I meant to go down to the pool today, but in the end I took counsel of my fears and just...couldn't.

I can't even explain why. Maybe it was because other people were down there. There is a rule about being a single male--- you're a social pariah. No one likes seeing single males anywhere. If people are anywhere--- a party, a dinner, the pool ---in a group, a stray single male is the last thing they want to have around. People were in the pool today--- a reasonably romantic couple early this afternoon, a group of friends later. As a single male, I just couldn't go down there. I'd have been in the way. No one needs a stray single male.

And of course I still feel...awkward...in swimming pools. As a stray single male, I'd be down there with no one to talk to. That's maybe okay if you're relentlessly swimming laps, but it's disheartening when you're just trying to cool off and get something of a tan.

Being honest with myself, though, I'd have to say that I always feel physically awkward in a poolside setting. I feel old and unattractive and contemptible. I don't feel attractive or valuable enough to be seen at a pool. Leggy girls in bikinis and their male companions--- they can be in a pool. I can't think that I measure up to any standard of attractiveness. Being in the pool, doing anything social, anything physical--- that's for attractive people. I might be able to go down alone late at night, but I can't do it if other people might be around. I'm too convinced that my age and looks leave me open to contempt and derision.

Let's call it a Velvet Rope Fear. I wouldn't be surprised--- I'd take it as expected ---if people told me not to be in the pool, that they shouldn't have to look at unattractive people, and that my presence was just...not acceptable. Being seen in a social setting, being seen as a body--- that's only for the attractive.

I live above a pool. I can look out my window and see people laughing and drinking. I can see one vur' tall girl with a runner's body there in a teal bikini. There's not a chance in hell that I can go down and lie out in the sun or be in the water. I live above a pool. I pay rent here. But I'll be fish-belly white all summer. I'm too ashamed--- and afraid ---to go down to the pool.

This morning I did go early to the coffeeshop. I ordered iced coffee and made another attempt at "Tender is the Night". The opening page or two is brilliant; I'll give it that. And I have been able to get past some of the more florid writing. Mister Smylie tells me that the ending makes much of the middle worthwhile. We'll just have to see. I was never a great fan of Fitzgerald, but I do want to get through "Tender is the Night" (was it ever filmed? when?) and probably "This Side of Paradise" as well. I haven't read Fitzgerald since I was an undergraduate, but somehow I want to go through at least some Fitzgerald again this summer. Fitzgerald just seems like a summertime read, and I'm woefully short of books that fit into summers...

Today is 1. June of the Year Eight. I've been here for seven months. It still doesn't feel like home. It's a place where I sleep and keep my clothes. My stufflings are here, and some of my books, and my Tare Panda Laptop. But there's no emotional resonance here, no sense of belonging. It's not just that it's a rented flat. My apartment at Auburn felt like home; so did my rooms in Vienna. It's not a bad little flat. Not at all. It needs a table and a Comfy Chair, true, but that can be fixed. I can go out on the patio at night and drink single-malt Scotch. I can walk to work every day. But there's no feeling of belonging. Nothing good has happened here yet. The Small Sea Otter came to visit briefly, but we didn't order pizza. My brother's family dropped by one evening after Christmas, true. But no friends have been over, and certainly the bedroom remains unchristened. I just feel...temporary.

1. June of the Year Eight--- today begins one more three-month cycle of entries here. I print off my entries and have them bound every three months. I've been keeping an on-line journal since June of the Year Two. I'm closing in on Mr. Pepys' record--- counting the paper journals I kept from the Spring of 1998, I may well have gone past Mr. Pepys' main diaries. I will just note that there are still a few people out there from the summer of the Year Two who are still in touch with me. That does mean a lot to me. I hate losing people. I hate losing Voices.

The Season Two finale of "The Tudors" is up tonight. Anne Boleyn was executed in May 1536. Henry was forty-five or forty-six at the time--- something like fifteen years older than Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. Henry had eleven years left to live when Anne Boleyn was executed--- eleven years to go through four more wives and father a male heir. I can see "Dexter" going through a third season, but it's hard to imagine "The Tudors" staying the course through the rest of his reign--- not if they want to give any real time to the dramatic high points. Jane Seymour's pregnancy and death, the rise and fall of Catherine Howard, the execution of Thos. Cromwell, the fall of the Duke of Norfolk--- those are all major points, and of course the old "Six Wives of Henry VIII" series gave them serious treatment. I just don't know that "The Tudors" can go at least the two further seasons the story needs...

I still hate it that soft_melodies vanished. I'll be as angry about that as I was when the_sea_the_sea vanished.

Moderation is a virtue only in those thought to have an alternative... The quote is from Dr. Kissinger, though I do wonder if he isn't paraphrasing Prince Metternich.

Sunday night... I should go to Red Flower and get takee-outee, but I just can't. I feel tired and empty, and my Small Black Saturn is safely in covered parking this evening. I'm not about to give up a covered parking spot. My little car will stay there through the week while I walk to work. I'll take it out again next weekend to go off to the coffeeshop and the Zeppelin Pilots' Club--- and for a much-needed car wash.

The lovely artemislives drives a white Audi A-4. Dear God--- ever since seeing the two "Transporter" films, I've been wild to have a black or grey A-4. Not that I have the wardrobe required of anyone driving an A-4, let alone the required Leggy Estonian Supermodel in the passenger seat. I just can't believe that artemislives hasn't Christened her Audi with Wicked Sex... It's a car that requires champagne, cocaine, and high-speed sex.

No takee-outee tonight. And no place close enough to walk to for dinner. I could order pizza, but that's just not what I want. I can microwave Instant Asian food, or just do popcorn while I watch "The Tudors". In a better world I might have neighbours or friends who'd go with me for sushi (if--- ahem ---they'd drive), but I probably will just do popcorn tonight.

The most-pettable little K-dot at citydress tells me that my diet is simply a mess. Sunday's diet--- iced coffee and a croissant for breakfast; eggs Pontchartrain and hash browns and a Mimosa at brunch; popcorn tonight. Some days I forget about dinner altogether. I make a point of doing a small steak on Friday or Saturday night, but I almost never do anything other than Instant Asian Noodles on weeknights. I suppose the multivitamins are helpful; I have no sense of what to be eating.

It's 1925 hours here... It has cooled off a bit outside. I keep looking at the pool and wishing I felt able to go down and swim--- wishing I felt good enough to be down at the pool, or even to be seen in public.