September 1st, 1978

Labor Day weekend. Allan has gone to Philadelphia and I am staying in his apartment. Wendy, on her way for a night out with Chippy, brought me over with my dog, my typewriter, a small bag of clothes, and a shopping bag full of miscellaneous items. Now I am drinking white wine and listening to Phoebe Snow and feeling like I’m in some exotic city on vacation.

Another weekend in that house and I think I would go crazy. All the calm and security that I needed so badly six months ago is suffocating me now. So, I have three nights and two days in the organized luxury of Allan’s apartment. The bars are two blocks from here and I’ve already ironed a shirt and intend to go out for a nightcap later on.

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My last D.C. journal, at least for a while, assumes awesome proportions to me. I want this special quality to pervade every thing that I do, every thing that I experience from now until I leave.

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