June 20th, 1976
Lovely grey Sunday summer morning. Tucked away like a tidy mouse in our colorful homey apartment. Sadie curled up snug on the sofa. Richard lounging across the bed bare-assed reading a novel, languidly begging me to fix him a drink. Content. Satisfied. Birds chirping beyond the low blowing air conditioner. Grey sky shifting from blunt to bright blue through the clouds.
Allen on the telephone last night talking about the pointlessness of so much human endeavor. Hordes of people stampeding downtown every day to twitch and jangle all day in absurd occupations. Allen and I both frenzied at times with advertising deadlines. Crazy to sell bras and sofas and children’s clothes.
Yet my position as Mr. Waite, Advertising Production Manager for Garfinckel’s– the poshest store in town is the pinnacle of success for me right now. Top money for me. I am acutely aware of my situational restrictions, my lack of education primarily. With no education and considering my interests and ambitions– my job is possibly the best I could hope for.
Yet my craft, my skills, often drain me with their lack of artistry. Richard’s profession is an art form. This dialogue annoys me. Of course, my work is an art form. I am particularly talented at producing good advertising. It is a behind-the-scenes role. I combine the art and the words into a balanced scene. A moment of glancing through the paper. A bad production of an act can ruin it. No, I am not unhappy with what I do.
Nearly two weeks now of not seeing Allen. Trying not to feel guilty.