April 13, 1978

This is the first entry in a new journal. I won't be concerned with the past. It was covered by other journals. I've wanted to stop writing.

I can't. Not The Rockettes.

I'll never go out with one of them.

@ Blimpie's on 6th Avenue

I feel alone after a night on MDA.

Even though puffy white clouds defile a blue sjy.

A LITTLE LATER @ Dojo's Restaurant on St. Mark's.

My body is played out from mediocre debauchery.

I feel little reason to write.

No one cares, especially not me. She agreed. Her apathy toward me increases with each day she devotes to the theater.

I am lost. Mark Amitin, the producer of ALBEE DIRECTS ALBEE, ran into me on 23rd Street and said, "That look." Leather and platform shoes.

"You are a white nigger."

I don't feel like one.

In fact I don't feel like anything after rereading this shit, but people view me differently than other people. I hold no real job. I don't know where my next money is coming from. I never pay taxes. I knocked on my college loan and stole a car to come to New York.

I'm white and while it might be a disguise, my skin color is a strong refuge from the Law, which is why the jails and prisons are packed with blacks. A white boy will be questioned by the cops. A black boy will be thrown in jail.

If he's lucky.

None will be as lucky as me.

I'm white.

SCREAMING RUN THE MAN DOWN THE TILED TUNNEL FAST NO ONE HEARS NO ONE SEES HIS SCREAMS HAVE NO MEANING HE IS ALONE RUNNING THROUGH THE TUNNEL'S ECHOES.

MUCH LATER

New Yorkers are returning from Florida with lizard tans. My skin is winter white. Escape is available, but not desired. New York offers more than the rest of the cities in the USA, but people here keep asking, "What are you doing this summer?"

I have no plans.

West Coast or Europe.

People I know talk about those destinations.

No one is going to Cleveland.

A city is the throes of urban decay blanketed by a chemo-metallic smog.

I'm not going there too.

LATER @ 3RD AND 54TH

The Upper East Side is where the money is in New York.

The home of fat cats, art, high-end boutiques, and museums. Our honesty is questionable, but I am exaggerating for a good story and not profit.

Doesn't make me any better.

Only different.

Testing gullibility.

Even my own.

Really?

I will say anything for shock treatment with a total disregard to consequences.

And if people don't respond react in any way at your disposal.

Do anything

The right stimuli will get the right response.

The wrong might get the wrong.

Who knows?

But I don't understand why I don't work.

I am on the last legs of my unemployment checks from teaching at South Boston High School.

Drinking a cold beer on Spring Street.