Willing to work for free to prove yourself is a great little distinction. But it’s worthless by itself.
Today was the day I realized that not everyone feels this way about writing. Not everyone wrote stories on colored construction paper when they were little and stapled the sides to make their own “book’. Not everyone kept journals in high school only to fill them with teenage angst, heartbreak, growing pains, and pure disdain towards parents.
I have this terrible fear of hurting Ronna. It scares me, her feelings for me. I do love her, but this afternoon, I was in Washington Square Park, reliving 1969, and looking at boys.
I like being playful, and I think it’s important not to be afraid to look silly. I don’t have to act a certain way because I’m 26; I don’t see why I can’t behave as though I’m 16.
It’s 1977 – God, that sounds so strange and future-y . . . This afternoon Elihu called and said, “I bet you’re saying, like everyone else, ‘I sure hope this year is better than the last one.’”
Today, while waiting for the faculty elevator after lunch, the thought passed through my mind: “These are the good years.”
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.
Fahey’s genius lies in his going on so long that you imagine that he’s been playing that guitar your entire life. I actually hoped that I could hear his music while sitting there in The Bottom Line forever.
On the way to The Bagel, I saw an old drunk puking on Sixth Avenue, and on the way back to my car I saw the same drunk, recovered, jauntily lighting up a cigar in a doorway on Carmine Street.
If someone had told me seven, five – even two years ago – that life could be this good, I wouldn’t have believed them.