Laptop Batteries Out of Juice

I just watched Shakespeare In Love, which I last tried to watch on one of the nights when D and I ended our affair a few years ago, but we ended up boinking, as one mostly does in an affair, so I never got to finish the film. I really liked it. Actually I drank a bottle of wine with it, and so I’m all giggly and weepy. Manny and I rented Misery the weekend he died, but we never got to watch it, either. I mean, he died. Regardless, I paid something like $50 to Superstar when I finally returned the video, after the burial. I told them, “My lover died, I didn’t get to see it.”  They charged me anyway. I will watch that movie someday. The narrrative of my love life is linked to films–mostly missed. Between lovers, I am getting caught up on the mound of Italian neo-realist, French New Wave, and Korean horror films that I wouldn’t subject anyone else to but myself. Will my next love share my taste in film? Or lack thereof? I was really nervous about my presentation at the library. It was actually fun, and I pulled it off, mostly, although in my nervousness I forgot Piero della Francesca’s name, and had to skip over most of the reason behind my series Ideal City because of it. Speaking of narrative, man, am I having a rough time with Bob’s complete exploitation of his experience with me. I remember him scribbling notes on his yellow pads while I was still post-orgasmic groggy, but I never imagined that he was taking notes about what had just transpired. The more I read of his latest book, the more resentful and angry I become, primarily because of his partial absence from the relationship and simultaneous denial of responsibility for its end. The details are fun, though. Today Peter and Luis and I went to see the Deco show at the Legion, and they confirmed my anger–Bob’s wonderful and brilliant, but he’s a cold distant fish and I am a live hot tomato. A successful entree we do not make. I’ve told him he could have everything, pretty much, I just want him to leave. I don’t want to be as materialistic as he is, although I do get to keep the Wormley sofa, if only because it’s too big to fit in his house. I’m now just another character in his autobiographical fiction–Ed, Denny, Kathy, Bruce, Nayland, L, Mack, etc… I wonder if he believes the fiction that he’s contextualized us all in? I don’t remember what the theme of this paragraph was supposed to be, but I’m sleepy, so forgive my lack of coherence and structural integrity and sleepum tightums.