January 2nd, 1982
Afternoon sunlight floods our living room. Sadie sprawls basking in a brilliant spotlight of warmth across the sofa. She watches me across the room; raises her head as I speak to her. I tell her that I love her, that she is my baby girl. I cross the room and kneel on the floor. I kiss her little head, and pet her and for one full moment all human life makes perfect senes to me. I understand the universe.
Today was a very bright pleasant day— that turned into a cross, grouchy evening. The day was spent cleaning the apartment— tossing out the Christmas tree. It felt good to see the apartment back to normal. Then I went to the bank, and bought a pair of black jeans, which made me very happy. Calm, relaxed afternoon in the Village. Feeling good about myself and my world. I went to the grocery store and bought preparations for macaroni salad— my contribution to the anniversary party at Sheridan Square tonight. I dressed and got to the church by 4:30 to help with decorations. Crazy Betty seemed to be spearheading the activities surrounding the anniversary. I found her in a panic— I immediately hugged her and tried to calm her down and starting hanging crepe paper and streamers. The meeting was packed— perhaps 300 or more people. My energy was fading and I was starting to feel bad. This fucking cold. I’ve had it for so long now that I have moments of mild panic when the thought crosses my mind that I may be dying. Tony was there— I don’t even want to write about him anymore. One moment I think there’s a genuine communication between us and the next minute I think he’s just being civil to me as another member of the fellowship. Howie was there. I feel like a fourteen year old girl. And I’m so lonely. I need so desperately to be hugged and held.
And, yes, Dear Readers,
HERE WE GO AGAIN…
Another diatribe against God, another fist shaking session toward heaven.
How can this awesome benevolence that guides the very planets through their orbits— neglect mes so cruelly.
Oh, I know— even I am getting sick of these tantrums I throw at God.
Then, coming home not feeling well, feeling lonely and unloved and bitter at God, I find Allan drunk— a high school buddy of his is in New York visiting and they managed to tie one on this afternoon. Allan, as usual— had his earphones on and sang for a good hour at the top of his goddamn lungs. I hate him desperately when he is drunk.
How can I be expected to turn my life and my will over to the care and protection of a Higher Power who writes scripts like this. No thank you. If these are the scripts— then I prefer to be unhappy. I will pout and sulk and not play the part.