Another day spent in the confines of my protective apartment. As it rained all day (surprise!) and I had no one to visit (another shocker!), I stayed in. I did my planning for tomorrow; finished The Reivers; finished a couple of letters. Fairly uneventful day . . .

I am remembering Pensacola—all the times I was there (three was it? or four?). That is a lovely town, especially during the fall when it’s not so crowded and it’s not so hot. That feast (when I bought Automatic for the People, to which I am of course listening) was the last time Heather and I were really all that close. And of course there was that silly flingh with Joanna. (Driving back with Heather, listening to Automatic for the first time—that was a nice day and an equally nice evening. Dinner at Olive Garden—chatting like “old times.” The air was brisk but not cold that night; the sky was very clear. The promise of intimacy with Joanna; the air blowing through the open van windows—it was a good time.)

I am doing this entirely too often. I keep saying, “I must get out and meet people,” but I never do anything about it. “It’s these little things, they can pull you under . . .” Memories are not “little things” for me though—they really take up too much time, more time than is healthy, anyway. Maybe that’s why i keep a journal. Maybe that’s why I’m not keeping one is one of the most horrible things I can imagine. It’s just a way of wandering through memories—is that all it is?

How much time do I spend in this damn chair, remembering? I feel so helpless to do anything else. How do I meet people here? Go to the bar? To church? What!? I’ll talk to Roy about it . . .