The Cambridge Chronicles

There is something going on. My asshole has tightened up again. Sometimes there is a little blood in my shit. Simone thinks its just a hemorrhoid. Maybe, but those, for me, always come from tension. Once, several years ago, when Adele and I were going to meet in Harvard Square, and several days before it was to happen, the most enormous hemorrhoid suddenly developed. It was almost like a balloon. But the day after the meeting it was gone! Its painful. I can't seem to get it to relax. Not even tightening up and relaxing helps. My mother called yesterday. Happy birthday, she says. Things are going well for her. But my sister has presented a problem. She is not letting her children visit their grandmother this summer. She's done so for the last 8 years. Not the right atmosphere, or something like that she says. Simone has just called from Inman Square. She, Daniel, and Joe are having a pizza. She invites me to join them. Later. Joe and I go to the office. Something I've just realized: people that Simone and I know are fucking with each other more than Simone and I. Lois with Dana and Joe. Joe with Roberta. Or not fucking. But she thinks about it as Gordon would be terribly hurt if she did something like that. She doesn't think he's the one as he is not financially secure. Simone thinks the same of me sometimes. Also, that I am 36 and almost 40. She thinks more of leaving me and going back to Michael, but he won't have her. Michael and I talked about her smothering quality. How she wants to totally consume and surround someone. She then says that any reluctance or resistance to this is a fear of getting close. Maybe, but if someone doesn't want then its stupid to push for it. I got real mad at him for the thing with bringing people over to the house. But then we talked for some time about Simone and problems dealing with her in the present. I told him he has a lot of dirty laundry that he hasn't cleaned and that the way he is dishonest with her is poisoning their relationship. He stays cool and rational all the time. I raise my voice and get flustered at his non-response. Later Simone tells me that he was livid. Only holding back his real feelings. She confessed to me last night. She tried to make me jealous by leading me to think that Phil, the man who helped her make my cake, wants to have an affair with her. The confession came after we were lying in bed and I noticed how one of her legs was very nervous and jumpy. With her this always means something, like a thing she hasn't told me is bothering her. Last night we went to Jean and Toni's Valentine's Day party. I took some polaroid pictures. Dana wouldn't let me have the one of him and Suzanne. It enraged me. I felt vulnerable and helpless. It was the sort of situation where I seriously considered responding completely out of proportion to the incident. It was like suddenly being dowsed with cold water, except the external physical feeling was one of great heat. My face was very flushed. I could not look at him directly. It was like something cold and hard had just grabbed and squeezed my
heart. I was like times in my childhood when someone who is bigger takes my hat and then won't let me have it. Or maybe two people throw it back and forth and keep it away from me. It was exactly that feeling which came up. After it was over I spent some time thinking of an elaborate explanation of why he shouldn't do such a thing. For example, that it caused this in me and does not give me a good feeling about him. That we want to live together without doing these things to each other. And so on. But there is something wrong with this. Its like closing the barn door after the horse has escaped. Why didn't I see what he was doing? Why did I let myself fall into that state? What he did had little importance in relation to what it caused me to feel. And it was only evoked by some small part of the situation. Now it is possible for me to realize that he was only playing. That mood was present in his tone of voice. At the time I did not hear it. But my response went on for some house that evening and for a little while this morning. Until I realized what was being made of this. Namely, something from almost nothing. On the other hand I enjoy playing this sort of game with people. Usually I get called a trouble maker. But there is something very exciting about causing this sort of trouble. As a boy, in school, in Burlington Wyoming, some of the older kids would pay me money to shout things in public. Who knows what it was now, but they wanted it said. They paid me and I would yell it in the general direction of whoever they wanted to hear it. Mostly it was out the window of a bus. The culprits wanted to be able to get away from the scene quickly. Simone's old boss at Mass Mental took a poll of some 20 people to see how many wanted her to live with me. Two, Lois and Ann, voted for me. Lois knows me best of all those people. Ann hardly at all. Simone has started asking all her friends the same question. Almost all of them say she shouldn't. You will only be hurt in the long run, they say. It seems as though I'm writing more about other people or things outside myself. Me gets to be more and more like a greased bean. Lots of little things are going on, but I keep trying to see some pattern or make some sense of them. Lee, in his last letter about what I wrote while on FH this Christmas, says to tie it all together somehow. It can't be. Everything changes everyday. One conclusion can be turned upside down the next day or the next moment. It seems like something is clear, then I learn some new fact and don't know what is going on. It seems as though he says to build some sort of system out of all this that can be packaged and used by others. But the package is constantly bursting at the seems. It constantly changes shape and size. Sometimes I think about writing a moral or conclusion to everything that I've written, but then something else changes and I'm no closer. In a bookstore today I see a book about writing to develop one's self. Then I think about giving up on this whole venture. Its already been done. But reading some parts leads me to think that those people aren't really writing about what's going on inside themselves. I sit here struggling with myself to see if this is also a fault of mine. Is this really what I feel and think? Often its not, but from time to time I have the feeling of exactly hitting the bullseye. Often others who read what I write say the same. Sten has been particularly encouraging. He says it may be my form of the SD, in which case its not bad. He says its very good. Judy has recently told me how something written about my relationship with her explained it exactly. Enough praise. Why am I feeling so hot in my face? The stress from the last few days has caused some bug(s) to get the upper hand. I cough a bit and have a slightly sore throat. Ron and Ellen have broken up. Dana immediately took credit for it. But it may come as a surprise that people only use others as an excuse for ending a bad relationship. The new order often turns out to be only the lesser of two bad deals. And that reminds me, Simone has a new deal for me. You can have your own room if I can have my cats, she says. Still up to getting her way. But Dana does not wants cats either. What will her next ploy be? Why is my face so hot? It happens when I feel shame or am very self-conscious. Am I feeling this or a little sick? The rest of me feels fine. I have the sort of cough that indicates my mini-cold is going away. What was the pattern I noticed about my health the other day and can't remember now? My ears are also a bit hot. I don't feel nervous or agitated. Maybe something to do with the struggle to let out what is inside. I'm trying to put it to paper, but nothing stands out in my head. Simone is trying something with Michael to get him to move. Not from where he is, but emotionally. She wants to improve her chances with him should she decide to end things with me. First she will talk mostly about him and his work, agreeing with most everything he says. This goes on for about a month. Then she springs the trap after he has stepped in and exposed himself to her. Its not clear exactly how this will work but she makes a lot of plans of this sort. It never works out. Too many things happen before she gets to the end of the plan. Then a new plan has to be made. So it goes with all my planning and fantasies. A month ago I could never have anticipated the situation as it exists today. What can I say about one month from now? Probably far too optimistic. My fantasies make much faster progress than my facts. I am thinking, why not send a copy of these notes to Michael? It will certainly stir up the pot. Do I want to make more trouble? YES! You can't make muddy water without some mud. If there is anything to stir up then do it. That was not as clever as I'd intended it. Something about mud, clear water being deceptive, and what happens when one stirs up the bottom of the bucket. I'm chomping at the bit to stir something up with Dana and the redhead. They were here for awhile this morning but didn't have much to do with us. A very proper couple. Handsome and well dressed. Very polite. Would I like to know what's really going on! Dana keeps her away so nothing will happen to alter the romantic and mystical view she has of him. But I will look for the chance. Then zap. It seemed I had it for just a moment this morning. I could have made something of a short time when kissing with Simone. She came out of the bathroom and saw us for just a moment. Hesitated for just a moment, then turned and went to Dana's room. Or was this just my imagination? But for just a moment there was something in the air. Just now Dana comes in the door. I get a little self-conscious about writing this. Quick, hurry on to something else, another topic, like bats or computers. Its also time to get ready to go to that fancy French restaurant where Simone is taking me this evening. One can get there only with an appointment. Here I am all dressed up in this monkey suit and she still has left her place. Back to the keyboard. Thinking about writing for reading, or am I writing for writing? Often who will read this influences what I write. But Sten says to write only for myself. I think about it and write about it and it all gets confused. Don't know where I am. It was a lot easier writing on FH. I had no intention of letting anyone read my writing. That has changed drastically. There is the possibility of making this whole think into a book. Then I get all kinds of advice about how to do that. How to express this frustration about writing, but not that, about saying something of myself. LIke a problem in school. One thinks and thinks about it, gets frustrated, cries, gets mad, throws things, gives up or finds a solution. This thing is impossible. It goes on forever. Every solution leads to a better question. Every new question leads to more emotional rummaging around in the past, present, and future. Why not just stick to a presentation of what's happening as best I see it? Why this constant searching for resolution of my difficulties? Why not indeed. The moment the question is presented an answer appears. So who wants all these difficulties?One moment it looks like clear sailing, the next moment is in the middle of a tornado. Over and over again, the same predicament. I can't explain it. I try to explain it. I get frustrated. Then It seems I've written to much nonsense that this makes me feel like a fool and even more frustrated. Here I sit arguing with a piece of paper. It takes everything I throw at it. Makes no difference. Sense or nonsense, its all the same to the paper. It throws it right back at me. You said it, buddy. Not me. Is it possible that other people find themselves confronted with the same sort of nonsense inside their heads? Somehow I find it impossible. It makes me want to laugh. Could anyone else ever get themselves so caught up in such a mental mess, a self-made spiders web. Like a person who goes to relax in a hammock only to find themselves thrown to the ground or hopelessly tied up in a thousand strands of endless rope. And the best solution is to do nothing. Its not really there. There isn't anything here. Its all fabricated from a million little prune pits somewhere deep inside my brain, and all controlled by little pokes from the past, or fears from the future. In a way it feels as though I've just battled my way out of a hole. Dana comes by to ask if anything has been written about him and Suzanne. Yes, I say, but its still going on. You can have it when I leave. Its all in the notebook. This next part is interesting. I thought about writing it for writing first. Then I thought about writing it for reading. But I did think about just writing it first. Does that make a difference? Here it is: the sexual situation has been sporadic. Last night nothing. Night before was very good. The night before that was probably one of the best times I've had with Simone. In the beginning I was not horny. Hadn't been all day. That was Thursday. The bus ride to Sturbridge does it. So we are laying in bed. She wants me to feel her. Time to go to sleep, I say. No its not, she says. Finger me, she asks. No, maybe tomorrow. She begins to play with my prick. It soon becomes interested. The rest of me continues, however, in the same vein. Roll over and go to sleep, I say. She starts to breath harder. She starts to masturbate. The prick gets more and more interested. The rest of me goes out to lunch. And so this goes on for sometime. She is now very horny and won't take no for an answer. But she gets it anyway. Now she's on top of me. The rest of me decides to follow the prick. We turn over and I am on top of her. We fuck. She raises her legs and ass into the air. She is almost bent over double. Her legs are out to the side. I am inside her and moving up and down. We both feel connected. More so than many times in the past. She almost, or maybe has her first orgasm with me inside her. It is very good for me. I know exactly when an orgasm is the best. My prick stays enlarged after I come. It is not very hard, but is larger than normal. A difficult or forced orgasm causes my prick to shrivel up and feel uncomfortable. The rest of my body will have a nervous spasm now and then. Later we both realize it has been one of the best sexual times for us. I tell her about my plan to resist her advances the same way in the future. No you don't, she says, and whacks me one. So that's the story.