Santa’s Workshop in Canarsie was beautiful at night. It was amazing to watch, like a wonderland, and suddenly Wayne pointed out that the rain had turned to snow. It was a white Christmas after all.
I hadn’t expected the Transatlantic Review to come out so quickly. My stories have been coming out one after another with a reality that stuns me; I never quite prepared myself for seeing all these stories in print.
I’m not toying with her; she’s serious about me, and vice versa. But as Caaron said, we’ve put each other in a “certain special – undangerous – place.”
Today, while waiting for the faculty elevator after lunch, the thought passed through my mind: “These are the good years.”
The party was a New York Magazine cliché. A legwoman for a gossip columnist started a conversation and then abruptly stopped talking to me when she discovered, “You aren’t anyone, are you?”
At 1:30 AM, I shut off the TV set, with the election still in doubt. Carter was very close to an electoral majority, but the Western states were going heavily for Ford.
She was upset and gave me a message to give to my brother: a sarcastic “Thank you for calling” and “If he doesn’t call me this week, tell him, ‘Fongool!’ I’ve had it with him.”
Thank goodness every autumn brings a Truffaut film. His latest, Small Change, is about children and their wonder, and of course it was very good. I wish I could live between the frames of a Truffaut film.
I was crying at a red light and then I stopped and thought that the people in the car next to me must be staring, so I turned my head and looked – and there in the next car was a woman, and she was crying, too.
Vito called, asking if I’d like to join him and his constant companion Billy for the 10:30 PM show of Women Behind Bars. Divine, the fat transvestite, was pretty funny as the sadistic prison matron.