I've developed the disturbing tendency to use the term "alrighty." I cringe everytime I catch myself saying it. It's the kind of phrase you expect from a middle aged suburban taxi-driver from New York State. It's funny how you go through life accumulating phrases here and there, even mannerisms. Everyone has their trademark schtick going, but really a lot of it is second-hand. I think I picked up "alrighty" from my straight friend James, but I don't recall from where I got "oi veh" or "hmmm, how queer!".

It makes you wonder how much of the self that others perceive is really your own. My way of laughing; or rather should I say my various ways of laughing, for, like eveybody, I have probably about ten different laughs for different situations. The way I use my eyes and my voice, my body language. Have they all gradually accretred to a central personality over a lifetime? If so, I wonder how I'd come off were all those mannerisms stripped from me.

The other day I stopped by Fuzio in the Embarcadero Center to pick up a take out salad for dinner. It's the local restaurant to which I most frequently go. There's a sweet little guy who works there who always flirts with me, gives me deep discounts, and with whom I always exchange a fund of small talk. This day, I was in a great mood, and we chatted gaily away. He even gave me a special "Christmas" hug.

That kind of encounter adds a lot to life. If you've lived anywhere for a good while, you begin to build for yourself a little bit of richness in the neighborhood. For me, it takes longer, perhaps, than for others, because I always assume people don't recognize or remember me, or aren't interested in me. It's a deep part of me that makes that assumption, a part that my intellect can't control, a part that takes me back to the core personality of childhood stripped of its surface comforts. It's only bit by bit as somebody makes the effort with me that I begin to trust that, hey, this person sees me as an individual, as a tiny little part of their daily fabric.

I just finished my latest movie, and it's the most complicated and personal movie I've yet made. I tried so hard to invest the images with a sense of who I am. But when I watch it, I don't see the stuff that other people probably see, and the reason for that is that there's nobody in the movie except for myself, there's nobody for me to interreact with. So those little surface mannerisms stay hidden away, because nobody's called them up. Interesting question: does that mean that the person somebody would see if they watched this movie of mine would be closer to my true self, the self that's on display only when I'm alone?

I mentioned that when I went to Fuzio the other day, I was in a wonderful mood. The reason for that is that the fatigue that has dogged me for the last couple of months had suddenly disappeared. It's only when it goes away that I realize how truly debilitating it is. I felt so great, so vital, full of life. I didn't quite trust that it was gone - I husbanded my energies, and kept self- assessing how I was feeling. Kind of like somebody who's just lost a tooth keeps running their tongue over the hole in their mouth.

The fatigue has led to depression, and there have been times during that depression where my sense of true self has fled very far away. I remember a couple of weeks ago, talking to Brett on the phone, and feeling a kind of nervousness even with him. Fortunately, as the fatigue went away (although I know it's probably not gone for good), the depression departed shortly thereafter.

On Wednesday evening, I drove to the hills above the Castro for my regular session with my therapist. As I got out of the car, my eyes caught a guy in his early thirties walking into the front door of his apartment across the street. With his short, fluffy blonde hair, and his nice warm sweater, he looked like the kind of guy you could imagine cuddling with on a cold evening. And it suddenly struck me how odd it was that my nature denied me the ability to make simple, easygoing contacts with guys. This is where the sometimes shaky sense of self causes me the greatest difficulty. Because if I like somebody, and want friendship from them, I find myself starting to revert to that core, naked personality.

Of course, this difficulty in relating is exactly why I'm seeing a therapist. But as I hiked up the steep street to my therapist's office, I suddenly realized something very important. Unfortunately, I'm not at liberty to explain here just what it was that I realized, because in order to explain it I'd have to say some things that would hurt some people who may read this page. But as soon as I was seated with my therapist, I struggled to explain to her the long, torturous sequence of thoughts that the siting of that guy across the street had led me through. And we spent our whole session exploring all the ramifications.

When I came out at the end, and she saw me out at the door, I paused and turned back to her to tell her that I always left her office feeling so much better than when I arrived. It's the kind of simple little truth that costs nothing to say, but delivers a lot of pleasure.