On Saturday evening was Matthew’s premiere. Teresa and I met Emily and Sue at Carnegie Recital Hall, chatted with them and Matt and his girlfriend Elizabeth for a while, and then went upstairs for the concert. Matt’s “Starry Night” was wonderful . . . I don’t know what the Times will say, but I think he is a brilliant composer.
Thanksgiving in Canarsie was wonderful. It was the night before Thanksgiving a dozen years ago when Ronna and I had our first date (Chloe in the Afternoon at the Midwood Theatre and then to the Foursome Diner for a bite; Ronna had the sniffles and wore a blue turtleneck). Who would have imagined we’d still be this close?
Although Scott is making more money than he ever dreamed of, he’s spending $1700 a month on two apartments, Danielle’s (his old place when they were together) and this sublet, and he’s supporting three therapists: their separate ones and the marriage counselor. “I wish I were 19 years old again and had no problems,” he said.
She was in her flannel bathrobe, the one that makes her look like a fairy-tale princess. It was chilly when we first got into bed, but we warmed up quickly. I can still feel her arms around me, her hands massaging my back. I can definitely smell her on my fingers. Vaginas are such sweet places. . . We didn’t get out of bed till this afternoon.
Mom wanted to see the Marathon, so we went to what I figured would be the best place to watch it: Bedford-Stuyvesant, by Nostrand Avenue and DeKalb. We saw Grete Waitz, the first woman in the pack (she eventually won), and hundreds of other runners making their way past us. It made me dizzy to watch them.
My students’ papers are filled with tales of crime, violence, family troubles and alcoholism, often expressed in street language. It’s hard for them to come to class and do work when they’ve got so many serious problems at home. One girl is going to the hospital to have her baby; a guy got cut in a street fight; another student has to take care of four kids, her own and her sister’s.
I feel old. But yesterday at the PEN reception at the Salmagundi Club, someone told me I was young for a writer and pointed out that the average age of the people around us, from Norman Mailer on down, was about 55, and I was easily the youngest person in the room.
We walked through Riverside Park, admiring the monarch butterflies and house sparrows. Both of us know that our sexual relationship is temporary, and we each feel guilty about “using” the other one. Ronna said someday she’ll “marry a boring man and have babies,” but she’s sure we’ll always be friends. Back at the apartment, we were seized by the usual passion.
At Noodles on 72nd and Amsterdam, Ronna seemed a little weird, and when we started dinner, she told me she’d had a date on Thursday with a guy in publishing. She said she wanted to “clarify” things, but I wasn’t sure what she meant. I told her it didn’t bother me at all that she would see other guys and I encouraged her to do so.
I’m so fucked up. I don’t know what I want out of life. I don’t know where I want to live or what I want to do. This morning I did an interview with a Baltimore radio station. My heart wasn’t in it, but I tried as best I could to be funny; after all, the show must go on.