NYC September 1973. I can’t believe it. I’m on the 9th floor of One Fifth Avenue, facing south. Apartment 9H to be exact. It’s a plush hotel suite being used as a Parsons dorm. My new residence. I love it! I have three roommates, curly haired Tom Fox from Florida (who doesn’t yet know that he’s gay, but I do), and two Chinese brothers in the next room. The living room picture window looks out on Washington Square Park, and in the distance the World Trade Center looms like twin phosphorescent robots. I actually LIVE in Greenwich Village, the historic site of generations of madmen, jazz musicians, poets, painters, and revolutionaries. A dream come true. 

At night, in my bed, I can hear shots, screams, whoops, air-raid sirens. When I awoke, Agnew had resigned and the Mets had won the pennant.

Fall Movies:
Women in Revolt
Une femme douce
Chloe in the Afternoon
“Pimpernel” Smith
The Inheritor (Belmondo)
Day for Night
Pal Joey
Machine Gun McCain (Cassavetes)
West of Zanzibar
Dementia 13
The Petrified Forest
The French Connection
The Damned
England Made Me
Bride of Frankenstein
My Night at Maud’s
La collectionneuse
Bed and Board


Fall Books:
Borstal Boy, Brendan Behan
Teenage Porno Queen, Anon.
More I Remember, Joe Brainard
Seventh Heaven, Patti Smith
The Wild Boys, William Burroughs
Exterminator!, William Burroughs
The Black Book, Lawrence Durrell
Superstar, Viva
Chéri and the Last of Chéri, Colette
The Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man, Thomas Mann


School life. Everyone in my drawing class draws better than me. Gulp. Some days I have life drawing for six hours, punctuated by Styrofoam cups of coffee and cigarettes. I’m too impatient, I need more sensitivity to line, mass, and space. I’ve drawn flat up ’til now. I’ll need to render if I want “mood.” I want “mood.” I need more articulation. Teacher asks me if I was stoned when I did my homework. Was I?

The Parsons lunch room is filled with the fashion kids, none of whom eat either. No hippies here. The girls get dolled up every day for school. There’s a busty nympho named Daisy who never stops talking about sex. “Parsons girls love dick,” she says. Later, “I see I’m gonna have to educate you. Why dontcha eat me, honey?” which is meant to make me blush, I think. She’s just talkin’ soda pop. Says she wants someone to fill her with milkshakes tonight. Her older illustrator boyfriend painted her for Playboy. She’s got a real 1950s cheesecake figure.