Friday, July 3, 2020
From Resident Alien: The New York Diaries, by Quentin Crisp
"While I was typing the last words of the above, an unknown woman telephoned to ask me for eighteen dollars and fifty cents. I told her to come to the front door, where I handed her a twenty-dollar bill. She thanked me and departed. As I walked back upstairs to my room, I wondered if I should hear from her again in a month or two. I misjudged her. Within two hours, an operator was asking me if I would pay for a call. I said, 'No.' A few minutes later, the unknown woman was telephoning me with another incomprehensible saga of misfortune. I refused to give her any more money. I hated myself for this, but I hated her even more. Since I came to America, she is the first person to drive me beyond the bounds of politeness."
From 1991 * Winter
Thursday, July 2, 2020
(A Short List)
Unpleasant jams and jellies
Bad but well reviewed novels
Scandinavian detective shows with too many suspects
The National Anthem
Organizing photos, recipes, etc.
Old New Yorker magazines
Wednesday, July 1, 2020
From Firebird: A Memoir, by Mark Doty
"I am amphetamine bright and glittering on the inside, too, possessed by my song. I am a Judy, right down to the prescriptions, in tight black stockings, the tuxedo jacket slicing across her thighs just below the waist, eyes huge with the force pouring out of her gaze now into the music."
From Chapter 6, Seventy-Six Trombones