I'm not at 512 W. 112th St. Really, I'm not.

I'm drinking Beaujolais... I recall back in January or February--- Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo telling me about Beaujolais and pinot noir. Beaujolais tonight, then. And watching Derek Jarman's "Wittgenstein". I wasn't sure about the film 'til about halfway in. The last thirty minutes are quite good. But Jarman's always like that: hit and miss.

Beaujolais... I wish I could be finishing the bottle with Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo before we went out dancing or to her favourite Russian bars.

My birthday is 22. November. The Vanished and much-regretted Britt-Nicole has a birthday on 25. November. Laura-Ashlee in Birmingham has a birthday on 9. September. Jill at pacificlolita is 23. December. Miss Lissy at emigree is 11. March. I have no idea when Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo has a birthday. I don't know when Trish at kissingverlaine has a birthday, either. Or the Other Melissa at kraftig_bewegt. I do need to know Miss Ginny's birthday. She needs a card from Tuva. I have no face, no future, no life, no MacBook Pro, no ability to be a lover. I can't even back up my iTunes onto an XHD. But I have postcards from Tuva. I could always send Miss Ginny postcards from Tuva. I sent Laura-Ashlee at bladeoftheknife a charcoal pashmina for her birthday. I'll nevr get to see her in it. I can sit here and stare at my Lonely Planet Iran and weep. I so need to send Miss Ginny in Montreal a card from Tuva.

I don't have a 15-inch MacBook Pro, and I won't be taking a girl upstairs at 512 W. 112th St. I won't be spending a long birthday afternoon in bed with a lovely wicked clever promiscuous girl whilst listening to She Wants Revenge or Neko Case. No girl will ever note at Facebook that she misses me. No girl will have an Adulterous Affair with me in Stockholm or lie naked in my arms in a beach cabana in Mexique or Lamu. I'll never be able to hear the Other Melissa at kraftig_bewegt call me again.

Nine years ago today... Nine years ago today I was waiting for my Bar Exam results. I spent all day on 11. September 2001 sitting in front of the television stunned and angered. A friend who was doing her LL.M. at NYU called in a panic. My uncle, who lived not far from the Pentagon, called to describe the smoke and flames from the Pentagon attack. I went to the little suburban library just after lunch. Everyone was silent and in shock. Everyone was listening to NPR and just...waiting for the next round of horrors. Nine years and two wars later--- it just doesn't seem to register. It's hard to remember that day. Little Hi!Monkey at himonkey.net has a very moving Living Memorial for the victims. Worth going to.

Cynthia Gralla and I talked about the final scene in "Requiem for a Dream" with Jennifer Connelly--- the notorious "ass-to-ass" scene. She was horrified and appalled. I just wanted Ms. Connelly to re-enact the scene for me. And I wanted the scene in "Requiem for a Dream" to be about 20 minutes long and much more graphic. Which says all too much about me.

What in fact would happen if I stood in the foyer of 512 W. 112th St. and called out Melia! WaterColorFire! Lissy! Uptown Twin! Would anyone I know actually come down? Would anyone I know come down if the Other Melissa were the one doing the calling? What if she yelled, "Hey, Melissa-Ashley, it's Brandon!"....?

Listening to Nicola Hitchcock. Second bottle of Beaujolais. I may or may not be Wittgenstein or Friedrich Engels. Who's to say?

A certain girl with green eyes... I'll never hear her voice again. I assume she's out somewhere in the Birmingham night with a lover, smoking pot and pulling her skinny jeans off in a dormitory bed. Or lying naked with her own MacBook, planning to take a lover with her to NYC. Oh, yes: the lover she's with mocks me, feels contempt for me. I know that. I just wonder if the green-eyed girl feels contempt for me, too.

I could be reading Cormac McCarthy's "The Outer Dark". That came today from the library. Maybe I'll read it tomorrow at the coffeeshop. I need to get Miss Ginny to read Cormac McCarthy.

Die Welt ist alles, was der Fall ist. Let's remember that.

I wish Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo and Miss Lissy at emigree/WaterColorFire were looking at my LastFM tracklists and commenting. I need lists of recommended books and music and films from them--- and from Laura-Ashlee at bladeoftheknife, too.

I need Lists and conversation. I have no idea if anyone ever reads this. I wish lovely clever readers would leave notes. No one ever does, really. I hate that--- no notes, no conversations, no engagements. No one ever finds me worth notes and exchanges. I wish I knew if either Melissa still reads this. I wish Miss Ginny would leave notes and comments about books and ideas. I wish people still read me, that Voices were still out there. I wish I could hear all her Stories from Kelsey at clush...

Where are you, Vanessa/Winona at phryx?

I need to know when Miss Ginny's birthday is.

No girl will ever come see me or wear a pashmina for me while we travel. No girl will ever show me off in public or say anything romantic about me at Facebook. I'll never kiss a girl in a tiled foyer on Morningside Heights or at the bar of the Hotel Opus in Montreal. No girl will ever spend her birthday in bed with me, stoned and dreamy-sexy and naked.

All I can see when I look in the mirror is a reminder of decay and death. A reminder that while a girl who goes to Columbia has a MacBook Pro--- just like a girl at Samford ---I'll never have any of the markers for value: lovers, cities, MacBooks, a future, travels. I'll never have a lover again. Not even as a Voice.

A couch in a carriage house in Silver Spring, a basement in London, 512 W. 112th St., a dorm bed in Birmingham... I'll never have anything like the value inherent in those Stories.

All I can see in the mirror is my own decay and valuelessness and how much I need Japanese Bulimia to just finish things.