Why do I have this compulsion to write everything like this? I am obsessed with this journal. I am constantly narrating to this stranger and to myself. I derive such voyeuristic pleasure in writing these notes, these musings. I have become so intensely aware of myself, my actions, my lows, my highs...my everything.
I had a lovely evening out. Showered, gelled and perfumed, I set out to walk the downtown. Spent a couple of hours ambling around in one of those huge shopping malls which has everything from clothes to coffee and books. Drifted in and out picking up small gifts for a friend who is leaving. Thought of having a coffee but it was the time of day when I would have enjoyed a vodka or a beer. But no such luck in my city. Pubs are still meant for couples and groups of friends. Of course single men are most welcome in these pubs. Not so for sigle women. We can be grabbed and squeezed. Going to a pub alone is equivalent of being a whore. So that settled the matter. Fantsised for sometime about a pub which caters only to women or courteous men who accept a woman's no to be a no.The former may be possible but I have no hopes for the latter. I must admit that it is possible for two women to spend a quiet evening. Being single screws it up.
Took a bus back home and enroute picked up a film from the nearby video library. Reached home, spent soem time with my aged father and then walked up to my apartment. Switched on the world space radio and set it to country music. Chopped vegetables, sipped some irish cream whisky and let the stew simmer. Decided to write a little before I settled down to 'Mystic River'.
Mmmm...the soup/stew really smells good. Any takers?
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