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I’ve just come out of the shower after returning from the health club. My lenses are in the machine. I’m naked, lying on fresh sheets, Brahms is on the radio, and I feel surprisingly good. Workouts make me feel better mentally even if I’m not developing gorgeous peaks on my biceps or huge pecs.

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The reading at the National Arts Club was a few hours ago, and it went very well. Many friends were there. I know I was the best of the three readers; Dick said that I have “stage presence,” and I suppose I’m a ham, though a nervous one.

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I was exceedingly polite and tried to be as genteel as possible. I had never been exposed to so many old-line Protestant people from “good families” before: the men in their woolly grey suits and the elderly women in their print dresses with the inevitable pin and string of pearls.

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In 1969, when I was subject to the draft and marching against the war, guys like Charles and Kevin were only 11 or 12, and there’s a big difference between us. I don’t think they perceive me as an older person, though they kid me about it.

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The Bread Loaf librarian told me there’s a “new spirit” at the Conference: people like Toni Morrison have changed it from a wild circus of sex and drinking to a quiet place where people discuss and share mutual interests.

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Everything in this city is breaking down. After the blackout, the lootings, the heat wave, Son of Sam’s murders and the bombings, the Daily News editorial said, “We Don’t Deserve This.” Everyone’s nerves are raw.

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She brought me the book of Rilke’s poems I asked for. And she still can remind me of the girl was once in love with and too shy to tell it to.

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Jerry and Leon asked Mayor Soglin to repeal Madison’s gay-rights law and call for a referendum to reinstate it because they’re itching for a confrontation with Anita Bryant.