8/31/96 - Existentialisme sur la plage

3PM - 8/31/96 - More Mesa Beach

A profoundly foggy day here at the beach. The sun is visible and I assume I'm absorbing UV like nobody's business, but it's a weird atmosphere. Visibility is about 200 feet in any direction, and it's hard to know how many people are here. Not too many, obviously; I can only see one other guy sitting, gorgeous with hair shorter than mine, tall and smooth. Others have walked up and down the beach, only to disappear into the fog.

My neighbor with the razor cut knew another demi-god who was strolling down the sand. They embraced, naked body to naked body, and stood talking for about twenty minutes. So at ease, while I glanced furtively from time to time at them, envious and lusting. Do I have the will power to look like that while I'm still young? I sometimes feel like I'm wasting so much brain power on wanting to be like them, formulating diet and exercise strategies and compromises, shaving my body, when I could be doing so many other things, things that are more enduring than the degree of man you're able to pick up because you've tortured your body into a certain shape.

My priorities are so out of whack. This isn't the life I expected, that my gifts let me to expect.

I started this entry thinking about what a typically good Santa Barbara day I was having: sunny (inland, at least), the bakery, farmer's market, Trader Joe's, the paper, and a trip to the beach, to be followed by a barbecue this evening at Pa'mela's. And now I'm depressed.

I just read a couple of back entries in this journal, and realize there are certain words I need to purge from my writing: definitely, relatively, a bit, nice. Astrid Sinclair, where are you when I need you?

[Astrid Sinclair was my high school English teacher, sophomore and senior years. Brilliant, iconoclastic, persnickety. I miss her.]

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