For eleven years I’ve been using my writing in this diary to articulate life. How do I describe the last two days? I’ve been to Fire Island and back, and so much has happened. Avis is married. Janice is dead. Does any of it make sense?
The doctor said he would allow Janice to have a relative stay with her in the room after visiting hours were over, and she said, “Richard Grayson will be my relative tonight.” When Janice and I were alone, I watched her tortured breathing.
Rikki, after she made sure to get rid of the coke she was snorting, opened the door and gave me a tremendous hug. Sitting with her in the kitchen was a shirtless man in his forties whom she introduced as her “godfather.” He looked as if he could murder a man the way I could crush a mosquito.
Mostly, Beth said, she’s attracted to teenage guys between 15 and 17. She’s rich and Jewish and drives a new car and has a bubbly, irrepressible spirit which reminds me of Shelli ten years ago. Beth is a virgin, but she’s talking about having an affair with me.
I felt wistful sharing my last dinner with my friends. Then we went over to the library, where Ellen Taaffe Zwilich and David Del Tredici played Mozart, Brahms and Beethoven on the violin and piano, respectively. The music was almost unbearably sweet, and it made me feel sad but good.
I’ve written three stories in three days, which is almost more than I’ve done in the last six months. The great thing about MacDowell is that I don’t have to worry about my car, money, shopping, cleaning or cooking: those little details of my life, which when added up, keep me from working.
The music was strange and hypnotic, and as I listened, I looked around at Conrad, Anne, Preston, Lucille, Dan, Jane, Sandy Walker and his ever-present dog, Michael, Ellen and Elaine, and I thought: These people are all so talented and beautiful, I could be in love with all of them.
Walking around the Village afterwards – God, this time of year everyone looks so beautiful there – I spoke with Josh about his future. Nothing makes him happy. Women love him, yet after a few weeks he feels nothing but boredom and contempt for them.
While Marc was cutting cocaine, Curt showed me pictures of Hawaii and the sappy “deep” books he’d given Rikki to read; they were by Hugh Prather and the guy who wrote Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
Avis is depressed that she can’t “plan a future” with Simon, who admitted he feels “smothered” and he wants her to pull back. Avis feels an old pattern in re-emerging: “Nobody will give me a commitment.” I didn’t know what she meant. “Marriage?” I asked. “I don’t know what marriage is,” she replied.