision, especially not one that simply buys into her one-sidedness.

Right now, I've got to stop crying, and start focussing on managing Ethiopia's school suicide rate.

Cafe Nescafe, Rosebank

Wednesday, May 19, 2004

Service: * *
Food: N/A
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * * * *

I'm sure there's a modeling agency somewhere nearby. There is just way too much prime babeflesh jauncing around. All thin and bony, hence, not quite what I'm after, since flesh is what I dig, not the marrow. But heck, it's good to sit here on a weekday morning feasting the eyes. Cos hey, even if I'm nowhere near bedding any of these babes, watching is lovely.

I'm not at work cos I know tonight's crunch night. I've got to sign off the majority of this week's episodes tonight, and it's going to be a late one. It's Steve's last week, and he's got a crushing load of programs to edit. I can only go in at lunchtime, once he's finished, cos I need to use his edit suite to do my viewing, seeing as I do quite a bit of re-editing to get the stuff into the shape I want it in.

So I'm sitting here reading the last few pages of Rushdie's THE GROUND BENEATH HER FEET. A superb book. Highly recommended, though nowhere near the absolute miracle which is MIDNIGHT'S CHILDREN (one of my top three books, along with Nicholas Moseley's HOPEFUL MONSTERS, A.S. Bayatt's POSSESSION, and John Irving's THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARP and HOTEL NEW HAMPSHIRE. Okay. That's five on my top three list. But who's counting?).

However, I can't concentrate. I'm still burning up over Jacqui's unbelievable gutshot of an email.

I send her an sms. "Please send me the email you promised to send me ages ago in which you list my good points."

She messages me back that she'll do it tonight. Great. I'll be waiting.

Primi Piatti, Rosebank

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

Service: * * *
Food: * * *
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * * *

Phone: +27 11 447 0300

Ian Henderson and I are meeting to talk about running workshops together. He's a musician by night, and a trainer by day, amongst other things. And he's just come home from a two-week session in Burundi, doing some kind of strategic intervention.

This morning I was at Wits University, delivering my creativity workshop to the Wits Post Graduate Internship program students. Fourteen high calibre individuals hand selected for an intensive one-month series of seminars, workshops, lectures, all aimed at preparing them for work in the real world.

And it was a delicious experience for me. Serious amounts of supreme babeage in the class. Yeow. Something about being back at varsity. Ah. The hormones.

Over lunch with Stacey at the Hard Times Cafe in Melville, I read through the feedback forms. Seems like I came across as universally excellent, with my name tag game being the big hit of the day.

But for me the big hit was to come around 5 o'clock, in the form of an sms from Jacqui telling me she'd sent me email explaining her aversion to my being in touch with my feminine side.

So, in the edit suite at work, with shaking hands, I clicked my phone to bluetooth, unsheathed my iPAQ palmtop computer, connected to the internet, and downloaded my mail. And there it was. Something from Jacqui. The subject line: "A Hard Letter to Read".

Not kidding, really.

I've agreed with her not to divulge the details of the email, but what I can tell you is that I'm still reeling. She's decided not to go into another session of couples therapy with me, seeing as we're no longer a couple, and her decision is final. And she elaborated on how my being in touch with my feminine side has made her feel over the nine months.

You know the taste you get in your mouth when your filling hits a piece of tinfoil? That electrical nerve-burst? Well, add that to being mashed in the solar plexus by a prize fighter. Then add a squash ball to the right testicle.

Seems that over our nine months together, my feminine side so repulsed her that she had to call it quits. Never mind the supreme sex she readily admits to have enjoyed with me. Never mind the many times she told me, "Roy, I've NEVER felt so loved by ANYBODY!" Never mind the little notes on my bathroom walls from her telling me how much she loves being with me.

Well. Yeah. Never mind those things.

And at the end of the email, a kind of a disclaimer, saying that she realises these feelings are her feelings, and that it's her shit, and that she's dealing with it in her own therapy. Her saying how terribly sorry she is for her role in hurting me. And asking me for my feelings on her letter.

Jeez.

Double jeez.

I'm just totally dazed. I'm reeling. I've never in my history of failed relationships been hammered this hard by anyone. I've never fallen this far in love. And I've never fallen this far through love, to crush myself against the bottom.

Triple jeez with a major goddamn thrown in for good measure.

So I pack it in for the night at work. I can't edit. I can't concentrate on chemistry lessons for Ethiopians. I can't stop shaking, and I'm crying in the edit suite. Not good. Not good at all.

So I fire off a couple of smss to Jacqui as they occur to me. Things like reminding her of instances where her email was inaccurate. She smss me back to say that she understands my anger, and that it's justified, but can we speak about it in a few days, cos anger scares her so much.

Quadruple muthafuckin jeez! Who is this chick??? It's clear to me that I don't know her at all.

So I sit in my car and feel dazed. Then I head for Primi Piatti to make my appointment with Ian. He tells me his sister's here from London. And she's back for good. Gonna stay in South Africa. That she's going to join us for our chat, cos she's got a few ideas of her own.

"I'm still reeling a bit from an email I got from Jacqui," I tell him.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. He's just gone through a painful breakup, but he's now reconciled with his babe, and they're making a go of it. "Oh man," he says.

"So," I say, "is your sister single?"

She arrives. Hoo boy. Blonde bombshell. Self-assured. Bright. A delight.

But I've kinda got this silly rule... Don't do friends' sisters. Don't do friends' ex- or current-girlfriends. Don't do their mothers either. Don't do work colleagues. So unfortunately, I won't be looking at Bridget in that way.

But I WILL be looking at Bianca like that. Yummy. She's also babesville. And she's sent me an email, seeing as her role in the Ethiopian project is over, and we're no longer colleagues. I've sent her one back, and I'm hoping she'll send me her phone number.

"I must apologise," I say to Ian and Bridget. "At the moment I'm far too in touch with my feminine side."

And I eat a quarter of the pesto rossi burger I've ordered, since my appetite has hit the pavement along with my heart.

The Spaza Gallery, Troyeville

Sunday, May 16, 2004

Service: * * * *
Food: * * * 1/2
Ambience: * *
Babe Count: * * *

Phone: +27 11 614 9354
Web: http://www.spazaart.co.za

I'm at the opening of my first art exhibition. I am now officially an exhibited artist. Back in the old days when I defined myself strictly as a poet, I had no idea such a thing could happen to me.

But looking back, I was always peeking over the shoulders of my artist buddies and learning their tricks. I definitely have Miriam to thank for the grounding, and Lionel Murcott for commenting on my stuff, and taking it seriously, and engaging with it over the years.

I've been at the Spaza Gallery since about 3pm, and I'm bored out of my skull waiting for the official opening time of 5pm. Four coffee-coloured children are sitting around me drawing, asking me questions about what it's like being an artist.

Suddenly there's a stomping sound down the passage, and John appears at the door, wild-eyed.

"HAAAAAAA!!!" shouts John. He's a tall chap with a moustache. Looks like there could be a touch of brain damage there. "HAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!" he shouts again. He's very tall, with black hair, a Beatles-style mop. But he's also very skinny. With vast, bony hands.

A very plump woman runs down the passage and tackles him. "Shut up, John! You're getting excited, and you're not allowed to get excited! Shoooosh!!!"

"I'M NOT GETTING EXCITED!!!!" shouts John.

"When you get excited you shout, and you're shouting," she says, her arms still wrapped around him. He leans down and kisses her on the mouth.

"I'M NOT SHOUTING!" he shouts. "I mean," he says, "I'm not shouting."

"That's better," she says. "Now just calm down, okay?"

He bends down and kisses her again. This time, when he bends, his butt sticks through the door. Maya grabs my arm to show me, and she giggles. All of the kids start giggling, pointing at John's bony backside.

My part of the exhibition consists of 78 prints of my digitally originated sketches, the ones I draw on my iPAQ 2210, using NeFa Studio's MOBILE ATELIER freeware. (These pics are the full colour ones you see on this site. The black and white ones are done in ink, in a sketchbook, and those don't get exhibited.) The gallery is selling them at R95 per print, which I'm happy about, cos I just want to get some of them out there into the world.

The opening is quite weird for me. A mixture of terror, banality, boredom, blather, indifference, joy, pride.

The terror comes from knowing that Jacqui will be joining me. After quite a lot of hard thought, I sent her an sms asking her to come to my opening. She's the most significant person to have entered my life in recent history, and I want to share this with her.

My phone warbles. It's Jacqui. "Oh Roy," she says, "I'm lost!"

I talk her through getting to the place, and walk out into the street, down to the corner. I see her car and thrust my thumb out. "Turn left at the corner, and give the hitchhiker a lift," I say.

"I see you!!!" she says, and stops to pick me up.

Oh man. Oh me oh my. She is looking so darn fine. Jeeeez. Ouch. Oh.

Tears immediately before she even manages to park.

I decide that I've got to lay things on the line. I don't really care if she wants to hear this or not, but I have to say it. I've told her in the past that I'm not one for giving up easily. And she knows that I love her. And from our few conversations through the breakup, I know that she loves me. So I say what I need her to know.

"Jacqui," I say, "I want you to know this. I want to be with you. I love you and you love me."

"I love you too, Roy," she says. Her hand is on my cheek, tender. "But I don't want to be your girlfriend. I want to be your friend."

"Are you absolutely sure that we can't try?" I ask.

"I'm not sure," she says.

"Was it something I did?" I ask.

She hesitates. Changes the position of her hand on my face. "It's been almost three months," she says, "and I've had time to get some perspective. And I think one of the things that makes you not right for me is that you're very in touch with your feminine side, and it brings out my masculine side, and I'm not comfortable with that."

Jeepers! This is an eye-opener, a jaw-dropper, a ball-breaker. Women want men to be sensitive. They want them to be in touch. She gets one who's sensitive, in touch, and it's too much for her. But this can't really be it, cos in terms of our sexuality, we're a magical combination. Well, for me, anyway. But from what I can tell, lovemaking for her was also supreme. I dunno. This is weird-out time for me.

I DO know that in the beginning of our relationship, she was a bit of a John Gray adherent, he of the book, MEN ARE FROM MARS, WOMEN ARE FROM VENUS. I happen to be of the school that believes John Gray should be hanged and all of his books burned, because he's really about gender stereotyping, and he causes beautiful women like Jacqui to doubt their own femininity if it doesn't fit within his prescriptive mould. The bastard!

"I've been thinking though," says Jacqui, "that maybe we should go back to Zahava for a few more sessions of couples therapy?"

"I've been thinking that too," I say. Of course, I haven't said anything like this to her before, because I've been giving her the time and space and distance and no-contact that she's asked for. In a very manly kinda way, I thought.

"But I just want you to know that my intention in going to Zahava with you isn't to resume the relationship. It's to decode the things I've been thinking and feeling."

"I understand," I say. "But you're not completely closed to the possibility of us getting back together?" Clutching at bubbles.

She looks at me with a flinch of pity. "Not completely closed to the possibility," she says. She rummages around in her bag. "I've got something special for you," she says. It's a posy of flowers, heart-red, fragrant. "They're the very first sweetpeas from my window-box," she says.

More tears. The window box is her project that I was helping her plan just as we broke up. She's told me that the Travis song on the cd I made for her makes her think of me. It's called "Flowers in the Window", and it's about love and growing old together.

I want to shake her, and get some sense into her. Can't she SEE that she wants to be with me??? Doesn't she KNOW it? Can't she HEAR herself??? Ayee!!! Maybe I can ask John to get excited around her, and she'll see what a catch I am in comparison.

We go into the exhibition, and she's thoroughly proud of me, loves the way the work's been hung. "I helped hang it," says John, his moustache slightly damp with drool.

Hendrik & Neeltjie's Place, Parkhurst

Saturday, May 15, 2004

Service: N/A
Food: N/A
Ambience: *
Babe Count: * * * * *

Okay, so I'm exaggerating the babe count. Dramatically.

This is because I'm at a friend's baby shower. Sheesh. I thought baby showers were like weddings... places to pick up chicks. Chicks desperate to shag, seeing as they're broody and all that.

But no. What I didn't really figure into the equation is that the babes who go to baby showers are mostly married, with children, and wedding rings, and houses, and dogs.

Antoinette's opening all her presents. I can hear her going, "Ooooooooo! This is beautiful!!!" It's a tiny purple babygro. I can see its reflection in the mirror. I'm in the dining room, eating my seven-hundredth cold sausage roll. It's not that I'm hungry. I'm just in terminal soft-on territory.

A baby shower must be one of the most effective forms of male contraception available to humankind.

Although, the redhead with the platinum ring and the husband who drives a BMW Z3 is quite appealing. If only I could get rid of the husband. And any yearnings on her part to have babies.

My Flat, Cresta

Wednesday, May 12, 2004

Service: N/A
Food: N/A
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: N/A

Forgot to mention what I paid last night at Baglio's, and thought you might just like to know. The beetroot-nosed manager voided the food portion of the bill, but I still had to pay for the Grapetizer. So, for one single tin of Grapetizer, I spent a mere R12.90.

And for that, for the sheer meanness of the gesture from our wondrous manager, I will not ever go back to Baglio's.

Baglio's, Nelson Mandela Square, Sandton

Tuesday, May 11, 2004

Service: *
Food: *
Ambience: * *
Babe Count: * * *1/2

Burp. B-b-b-burppp! Yulp. Uhmp.

This is so uncouth. This smaller-than-life-size, yet extremely huge statue of Nelson Mandela is watching me attempt not to retch.

Now why would I be doing such a thing in Sandton, the swishest lap of luxury this side of Cape Town?

Well, it could have something to do with the delicious chicken kebab I've just eaten. Or the nicely cooked, tasty, rice. Nah. I don't think so. Could it be the slice of lemon in the white Grapetizer? Nah, doubt it.

Ah! I've got an idea. Maybe it's the side salad I've saved till last? Yeah! That could be it!

I'm out on the piazza, where the little oil lamps burn, and the babes sit with their equally babeish friends. It's dark. And the lamps flicker gently enough for me to be able to get through a good few pages of Salman Rushdie's THE GROUND BENEATH HER FEET. I'm about halfway through when I start on the salad which I've healthily decided to save for last.

And because I've been trying to spot if it's an engagement ring or a wedding ring on the slinky black-haired Italian-looking cashmere babe two tables away, I'm not entirely observing the state of the salad.

So I pop a slice of cucumber into my mouth and chew. My teeth slide off it. This cucumber is so rotten that my teeth can't actually get a grip on it. Jeeeeeeeeeeeez!

I retch a bit. Get it under control. Sit there staring at the salad for a while. Move the oil lamp closer. The tomato quarters are in exactly the same state of putrefaction. This "salad" may very well have been sweating under a gas heater since the restaurant opened for breakfast this morning. Or, even more likely, it was taken out of the fridge at lunchtime, where it may have been stored after being ignored last night.

The whole pile is rotten.

B-b-b-b-b-burppp! Hands over mouth. I don't want the raven-haired beauty with the dimples to see me vomiting. Far too unslick.

I sit and stare at the salad for a few more minutes. Sip some Grapetizer. Amazing how things lose their taste, isn't it?

Read a Rushdie paragraph eight times.

There's a waiter clearing away some plates. "Excuse me," I say, very politely, very quietly. I'm not at all in the mood for causing a scene tonight. "Could you please ask the manager to come to my table?"

He nods, sees my almost empty plate, and attempts to clear it. I go into tai chi mode, and deflect his hands away, using his own energy to spin him away from the table, in the direction of the manager. He turns again, and tries to take my plate. I try the ice-hockey goalie stance, basically covering the plate with my entire body, praying that my beret will be protection enough against head-injury.

He gives up and goes away.

No manager.

Another waiter. "Please call the manager!" I say.

He also tries to take my plate. But this time it's no more mister nice guy.

I raise my finger, glare at him, and say, loudly, "Uhnhuh!!!! Bring the manager! And leave this plate ALONE!"

The Italian looks up. I burp into my hand. Smile at her. She smiles back. It's definitely an engagement ring.

The manager comes. He's got an alcoholic's nose and cheeks -- red lattice of smashed veins, snarled pathways to confusion and oblivion. A toilet-brush of a moustache.

"Yes sir," he says, in what may very well be an accent he hopes will make me like him. Some kind of faulty upper crust British accent. "How may I be of assistance?"

"I was going to ignore this," I tell him, "but I've decided not to. The rest of the meal was delicious, and I left the salad till last. And took a bite of cucumber. And it's severely off. Fermented."

"Oh my goodness, Sir. I do apologise. Yes. I can see from here that something's amiss. I do apologise. I'm going to follow it up with the kitchen staff and report back to you. But is there anything else I can get for you in the interim? A salad, perhaps? Or something else? A drink?"

His nostrils flare a little when he says "drink". I can tell what he's going to do when this little emergency is over.

I say, "No, nothing thanks. I've lost my appetite."

He goes away. Comes back. "The kitchen staff apologise profusely, Sir. And I do too. I'm really very sorry. This is unacceptable. Totally unacceptable. Can I get you anything else, Sir?"

"No," I say. "I don't want anything else. I'd like to leave now, thanks."

"Well, when you're ready to leave, Sir, please just call your waiter to settle the bill."

"I'm assuming you're adjusting the bill?" I say.

"Oh yes, Sir."

There are several things I can say at this point. I could say, "You actually expect me to pay ANY part of this bill? Are you crazy??" Or I could say, "Nah, an adjustment won't be necessary. The kebab was lovely, and I like the way the retching brings the taste back to me." Or I could say, "Yes, well, can you bring me my adjusted bill then?"

It's the last option I choose.

"Oh, yes Sir," he says.

And my waiter brings me my bill.

"Douglas," I tell him, before opening the bill, "I'm not going to be tipping you tonight, and here's why. It's YOUR job as my waiter to make sure that the food on my plate is edible. Your job is to make sure that rotten food doesn't make it to my table. Now I normally tip 20%, and next time I'm here, if you serve me, and you make sure that I don't get rotten food, you'll get 20%. But tonight you're getting nothing from me. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I get you," he says. "And I'm sorry."

He brings my change, and I leave. And all the way, the black-haired, midnight-moon, love-puddle keeps eye contact with me. How on earth does a dude capitalise on a look like this???

I smother a burp, nod goodnight, and I'm off.

Wiesenhof, Killarney

Monday, May 10, 2004

Service: * * * 1/2
Food: * * *
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * * * *1/2

It's unlikely that Majid is going to beat me tonight, even though he's just taken four points off me. We're playing to 21, and the score has just gone 9-4 in my favour.

Majid's been playing backgammon since he was a kid, and he's one of the top third of players in our club. But I've read his game, and I'm on top of him. Pumping on the pressure. Problem is, he's read me too. Knows which buttons to push. Which is how he's taken four points off me in one game.

"Oh man," he sighs, looking over my shoulder. "I'm a married man."

I put my perving glasses on, and turn to get another look. There's a brunette sitting with her mom and some thug. The thug could be her brother, cos they're on opposite sides of the table, and don't even make eye contact.

She's heavenly. Very sweet smile. No obvious signs of irritation at the Iranian leering at her over my shoulder. No obvious signs of taking umbrage at the bald-headed artist craning his neck to peer at her cleavage. Maybe she likes me already?

Back to the match.

Bloody hell. Majid is catching up.

I make a resolution. No matter how many times Majid threatens to divorce his wife, I'm going to leave my glasses on the table, and play until I'm up to 16-9. I've got to keep that margin to keep hold of the psychological edge. If he catches up more than that, I'm done, cos his confidence will be invincible. So only when I've got that edge will I put my glasses back on and try and see if she's got a nipple stand.

It's time. Yup. She has. A tiny one. But doesn't that mean she's happy to see me???

Nah. Of course it doesn't mean that, but I'm allowed to fantasize, aren't I??

Which brings me, incidentally, to a topic that I feel needs airing. From my experience making love with women, it's come to my attention that very few men know what the hell they're doing in bed. And worse... there are very few women who are in touch with their bodies. So here's a quick crash course for men and women. Please... go and buy these books and read them and practice what the books teach.

The first is Sheila Kitzinger's WOMAN'S EXPERIENCE OF SEX, Flower Press, ISBN 0-620-10046-X. The second is Margo Anand's THE ART OF SEXUAL ECSTASY, Aquarian, ISBN 1-85538-251-2. And the third is Barry and Emily McCarthy's SEXUAL AWARENESS: ENHANCING SEXUAL PLEASURE, Star, ISBN 0-352-32212-8.

It actually doesn't matter WHAT book you get. Just get something that catches your eye. Do not be embarassed about this. You owe it to yourself and your love partner to know what's what in bed (and out of it).

It upsets me that there are hundreds of thousands, no, millions of women, possible billions, walking around not having had a decent knobbing from a dude who knows how to deliver serious pleasure.

But right now, Majid is delivering serious sexual pleasure to me. He's given me the taste of sweet victory. I've beaten him 21-14. Hoograaaaaah!!!!!!

And the food was okay. I had the latest special... chicken stirfry with penne. Noone's fantasy meal, but nice enough to have again next week.

"Hey Roy," says the good doctor, Peter Wisniewski, from across the room. "You misquoted me on the website."

I reported a conversation I had with him on this site on Monday 19 April. Seems I got the short end of the stick.

He says, at the top of his voice, "I didn't say you had to massage the prostate! I said that in cases where there's a problem with the prostate, ejaculation every day is good. I didn't say anything at all about anally massaging the thing!"

Matt pipes up from somewhere else in Wiesenhof. "Well what DID you say exactly?"

I say, "Well, he told me his wife needed a prescription, and it involved the finger, and daily milking of the prostate."

"Yes, well," says Doc Peter.

The Ocean Basket, Rosebank Zone

Sunday, May 09, 2004

Service: * * * 1/2
Food: * 1/2
Ambience: * *
Babe Count: * * * 1/2

The babe count is almost acceptable, cos I'm sitting facing the Rosebank Zone escalator, and there are enough teenage vamps learning high-heel swagger to keep my hormones half-topped up.

I've just seen a vaguely amusing movie, and I've truly already forgotten its name. Something to do with "Polly". Probably something like, "And Then Came Polly". Or "Along Came Polly." Well, bad news. She didn't come. Not once. Not that I could make out, anyway. The movie gets a big fat 2 out of 10 on the Roy-O-Metre.

Made me feel hollow and empty and sad and glum and in dire need of a relationship with a woman who can actually tell that I'm an okay dude to be with and who can make the simple decision to commit. (I'm not mentioning ANYBODY'S name now, am I? If you wanna read between the lines, that's your business, yeah?)

I order the fish and chips special, but with rice instead of chips. It arrives. And there's this little midget piece of fish in the pan. And the rice is on the verge of being mealy from being undercooked. And it all tastes like cardboard.

But maybe that's cos even freshly squeezed virgin juice would taste like cardboard to me right now, seeing as I'm in a foul mood.

All because of the conversation with Jacqui on Friday night.

Ah well. The massage was beautiful. And I've bought Jacqui a voucher for one too. Talk about mixed messages.

On the plus side, there's the exhibition of my portraits at the Spaza Gallery in Troyeville this coming Saturday. I was there earlier today. And it's deep in the Bronx. Really. I'm not going to be expecting ANY of my friends to come to this opening. Heck... I'm not even sure I can make it myself, cos an ex-girlfriend of mine has invited me to her baby shower on Saturday, and then later in the evening I'm doing one of Chantal Nativel's shamanic trance dances.

But hey. My work's going to be up on the walls, with price tags affixed. And hopefully those little red stickers that say, "SOLD!" Not that I'm going to make a trillion bucks off this gig. Cos nobody really knows about the Spaza Gallery except for fringe artists. I found out about the place through Lionel Murcott, my artist buddy whose work adorns my walls. He's starting up his portrait circle again, and I'm part of it, and we're going to be doing it at the gallery on Wednesday or Thursday nights.

Spiro's, Melville

Saturday, May 08, 2004

Service: * * 1/2
Food: * * 1/2
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * * 1/2

Spiro's can be a really glum place. At times, the service sucks stale croissants. This afternoon is one of those days. I'm here with Stacey, and I haven't eaten anything all day, and I'm really quite fiercely hungry, and I've ordered the roll stuffed with bacon and scrambled egg, with just one proviso, one silly little old proviso that any kitchen should be able to get right: no goddamn fat on the goddamn bacon, gottit???

Of course, the waiter assured me he had the order. I made extra eye contact and made triply sure.

So the food has arrived. And I open up the roll just to make sure. Not only does this bacon have fat. No. It's actually ALL fat, with a few tiny streaks of bacon inside.

"J.J!" I call. (This is NOT the same J.J. from the Spur debacle. This is another unfortunate soul with the same acronym.)

He scuttles up. I lift the roll. I point at the mounds of ghastly bacon fat.

I say, "Before we go any further, J.J., I have to explain to you that I am extremely hungry, and when I'm hungry, my blood sugar is low, and when that happens, I get extreeeeeemely irritable. I asked you for no fat, and this is ALL fat. Please take it back and make it again."

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry," he stammers. Takes the plate, runs to the kitchen with it.

Comes back about fifty seconds later.

"J.J.," I say, "did they simply cut the fat OFF MY FOOD?"

He smiles. Shrugs. "Yes."

"That's not possible, J.J., cos there was NO BACON. It was ONLY FAT!"

I open the roll up. There's a measly streak of bacon. I probe further. Under the bulk of the scrambled egg is another nest of bacon fat.

"Sorry, Stacey," I say, "but this is unacceptable. And I'm on the verge of popping. J.J., take this away, and bring the bill. We're leaving."

"Aw," he says, "they got it wrong. I'll get them to make it again from scratch. No fat. I promise."

My blood sugar might be low, but he's imploring very sweetly, so I give them another chance.

The reason my blood sugar's so low is that I woke up quite late this morning, and didn't have quite the amount of time I needed in order to eat AND get to my kahuna massage on time. So I ate the last five pieces of corn thins in the house with a bit of jam while I dressed. They taste a bit like stale popcorn, but they're really lovely with salami and cheese.

The kahuna massage is a gift Jacqui gave me for my birthday on the 17th of February. It's at Skin Sense in Rivonia, a really swanky place with a three month waiting list. So the earliest I could take my massage was today.

Yesterday morning I got an SMS from Jacqui wishing me a happy massage, and asking me to enjoy it with the love with which it was given. I sent her a message back to say thanks. Then I lay on my bed for half an hour crying.

I've agreed to Jacqui's request not to make contact with her. And here she is sending me loving smss again. (The last one I got from her came in response to my news that I'd finished my screenplay. She congratulated me. I cried then too.)

Later last night, late, I got another sms from her, saying that she's worried about me, and asking if I'm okay. So I sent her one back kinda asking her why she's sending me messages when we'd agreed on no contact, and asking her if she's okay, and asking her what she wants from me, and mentioning that it's coming across as really selfish on her part to be making contact with me, but denying me that same contact. So I got another sms from her asking if she could call me. So I said yes, and my home phone rang.

And in the hour-long call, we both wailed from start to finish. And she misses me. And I miss her. And I want her back. I want her in my life.

I tell her about an insight I've had in therapy. Zahava has mentioned a technical term called cathexis. The definition I'm about to give is a total busk, and may very well be completely wrong, but it's what I've understood of the term. "Jacqui," I say, "cathexis is something that happens in the development of a child. When it's really small, its world consists of it and its mother. In an abusive or dysfunctional family, the baby and the mother become inseparable. The baby thinks it IS its mother, and vice versa. There are no boundaries. And while this is normal for the first year or two, it's supposed to end, with proper boundaries being set up. In my case, it seems those boundaries weren't set, cos of my mom being alcoholic, and probably cos my dad was abusing her."

Jacqui's listening through her tears. And I'm sort of blubbering along as best I can. I say, "I think that what's happened between you and me is cathexis. By being in a close intimate relationship with you, I've cathected you. I've made you into my ideal woman, and I've become absorbed by you, and I've absorbed you. Which accounts for your feeling enveloped by the relationship."

Evantually, we rang off, and I cried myself to sleep.

I don't understand why she wants contact with me, but doesn't want me. I don't understand why she's hanging onto me, when I've been quite clear with her that I've let her go, and that I'm trying to move on. I don't understand why we're not together. Cos while there's a PART of me that might have cathected her, there are humungously healthy and aware parts of me, the majority of me, that loves her in a completely normal way. And she loves me too. What's with this woman!!??

Jacqui... please make up your mind about me. Stop with the mixed messages. Move on. Find a nice boy to make love with. Compare him to me. Then phone me and ask to come back. And yes, I'll honour your request. I'll welcome you back, provided I'm not in a happy and loving relationship with someone else. But stop with the confusion. I don't need it, and neither do you.

So this morning I get another sms from her, telling me that she's terrified that our contact last night might have given me hope. So I wait till evening to send her my reply. Which is a nine-part epic sms telling her that I'm responsible for my feelings and my hopes, and that these have nothing to do with her at all. And that she's responsible for her feelings. And that there's nothing she can say or do to stop me from having hopes of reconciliation.

And she sends me an sms back to say that she's relieved.

I dunno.

Anyway. Who knows how the heart works? It's confusing and it's sore. And all I really know for now is that I'm very, very hungry, and I need to eat.

Stacey's just having a slice of carrot cake and some tea. We're not really on a date. Just kinda coffee-shopping together. It's unlikely that anything's going to happen between her and me. Possibly cos of a lack of chemistry. More likely cos I'm nowhere near being able to consider another human being as relationship material. Which in her case means a shag's out of the question.

J.J. brings my meal. And it survives the inspection. And they've put triple the expected amount of bacon inside.

"I wonder if I can spot where they've spat in it," I say to Stacey.

"Nah," she says. "You're probably so used to the taste by now."