house a wom an built with a tree right up the center o f it going
out the ro o f and all the walls were w indow s and it was in the
middle o f the woods and I never saw anything so imposing, so
grand. It w asn’t rich so much as handsome from hard w ork
and talent. The two wom en w ho lived there had built it
themselves. One was a painter, one a filmmaker; and it was
real beautiful. There was a lot o f people around. Then the food
came, a real Thanksgiving, with everything, including things
I never saw before and I didn’t know what they were, it was
ju st beyond anything I had ever seen, and it was warm and fine
and it was just people saying this and that. I’d been aw ay a long
time. I didn’t know what mostly they were talking about.
Someone tried to explain who Archie Bunker was to me but I
couldn’t understand what was funny about it or how such a
thing could be on television and I don’t like jokes against
faggots. I sat quiet and drank Stoli all I wanted, day and night.
We all bunked down in different parts o f the huge room. I
made love with a real young guy who reminded me o f a girl I
used to know; and some woman too who I liked. Then
somehow this guy Paul got us all back to N ew York. He had
been in the loft bed with Jill. It was the only real bed and it was
private because it was up so high and behind a structural beam.
They just kept fighting all night so he was aggravated and he
was angry anybody else made love, he said the noise kept him
up. So he wanted to leave and it was follow the leader. It was a
nice Thanksgiving, a real one in a way, as if I lived here, on
this earth, in ways that were congenial to me. The people had
furniture and books and music and food and a big fire and they
talked about all sorts o f things, books, music, everyday
things, and the filmmaker showed her film. I got back to N ew
Y ork, slept where I could, mostly on floors, it could get
harrowing, I would get pretty tired, I wasn’t really understanding how to put an end to it, I felt just perpetually exhausted and stupid, I didn’t see how you get to be one o f
these people who seemed plugged in— food, money, apartment, that stuff. I’d get warm in the bars with the painters. I’d
go downtown and they’d be there and w e’d drink. Sometimes
one o f the guys would hit on me but mostly I said no. I don’t
like painters. They seem very cold to me, the men; and the
women were all tormented like Jill, talked about men all the
time, suffered, drank. I don’t know. I made love with some o f
the women but they were just sort o f servants to the men;
drunk, servile. I fucked some o f the men but they were so
self-involved, so completely cold, in love with themselves, so
used to being mean to whoever was with them. They put this
shit on a canvas and they make it thick or thin and it’s blobs or
something and then they’re known for doing that and they just
do it over and over and then they’re very crass in bed, they’re
just fucking-machines, I never knew men w ho just wanted to
fuck and that’s it, I mean, you couldn’t even say it was a power
trip because it was too cold and narrow for that, greedy and
cold; they really should have just masturbated but they wanted
to do it in a girl. Paul kept making social events and he and Jill
invited me. Then N ew Y ear’s came and Paul had me to this
big dinner; Jill too but it was at his loft, his building I guess, I
couldn’t really grasp that part o f it. I was afraid to go but he
said it would be fine and I didn’t have to do anything or say
anything; I didn’t believe it because usually you had to cook or
clean or something but it was true because this was some
elegant sit-down dinner and there was people serving dinner
and he hadn’t cooked it but someone, some real cook, had. It
was N ew Y ear’s Eve. It made me feel special to be there, even
though I was scared. I felt like someone, not someone famous
or someone rich, ju st someone who could be somewhere
inside with people and nice things, I felt warm and in the midst
o f grace and abundance. It made me feel that there were people
in the world who were vibrant, who talked, who laughed. It
was not ju st some place to be— it was fine, a fine place. I was
almost shaking to see it, the table, the candles, the china, the
silverware, vigorous, jubilant people, warm and ruddy and
with this physical vitality that almost bounced o ff the walls. I
was so lonely that winter. I came back in N ovem ber 1972, all
broke down. It was a bitter cold winter. I went to Paul’s loft on
N ew Y e ar’s Eve for dinner; a formal dinner; except no one
was dressed formal or acted formal. It was shimmering. It was
dazzling. There was plates and beautiful glasses and there was
food after food, all cooked, all served, first one thing, then
another, then another, it went on and on, it was like a hundred
meals all at once, and no one seemed to find it surprising like I
did; I was like a little child, I guess; I couldn’t believe it was
real. There were candles and music but not just candles, the
candleholders were so beautiful, silver, crafted, antique, old,
so old, I thought they must have come right from Jerusalem.
There were about twenty people altogether. The men were
mostly painters, mostly famous, pretty old. They talked and
told jokes. The girls were painters too but they didn’t say
much except for one or two who talked sometimes and they
were real young, mostly. There was a man and a girl and a
man and a girl all around the table. There was all these wines
and all these famous men asking you if you wanted more. Y ou
had the feeling you could ask for anything and these great
men, one o f them or all o f them, would turn heaven and earth
to get it for you. I was shy, I didn’t know what to say; I
certainly wasn’t no great artist yet and I wanted to keep my
dreams private in my heart. I said I was writing stories. I said I
was against the War. The men said, one by one, that you
couldn’t be political and an artist at the same time but they
didn’t argue or get mad at me; it was more like how you would
correct a child who had made an embarrassing mistake. One
o f them took me aside and asked me if I remembered him. He
looked so familiar, as if I should reach out and touch his face. I
said hadn’t we seen a movie together once. He said we had
made love and I was on mescaline and hadn’t I liked it and
didn’t I remember him. He was real nice about it and I said oh
yes, o f course, and it was nice, and there were a lot o f colors.
He didn’t seem to get mad. I smiled all night, because I was