April 4th, 1978

If I could choose, I would never live in an apartment again. Given a choice, I will never live alone again. My life is full of so many unplanned, totally unexpected turns of fate– that I need the support and strength I feel from a house and a family. Memories of my recent world on 39th Street are like scenes from a cage. Pacing through dilapidated rooms with the noises of a mysterious, probably very lonely, Hungarian man above me, and a burned-out version of Janis Joplin living across the hallway. Actually, as I sit here and write about it, that period assumes a certain dramatic quality that seems to please me. I do love my dramas. How I love to tell stories about my life in New York City. What has become blurred with time and distance is the horrifying struggle life there was for me. Somehow it horrifies me more in retrospect than it did when it was actually happening to me. Dear God, this transition I just went through resembles fleeing a burning building in the middle of the night. I must have a great deal of environmental calm now. I yearn for it.

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Which is what is really very nice about my life here with Wendy and Chip. All of us need a certain soil for our roots. But very light-weight soil that doesn’t restrict our movement. In such a casual, relaxed way, we are all three being a little family for each other. Often, when I am here alone, I feel so secure, so at home, that the outside world fades away. Nothing exists beyond the magic metal gate surrounding our scrappy-looking yard. Washington and the rest of the world are a million miles away and nothing will happen here that isn’t wonderful.

Today at work both Wendy and Chip called me. Wendy from New York. Chip from work. Both just to check in with me. Make sure everything is OK. God, I love them both.