Abby Rubenfeld called the impact of the Hardwick case “devastating,” but she put it in perspective and outlined a possible legal challenge to Florida’s sodomy law. The two law students sitting next to me admitted they were afraid to come because people would think they were gay; they didn’t want to get in the TV camera’s range. Well, at least they attended.
The rabbi told the story of a 19-year-old poet destined for greatness who every winter would walk on a certain pond until one year the ice cracked and he drowned. “The ice didn’t know a great poet was walking on it,” the rabbi said. “You see, the ice never knows. . . nature is completely unaware of us.”
There’s a very pretty girl – about 22, I guess – who lives here. Last night her mother said, “My daughter thinks you’re very handsome.” “Has she seen an optometrist lately?” was my lame reply, but when I spoke to Delia today as she was sunning herself in front of their townhouse in a red bikini, I felt excited. I mean, I’m gay, but I’m not that gay.
Superstitiously, I would always imagine every conceivable disaster before an event, and I’d drive myself crazy, hoping that would take away any real disaster. How many times in my life have I approached a situation that made me anxious and got so crazy beforehand that reality could never have been so bad?
Marshall might not have all the answers, but he’s intelligent and has experienced a lot, including several years in a monastery and Haight-Ashbury in the Summer of Love 19 years ago. There are times when I like having the company of my family.
Yesterday, when I went to fill out the car insurance forms, the woman at the office asked my occupation. I gave it as “writer,” but she misinterpreted my New York accent and wrote down “rider.” I guess maybe because this is Davie, she thought I was with the rodeo. Do I actually look like a cowboy?
Killing time, I went to the Grand Army Plaza library, where, to my surprise, I found Volume 38 of Contemporary Literary Criticism. In it are entries for John Irving, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Ntozake Shange, Truman Capote, Peter Handke, Claude Levi-Strauss, George S. Kaufman, Christopher Durang, J.R.R. Tolkein – and me!
Scott came over late last night after he “broke [his] girlfriend’s heart” by breaking up with her. She was so upset by the unexpected breakup that he “had to take her out for a drive to Brooklyn,” where they talked on the Promenade. Jeez. The girl probably didn’t know what hit her.
For the past week, I’ve begun to feel certain that I’ll have the HTLV-III antibody in my blood. After all, if I could have the hepatitis B antibody, why not the one from AIDS? I keep thinking that somehow I’ve forgotten sexual encounters I’ve had.
There’s a little patch of Band-Aid on my arm where my blood was taken for the AIDS antibody test. Perhaps in as early as a week, I’ll know if I’ve been exposed to the AIDS virus. Dr. Rundle, the gay doctor I went to, told me to sign a fictitious name to the consent form. I signed it “William F. Buckley, Jr.”