FRIDAY, 1 SEPTEMBER, 2000, EDINBURGH

Hey! What’s that, d’ya think? …and my little life trundles along in Scotland. I was having a pee and a think yesterday (the two are often married in my head — go figger) and I was thinking gee, I’ve been here for just under two weeks, yet I feel it’s my home. Specifically, I could barely remember my house that’s waiting for me back in Philadelphia. It seems as far away and long ago and as unreal as, say, one of my college flats in D.C., or one of my warehouses in San Francisco. Juju admitted that when she was in my guest room for two weeks in Philadelphia in July, she had similar, dreamy, far away and long forgotten thoughts about this flat in Edinburruh. I would have continued the thought but my bladder had been emptied, and thus all thought stops. Just the way I’m made I guess. Anyway, haven’t written in a few days. Not here anyway. Badjuju has been good to your little displaced Marquis, essentially putting her entire life on hold while I’m here so she can escort me about town and, since the other day when her motorcycle was fixed, we are now scootling about the countryside and doing out-of-towny stuff as I grip onto her tits for dear life. Thank god for tits, that’s all I’ve got to say! Today, for example, we putt-putted out to a wee little town qui s'appelle Peebles, bought some pork and steak pies, chelsea buns, fizzydrinks, then picnicked on a river underneath one of those crumbly-bumbly castles that seem just kinda plunked onto the landscape every so often. I am told that one can buy a crumbly-bumbly castle in Scotland for the equivalent of a little house on a little suburban street. Ummmm, do I have ideas in my wee heed aboot this? Hmmmmm… Voilà mon nouveau château, mes enfants… “Yawn yawn. Boring postcard shot,” says Juju about this picture taken this afternoon. Look, I’m sorry, but when I see something this crumbly-bumbly sitting on a hill and, despite walls missing and erosion’s toll taken, it’s still inhabited by people, I cannot be bored. I can only tentpeg and rub my crotch in the grass to attempt to relieve some pent up tensions about architecture, age, location, location and location. Another thing I can’t tire of are the little closes that run between buildings. You can sneak through them, travel up and down crooked stone stairwells, and pop out in “surprise” spots in the city. Like, “Oh, I didn’t know A was so close to B. Must be why they call ‘em ‘closes’, eh?” Okay, it’s Friday night. I’m off for adventures while Mummy’s at work taking her clothes off. Another round of applause for Badjuju and her tireless, selfless tour-guiding. If she’s been lax about writing in her own diary, it’s not her fault; I’m situated in her computer room and hogging all the bandwidth. THANKS, JOOJ!