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June 2nd, 1977
Lunch time– everything blasting summer. I am sitting beneath a tree in Lafayette Park. The sky rumbling with jets and droning traffic sounds. Pigeons and people everywhere.
Last night after enthroning myself on the sofa with two six-packs, two packs of cigarettes and my boxful of journals I started in on my favorite pastime– reading my memoirs. Not long before the compulsions began and soon I was on the telephone. Calling everywhere. I called Philadelphia, Missouri, California, New York, California again.
Life lines across the nation. I wish I could spend quiet evenings at home watching TV with my dog, washing my hair, writing letters. Instead of running up huge telephone bills that I never know how I will pay.
What a night though! I was reading my journal from 1972 when I lived in New York. 21 years old and I wrote with such passion and intensity of my love for Joel. The passion of youth. So I called information in Brooklyn and found a listing for a Joel. I called and sure enough it was him. I explained how I had known him years ago and reading my passionate journal had prodded me to call. At first he didn’t remember me at all. Finally he did and he remembered everything. So I made a date with him. June 18th– two weekends away! I’m going to New York to meet him for dinner. Such drama– I love it. I have no grand illusions of falling in love– or even what it will be like to see him again. But it’s such a wonderfully romantic plan.
My need for security and stability seems to contradict my need for romance and excitement. I hate the ordinary.