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The sermon for Sept. 27, 2002 is: a blathering entry with absolutely no moral
11:07 p.m. So hello, dear Diary. I've just gotten home from one of my rare sojourns outside of my room. I went with my friend Amanda to go see the film Igby Goes Down, which, dearest Diaryland, I urge you to see, even if it does star Claire Danes and two of the Culkins. Think Rushmore without the insouicant grace or assurance of reconciliation; think Franny and Zooey with a lot more child abuse. I was actually worried that Amanda would be bored, considering that her favourite movies are Human Traffic, Groove and Trainspotting; and for the first twenty minutes or so, Amanda seemed quite bored, studying her fingernails with a kind of elegant detachment. At the end, though, she said, "I really liked that movie." By the time we got back to the car she said, "In fact, I have to say, I fucking loved that movie," which made me glad. Why is it that we put such a personal investment in movies that we recommend? Somewhere in the Poetics, I'm sure, Aristotle delineates where katharsis ends and psychosis begins. Amanda and I talked about our mothers (Igby Goes Down features one of the most Gorgon of modern cinematic mothers, played with an icy perfection by Susan Sarandon) and our bouts with schizophrenia and time in mental hospitals and how much we wished we were trust fund orphans raised with an unerring faith in God and fascism. And then we left with a firm handshake and I drove home to devour pizza and call my beloved Stephanie Marie, who was in her bedroom listening to Of Montreal. "Do you love me, Jonathan?" she asked me. I said, I love you, Stephanie. I told her how I resisted Amanda's estimable girlish wiles. I exaggerated both my resistance and her wiliness, because really all we did was watch the movie, Stephanie: I am too visibly besotted with you to be trifled with by other women, you see. Stephanie moved from her bedroom to the bathroom, and situated herself in the bathtub. "Do you really love me, Jonathan?" Stephanie said. I really love you, Stephanie, I said. "O.K.," she said, adorably pronouncing the periods in "o.k." "I love you, Jonathan," she said, "and now I'm going to sleep." I let Stephanie go to sleep and went off to eat pizza and watch Tarkovsky's "The Sacrifice" on cable. Which ended a wonderful Friday day and night, though -- I nearly forgot this -- I was hugely depressed because I called Therese's work number, perhaps to wish her Happy Birthday, and discovered that Therese has a different last name. Which could only mean that she's married, right? I told Larsen this and he said, "That can't be. There must be another reason why Therese changed her name. Otherwise--- otherwise she's being intolerably rude." I told him I couldn't disavow that Therese was married simply because it would be rude to me. Which, I suppose, is the end of that. I wish there was some nice way in which I can tidily wrap up all this -- I'll spell this carefully -- galimatias; but the truth is, I'm not always such a careful thinker, and even less disciplined a writer, especially when I'm actually not unhappy. And dear Diary, I'm not unhappy: I've seen a fine film, and had a civilised evening with a good friend that did not involve drugs nor handguns in any way, and came home and sang to my Stephanie, and that's all that I can want from life, and all that I am going to tell you.
 
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