June 25th, 1979

There were other times when I felt that my life was a product of my intelligence. The radical days at college and later, when I moved to D.C. The daring gesture, or so it seemed to me, and to refuse convention in any form. Bare apartments that smelled of patchouli and incense.

Now: I trudge to the crowded subway like everyone else heading downtown to work that has become unusually monotonous. Scribbling in felt tip pens on hundreds of scraps of paper plots to make the money last until next payday. Caring about clothes, because it seems to make an importance in the world at large. Worrying about how our new home looks– hungry for more and more possessions.

I have become a parody of what I tried to avoid.

When you are spending 45 hours a week downtown it is difficult to develop intense passions. The life of someone involved in a traditional job is by its very definition conventional.

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Wendy loves the most essential part of me.

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