Ah, the ennui

Darlings, whoever it was woke me up at the crack of noon this morning, calling from an area code of five-one-six, could you not have had the grace at least to leave a message? Where is five-one-six? I have never received a phone call from such a barbaric location.

New Years' Day. Such a bland holiday. I was out until positively four AM. Met such a dear charming fellow, it was a pity he did not know when to stop talking, so earnestly about his travels in Ecuador among the mystically enlightened primitives. Cloud-jungles and things.

We met while listening to Eastern European music at a little French bar in Brooklyn of all places. He said he liked my dancing. I said 'thank you,' of course, as though I had never heard this before. I am a good dancer. It has been a useful talent. You have to give the boys an excuse to speak first. Poor boys, now that I am over thirty (!) I have such compassion for them. Having to say any inane thing, with the risk that nine times out of ten they will be shot down on the first try.

Then he had to keep the conversation going, of course, with such obvious comments on the music being like a Fellini film, it was all I could do to tell him not to be so pretentious. And dancing with me badly. And failing to fetch me a glass of water so that I had to do it myself.

I forget this about boys; that most of them have to be educated.

But he was charming and gentle and kind. It is such a pity he is departing for Ecuador tomorrow.

My resolution this year is to record my life in painstaking detail. Of course I shall fail. Ernest says so. Ernest says I could write the Great American Novel if only I would stop talking for a nonce, but then I never will.