On Monday I was still in the process of moving to my new place. It was a secret because I was actually skipping out on the rent at the old place. I carried large pieces of furniture onto the streetcar and got to know one driver in particular who picked me up during several trips. At one point I wanted to write but had no journal to write in and so I grabbed a February copy of a free black culture magazine called Word I found on a streetcar seat and wrote this down on top of the text:
So I’m back on the streetcar on my way to the new place. The driver is the same one who took me east. He went around the loop and came back while I went to the old place to pick up a tabletop and a dresser mirror. When he saw me fishing for my Metropass he told me not to worry about it. He went as far as Connaught and it was the end of his shift, so now there’s a different driver. Now we’re at Pape, no, Leslie and I’m lost again. I can’t find my correct temperament. Where’s my friendship ring? The thing that gets me most is the fact that I’m on my own again. I thought that I’d found a group of friends and now I realize that was my mistake and it was only a non-profit business association. Like Marc Brandeis says, “People don’t want to get too close”. I think what is really true is that people don’t want to get too close to me. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ve been accused of justifying my behaviour but all I can say is what I see. I recognize my own innocence unless there truly is some form of universal behaviour towards women that’s appropriate. Who says a man or woman can’t get a spanking on stage if they want it?
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