Discover more from The Last Hundred Miles
October 16th, 1972
It’s a drippy, chilly, achy Monday and I didn’t go back to New York last night.
So far I haven’t attached any emotional meanings to that fact.
Here I am now– sitting at this table that I’ve sat at so many mornings– smoking DMT (supposedly) and drinking black coffee– naked, wrapped in Margie’s green bedspread.
I called E.S. McCann this morning and told Joan about my tooth– and that I wasn’t coming in– there was a bit of small talk and then she put me on hold to let me talk to Bob– I hung up.
Tying up loose ends is the only thing left. Perhaps this time I’ll send a telegram.
I’m going to try and go back to the city in a couple of weekends– to call the guy I met at St. Mark’s Playhouse. He and Joel are my only two remaining interests.
And so this weekend–
unknowingly, unwittingly and unhesitantly
I put an end to my
New York Diary
As it stands–
I am at Margie’s which is–
God save the Queen– a home–
I have an appointment to have my wisdom tooth removed on Friday–
I’m a bit shaken.
I talked to mom on the phone last night. She told me she’d given (or sold) her car to Uncle Willie–
Somehow it seemed premature– it hurt my feelings nonetheless.
Here I am back in Washington– cleaning up Margie’s apartment– watching soap operas– drinking coffee and smoking DMT.
I have to get a job next week–
ah, but that’s another journal isn’t it?