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When I sit down at my desk on Monday morning, I do three things before I start to officially work: I drink my coffee, I check my book sales, and I open my Dinner Diary to record the previous week\u2019s meals. Many of you know that I\u2019ve been writing down what I cook for dinner (or where I eat for dinner) every night since February 22, 1998 as a way to get organized about a ritual that is pathologically important to me. In 2010, the diary turned into the Dinner: A Love Story blog, which turned into the Dinner: A Love Story book, and I will go on record to say that never in the history of cookbooks has it been so easy to pick a line-up of recipes that were destined to become keepers: I just looked at the ones that showed up month after month, year after year.

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But today I wanted to revisit the diary briefly because I realized that even a quarter century later, I\u2019m still reaping the rewards of this decidedly deranged habit, specifically when it comes to having people over for dinner. Every time we cook for someone, I write down the menu, boxing it off like a little sidebar (you can take the girl out of magazines\u2026) and sometimes even include little annotations (and grades \uD83E\uDD13) in the margins. Naturally, the longer I do this, the more valuable the diary becomes as a resource \u2014 when a menu works, I often just cut and paste it for the next dinner party. Here are a few from the last, um, two decades\u2026

The experience of watching Love Streams on June 19 was an enormously emotional and quite difficult one for me; one which left me reeling. In the diary I wrote about the feelings of shame it evokes and deals with, and about the inarticulateness of my response to it. I wrote:

Discourse about the cinema then becomes a dream: an uninterpreted dream. This is what constitutes its symptomatic value; it has already said everything. But it is also what makes it obligatory to turn it inside out like a glove, to return it like the gauntlet on accepting a challenge; it does not know what it is saying.

When I switched to Substack, I intended to share occasional longer posts with those who signed up for paid subscriptions. Since I\u2019ve hardly written anything other than the diary since, I\u2019ve decided to stop that plan, and will instead share everything with everyone (apologies if this disappoints paid subscribers who wanted exclusive content, or if this infuriates people who just want the diary). If you enjoy this piece and you don\u2019t currently have a paid subscription, please consider it: your support allows me to keep giving my time and energy to the film diary. If you can\u2019t afford a subscription but still want to show your appreciation, you can\u2014as always\u2014buy me a coffee. Thanks for reading, and please feel free to share this piece with anyone who might be interested.

I left the Bay Area on June 20 2017. I didn\u2019t watch any Cassavetes for a while, until I watched The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (1976) on August 12 last year. I enjoyed The Killing of a Chinese Bookie, and it reminded me of my sense that Cassavetes is a very important filmmaker for me, and that I hadn\u2019t quite figured out why his films resonate so strongly with me, what exactly it is that I get from his work that I don\u2019t get from anyone else. At the time I misremembered how many of his films I\u2019d seen, and thought I\u2019d seen pretty much all of them in the season in the Bay Area. Or perhaps I didn\u2019t misremember exactly, but nevertheless I exaggerated about how many I\u2019d seen, for whatever reason. Looking back at the film diary from that week, I\u2019m ashamed to find that I made a claim about how great Love Streams is there, even though I hadn\u2019t seen it at that point. I\u2019ll leave you to make up your own minds about my motivations for making such a pointless claim. I don\u2019t know if it was intentional to lie about having seen it, but perhaps having done so unintentionally is in fact worse, belying as its does a habitual willingness to say I\u2019ve seen things (or read things) that I haven\u2019t, for no apparent gain.

For the last month I\u2019ve been trying to write about John Cassavetes\u2019 last film, Love Streams (1984), which I watched for the first time on June 19. When I watched it I was upset, in the midst of the revenant bereavement that comes around that time of year. It was the third anniversary of the death, and this year brought new and complicated elements to the process of mourning. I won\u2019t go into them here. In the diary entry for that day I note that I have tried to watch Love Streams a few times before, but had always given up: I had a pirated video file on a USB stick filled with films that L gave me some years ago, and I would try to watch Love Streams sitting on my bed in California, but would stop after Cassavetes\u2019 character (Robert Harmon) falls drunk down some concrete steps outside Diahnne Abbott\u2019s character\u2019s house. I don\u2019t know why this point made me stop: perhaps because I realised that I wasn\u2019t ready for what Love Streams would show me about myself and my own complicated relation to alcohol (something else that I won\u2019t go into here). Perhaps this is part of the reason why I pretended to myself that I had seen Love Streams when I wrote briefly about Cassavetes last August.

Love Streams really feels to me to be a film about shame: it conjures up my own experiences with real, deep, horrible shame\u2014the kind of shame that makes you wish you could disappear from the face of the earth. It depicts, in an extremely painful way, the difficulties of being a sibling: the ways in which siblings fail, or refuse, to communicate with each. It\u2019s about the horror involved in the love you might feel for your family, the inescapable, irresolvable, destructive, annihilating, unavoidable conflicts that exist in the structure of the family, as well as the fact that these relationships continue\u2014endure\u2014despite the bad feelings that may underpin them. It is incredible. Afterwards my chest is extremely tight and I feel dazed. I feel like I\u2019ve been through something enormous.

I think sometimes I have a tendency to exaggerate my responses to films in the diary, since the self-inflicted pressure of the format means I need to produce a response to each quickly, without having time for reflection on what exactly I\u2019ve felt. Many films tend to fade to a kind of bland indistinguishable mush a few weeks after I\u2019ve watched them, and in the immediate aftermath I seem to find it easier to write that I felt more than I perhaps actually did, because it is easier to express big emotional responses or high praise than the truth, which is that I think most films I watch are fine, more or less. But reading back my response to Love Streams, I don\u2019t detect any exaggeration. It did have that intense an impact on me.

In the month since I watched it, I have been intending to write an essay about Love Streams. This is that essay, but it\u2019s not in the form which I expected it to be. I watched Michael Ventura\u2019s documentary about the making-of Love Streams, I\u2019m Almost Not Crazy, and I bought and read the book Ventura wrote about it, Cassavetes Directs. (This, by the way, is one of the best books about filmmaking I\u2019ve read, though I haven\u2019t read that many). Cassavetes said to Ventura a few times that Love Streams is a dream. I look back at the notes I took and find the idea that Love Streams is a film which is motivated by anxiety, and by the need to act in order to break the spell that anxiety can hold over a person, regardless of consequences. Psychoanalysis seemed to me the place to go to think about anxiety, dreams and love, but I\u2019m not sure if it\u2019s helped me understand what exactly Love Streams has done to and for me at all. I think psychoanalysis has a lot to tell us about these things but I think Love Streams by John Cassavetes can tell us almost as much, and it tells us it more directly, more concisely, and perhaps in a way that is as painful and difficult to confront and accept a psychoanalytic insight can be.

I\u2019m not sure about that last one now. I also seem to have drawn a Venn diagram where one circle is marked \u2018dream\u2019, the other \u2018anxiety\u2019, and in the middle is the word \u2018love\u2019.

The dependence on the other for confirmation renders every relationship in which the other figures (that is, as things are, just about every relationship) fraught with awful danger. \u2018Loving\u2019 relationships become secret, undercurrent battlegrounds, in which we stalk each other warily sniffing the atmosphere for indications of rejection. To allow yourself to be loved by another is to put yourself totally in his or her power, to hand him or her the means to your destruction, because, by and large, we love one another only as objects.

That\u2019s not entirely true: the feeling that Love Streams evoked in me is not exactly opaque. It has come into closer focus for me\u2014elements of it have certainly clarified in the last month\u2014but it continues to resist translation into or expression through language. This is because of the precise moment in time that I watched the film, because of my personal situation at that time, and the various states of my relationships with the people that I love. Watching Love Streams acted as a conduit for a number of half-formed and previously unconnected thoughts, feelings, and internal processes which exist entirely in my own head. Sometimes it feels like I know what they are, but that I can\u2019t talk about them. At other times it feels like I have no idea what the film has done for me, that I can\u2019t actually know. Cassavetes said that love is the ability to not know. How hard it is to cultivate and trust that ability; how hard it is to love, without seeking to know. ff782bc1db