It's been a difficult week since I got back from New York. We had two brief days of Summer like weather until the fog returned, and the same could be said of my moods. I feel out of sorts, without being able to pinpoint exactly why. I think partly it's due to uncertainty about the shape of the coming months. I've been assigned to a large project in New York City which will probably require me to temporarily relocate there for at least three months. On the one hand, I'm excited at the prospect. I've always thought that I should live in Manhattan at some point. And this will give me that opportunity without having to move away from San Francisco. Moreover, I'll be able to stay in a nice hotel or corporate apartment, and have all my living expenses paid for

On the other hand, it will obviously interrupt my life here in San Francisco; interrupt my developing friendships, my gym routines, my way of life. Until I'm told for sure when I'm going, and what my options are for accomodation, there's going to remain that uncertainty. And I don't deal well with uncertainty I find.

The move would certainly help my financial situation, however. I've been struggling to figure out my income and expenditures, and come to terms with the reality that I'm not as comfortably well off as I'd thought I was. Although I was raised by somewhat frugal parents, I've never been good with money. I still don't balance my check book, for instance. And it is only this month that I opened my first ever savings account.

I can't claim that it's the uncertainty over the New York project that is responsible for my moodiness. I've been feeling intermittently tired and depressed all week. At first I thought it was just fatigue left over from my time in New York when I was having so many late nights. Now I'm not sure what it is.

I've been re-reading the old private journals I kept when I was in college, and the first year or two of grad school, and I'm astonished by how little I've changed, in some ways. Sure, I was much shier back then, less sure of myself, much less the inhabitant of myself. More searching, however. But still the same endless introspection. Philadelphia, Saturday, 30th May, 1987:

Another day of unrelieved heat and humidity, with temperatures even higher, at 94 degrees. My first venture outside was at lunch-time, when I went to Wawa for some potato salad. The weather gave me no choice but to wear shorts, and I felt awkward and ugly in them. Waiting in the store at the deli counter, a fat, grey-haired old Rittenhouse lady stopped, eyed me, and exclaimed "Eight feet tall?" Automatically, a smile came to my face as I made ready to tell her my true height politely. But suddenly, I thought what the hell. I'm trying to be true to myself, and the fact that this woman thinks she has the right to relate to me solely on the baseis of my "freakish" height annoys me. So I shut off the smile before it had really begun, turned away, and snapped: "No." I didn't look at her so couldn't observe her reaction, and immediately afterwards I felt petty. I felt awkward standing there before her - nasty and unkind. But then I fought back, and confirmed the right I had to my own reactions.

At five, Tammy, Morton and friends called round to see if I wanted to accompany them to the jazz festival at Penn's Landing. Having nothing better to do, I went with them, walking the twenty blocks in the blazing, cauldron heat, wearing a sky-blue t-shirt, grey corduroy shorts, my trust Dunlop tennis shoes, and sunglasses. I always feel a measure of awkwardness when with Tammy. I feel compelled to be amusing, sensitive, interesting, profound. With her, I am nervous at just being myself, principally because I'm not at all sure what myself is. When I talk with her my voice sounds grating and dull, and my facial expressions feel wooden and stiff.

I wish I could just enjoy things unselfconsciously. We found a place to sit, in front of the largest stage, where the Preservation Hall Jazz Band, an old, black, renowned group from New Orleans, were playing. Others clapped and cheered - I felt like I was on show. Partly, I did enjoy it - I am always won over by imagery - the leader of the band croaking "When the Saints", an announcer calling out "... and on the trombone is ...", and a fat black woman dancing her heart out with intermittent toothy smiles.

The funny thing is that I've always looked back upon my early years at Penn as a time of happiness. But re-reading these journals have reminded me how unhappy I was, at times, in my first year. I'm guessing that the tone changes a lot when I get into my second year and finally come out of the closet, but I'll have to read on to be sure of that.