Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Very grownup and non-kid-friendly things happen within these blacksheeted walls, and that is not going to change.

It was easily the worst tantrum yet, precipitated by learning that I'll be getting together with The Ex and some mutual friends (including her boyfriend) for dinner before the show. Neither The Ex nor I knew the other would be at the show until last week, and in fact I found out through Madeline after I'd already gotten my ticket. Although aware of how much i've been looking forward to the show, and that I was very excited when Lou's new album came out a few months ago and have played it ad nauseum since then, Madeline still asked if my reason for going was because The Ex would be there. I don't think she believed me when I told her no.

As we were driving home from work, she asked me not to meet up with The Ex, that I was being unfair, that I was trying to move too fast. All hell broke loose when I refused. Amidst accusations that I don't give a shit for her feelings and telling me to shut the fuck up when I tried to defend myself, she screamed a lot and destroyed a brittle and rather phallic wildflower I keep on the dashboard. (Got it from c0g. It was there when I drove you guys home a few weeks back, though I doubt you noticed.)

The dust had barely settled from that--and the inside of the car is still an absolute mess from it--when she ran away. Literally. We were on First between Mission and Howard heading towards Harrison, in the thick of the Bay Bridge traffic, and she jumped out of the car and ran down one of the side streets.

I circled for a while before I found her. There had been a momentary temptation to just continue on home, but her jacket and bag were still in the car, so she would have been quite stranded. Hell, she wouldn't have even known how to get home on foot. After a little cajoling she got in the car, and we didn't speak another word on the drive home. I spent most of it wondering how I can expect to have a stable relationship with someone capable of running out into rush hour traffic. Fortunately, we hadn't been moving at that moment, but she didn't exactly check to see if there were any other cars coming, either. It was dumb luck as much as anything else.

We more or less picked up where we left off when we got home. Among other things I was told that I don't love her and that she's going back to Kansas, where "at least my family will like me again." As usual, whenever I spoke she got angrier. She shattered at least one remote, ripped an Interview With The Vampire poster I'd given her to shreds, and most frighteningly, pointed a large steak knife at me and demanded that I take it and kill her, since it was plain as day that I didn't give a shit about her at all--and, what's more, she didn't want to live anymore because she couldn't handle the pain. (Again, this was all triggered by the prospect of me seeing The Ex again, eighteen months after breaking up and almost six months after the last time I've seen her at all.) I managed to take it away from her and put it somewhere relatively safe.

Eventually she mellowed out, right about when I began to reach the end of my tether. She was more than a little apologetic, to say the least. Except for a brief flareup the next morning, we've been mostly okay since then. Dog only knows what will happen tomorrow.

Madeline's preferred metaphor was that in emailing The Ex she was trying to take "slow, sure steps," but in me going ahead and seeing The Ex before Madeline was ready, I had "turned up the treadmill." (Recurring theme: having to wait until Madeline was "ready." Nothing was ever done when she was "ready" for it, not even posting diary entries from five years earlier. This continued on after we broke up, when she attempted to dictate my dating patterns based on her readiness.) I resented the treadmill metaphor, and I was tired of her painting it like it was some big huge sacrifice to let me be friends with The Ex. She often said that she wished The Ex wasn't my first relationship, because if I'd had other girlfriends I would understand where she's coming from. From the perspective of my relationship with Vash (with Jezebel on the side), not to mention having been involved with Collette for some months last year, this notion of denying the person you claim to love the right to friendship with past partners makes less sense than ever.

In any event, I might have had some sympathy and even bought the notion that it was a lot to ask of her if this contact had happened when we first got together, but in those days I would get into trouble (and occasionally hit) if I even referred to The Ex's existence, and any communcation with her was completely out of the question. By her own admission, Madeline was fighting me on it in the hopes that I'd simply give up on having The Ex as a friend.

The reason Madeline didn't know how to find her way home on foot was because, after living in San Francisco for seven months, she still didn't know her way around. It wasn't just that she hadn't learned it; she actively refused to do so. She got very angry at me when I suggested that it would be a good idea to be independent and get places on her own. This would become a serious point of contention later in the month the day of the fashion show.

Granted, she got very angry at me about everything in those days. I took the following week off from work since it was my birthday, and the flareup started on Monday night. She was in a foul mood when she got back from work because she did a lot of thinking on the train ride, and she told me in an accusatory tone which I knew very well at this point: when i'm left by myself, i think a lot. See, by taking time off work, I was leaving her by herself and thus abandoning her. She also accused me of being glad that she didn't also have the time off as well. Guilty as charged—time by myself was precious, since it was time that I didn't have to worry about her exploding at me, which could happen at any moment for any reason, usually imagined infractions—but I denied it out of necessity. No, not out of necessity. Out of weakness. I was too weak and scared to stand up for myself, so I let her emotionally terrorize and walk all over me.

It got really bad when she read in my diary that I was planning on seeing a couple documentaries and a foreign film that Tuesday—you know, on my vacation and all. I suppose that's what I get for putting such private information online, huh? She said she wanted to see two of the three movies, which was news to me. When I asked her which ones, she got angrier and refused to tell me. Ergo, all I could do was to either go see them anyway, or not at all. I chose to go, which she interpreted as further proof that I hated her. (We did see one of them at the Red Vic some months later, a documentary called The Girl Next Door about a pr0n actress. It was a borderline traumatic experience because a man was sitting in one of the recliney seats directly ahead of us, and she felt that he was intruding on her space. She didn't like men getting close to her back then.)

As for seeing The Ex at the Lou Reed show, we didn't fall in love all over again or fuck or do anything of the things Madeline was convinced would happen. I did, at one point, cry. We were talking in the lobby of the theater, and she just seemed so happy and plesant and glowy, and I told her the verboten truth which I wasn't allowed to tell anyone (especially not her), that things at home were really bad and harsh, and that when I needed to think of a friendly face hers often came to mind, and then I just started to lose it right there. She was remarkably...gracious about it.

11:50pm

right before my trip was a hell of a time to finally decide to tell me the whole story, especially at the same time as you were telling anyone else reading your journal. no, they didn't make me think any less of you, but it was information that had to be slowly abosrbed and not taken lightly.

Friday evening was my company's holiday party, and we were let go from work at two in the afternoon to prepare. For me, it meant getting dressed for the Black Mass: shiny black pants, my newly acquired Power Exchange tee, pigtails with anemone, my Chloe coat, and entirely too much eye makeup, somewhere between Pris and Mechanical Animals-era Manson. A much smaller affair than last year, Vash (looking quite devastating in a cheongsam) and I got to the party around a quarter past six and left around half past seven. Just long enough, really. We arrived in plenty of time for the Mass, and I was able to rehearse my lines some.

Since it was essentially a theater piece, Sister Dora and I worked out a bit more stage business for the piddling, which was the big moment for us both. We didn't run it by the priest (that's Peaches Pendragon Partridge to you), but didn't need to. He looked quite pleased while we were doing it, happy to have almost inadvertantly brought on such a performative couple as Sister Dora and I. Given the low red lighting, I don't know how much of it the audience saw, but I hope at least the people up front got a good look.

As Dora lifted her habit and urinated she writhed and moaned in ecstasy. I read my lines, standing close, running a hand over her. Though they aren't my words and it's someone else's party entirely, I gave it my all, the energy I try to put into any performance.

In the name of Mary, She maketh the font resound with the waters of mercy. She giveth the showers fo blessing and pourest forth the tears of her shame. She suffereth long, and her humiliation is great, and she doth pour upon the Earth with the joy of her mortification. The waters of her shame become a shower of blessing in the tabernacle of Satan, for that which hath been withheld pourest forth, and with it, her piety. The great Baphomet, who is in the midst of the throne, shall sustain her, for she is a living fountain of water. Her cup runneth over, and her water is sublime. Ave Maria ad micturiendum est.

And the Dark Lord shall wipe all tears from her eyes, for He said unto me: It is done. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give freely unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life.

There were a few blocking issues because we'd only had one rehearsal early in the week, but otherwise, it went really well. The room was packed, and there wasn't nearly as much laughter or restlessness as I expected. When Peaches said i curse this school—may it wither and die, people were quiet. They were in the moment. A lot of people took Communion, too. First time I'd done it in years. Straining slightly to read it from the Satanic Bible in the rather dim light, Reverend Steven Johnson Leyba barked out the The Fifth Enochian Key in its original nonsense Enochian. It must have been weird for him to participate in a ritual but have someone else playing with the fluids.

Peaches' parents attended, and, they couldn't have been more proud of him. Really, they were beaming. It was quite touching. There's going to be another Mass in April, and Dora and I are tentatively on board to be the Nun and Deacon. Peaches wants to have more blood, more sex, more pee. And, one presumes, more snakes.

After a so-so late night meal, we headed back to Wonderland and crashed hard. Didn't get out of bed until around noon on Saturday (I've said it before and I'll say it again: the nighttime has its charms, but morning nookie is the best). It's a good thing we canceled our lunch plans with The Ex, which we'd had to cancel for other reasons. (Our plans were in flux a lot this weekend.) We ventured into the City for the Industrial Culture Film Festival. It was one of a zillion events going on around town, but for me the main attraction was the premiere of RE~TG, a video of Throbbing Gristle's reunion show in 2004. Projected large and in deafening 5.1 sound, it was pretty much the next best thing to being there, perhaps even better in some ways, what with getting such a good look at Genesis these days. Between that and seeing Nurse With Wound live this year (not to mention Negativland last year), I feel so damned lucky to live in this town. Vash was unfamiliar with all these things before we met, and thankfully, she's been enjoying them too. We also ran into some old acquaintances of mine from the goth scene; one mentioned a potential job opening in her company, which Vash is looking into. She needs a new job, very much.

The impossibility of finding parking in the Haight on a Saturday night prevented us from attending a friend's Chanukah party (no latkes and Conspiracy of Beards for us!), so we returned to the Black Light District. After a bagel and caffeinated beverage at the Sea Biscuit this morning, she headed out to meet up with a friend, and I dragged myself to the Sunset Cafe, which is not the most pleasant environment but at least they have wifi and accessible power outlets and I can always find a place to sit and a table for my laptop. That's what matters.

Tonight is White Christmas at Bad Movie Night, and tomorrow is the rest of my life.

...if you're a writer yourself, you don't have mentors. Maybe when you're very young, but I never did. I never went to university, so I never had the opportunity to be taught by people who thought they knew what literature was. This was a great blessing.

—Gore Vidal, Bookforum, Dec/Jan 2006