I See You! A Little.

DAY- Int.

VANESSA (V.O.)

I see you!

OSCAR

(smiles and gurgles)

VANESSA (V.O.)

Now I don't...I see you!

CHRISTINE (V.O.)

Monkey! Time to eat?

OSCAR

(distracted, looking away)

VANESSA (V.O.)

He's only got eyes for you.

CHRISTINE

He's only got eyes for the boob. And me.

I am still with the cold, the coughing and the snottiness. But I feel better than yesterday. I am worried about cataloguing, however. Significantly. It is unlike me to let a class go, to the point where I am completely lost. Or, since I have done it, it is exactly like me, I guess. I will work on it today, I swear I will.

The Russian came over last night with juice and made cherry dumplings. I did not like them. But I did like that he came. He told me I smelled, which was true. I'm sick. I told him about my exhaustion, and after a few tries, I think I articulated it reasonably well: I am tired because I want to experience everything the way I used to, with my heart on my sleeve but my sleeve made of steel, I want to have sadness or anger or happiness just be, not something which has to be overcome or slotted away under lessons learned, or dealt with, just be until something else is, to understand it as an experience and not as something that I have to intellectualize until it disappears or turns rotten.

This is why I found the Sophie Calle exhibition so deprimant. Because I was witness to dozens of women doing just that, taking this one experience, which was not even theirs (and the Russian suggested, maybe wasn't Calle's either, maybe she made it up!) and beating at it, sometimes awkwardly and sometimes gracefully. And not even from close up; they all found something that was their own in Calle's letter and it made them cringe and run, hide behind whatever was closest, namely, their careers, and attack it without touching it.

But back to me, me, me. It is tiring that I once could have this and that now it is more demanding and often unattainable for me to be able to live the way I once did and the way that I would like to still. Even for relatively small bumps, I get so tired. It's growing up, I suppose.

In any case, it was a nice evening. I even got to ask about the Russian's distance, independence, whatever that is, and listen to him talk about it. I wonder if there is fear in there somewhere, if it is as basic as, if the world should end, I will lose less if I am far enough away from people that a few books will cut it. That ain't me, bitch. I love my people. I drank some Jameson and fell asleep at 9:30. It was a good sleep.