October 11th, 1972

□ The only reason why you can’t stay in New York is because, my dear, you are not up to it–

You’re a stupid hick from Missouri with a line of defensive ambitions about your career plans– when the fact of the matter is that you neither have a career nor the inner resources to pursue one. 

You’re so filled to the brim with bullshit about your “place in the world” but on specific, personal levels you’re a reprehensible spoiled brat so tied into his own cheap ego-trip that you can’t even see the world about you in perspective. And you dream of being great.

That’s it– that’s one of the problems– Larry dreams of being considered great by the world. He dreams of the fame and recognition of an actor. You’ve externalized your worth and value– do you think you’ll ever be happy if the world doesn’t return them?

     think

□ The problem is deciding what to do with your life at this point.

It’s as if a great erasing process was set into motion this past spring and wiped everything clean– leaving you high and dry and alone and broke in New York City wondering what to do now.

     what indeed…

I wonder if I should be concerned by the fact that I’ve become quite oriented to viewing myself from a third person standpoint in this book–

no, I am talking to myself.

The Jewish lady at the end of the counter– who I see every day– just muttered to the other two:

“there’s no place like home”

“there’s no place like home”