Crouched in the crawlspace, I tried to read but the light from the one bare bulb was too faint, so I grabbed up five and carefully made my way down the ladder. I brewed fresh coffee, settled onto the couch and began.

The writing was hilarious in its way. Portrait of the Artist…etc. Embarrassing. Awkward. The most terrible aspect was that the young me had no idea what a total idiot he was. He thought he had some kind of insight when he had none at all. Of course I wrote all this for posterity. The ultimate absurdity. But here and there I found nuggets of personal history embedded in the writing and so these things have some worth.

They are half-diary, half-journal, contain all kinds of information about what I was doing then. I had forgotten how I spent my days. I remember I had some fun, but these entries were specific. Names, places, acts.

I will read them and burn them in the fireplace. My more recent journals are worthy. These are an embarrassment. My funeral is coming soon and I don’t want anyone going through this stuff.

September 11, 1976

I saw a man wearing an old-fashioned signboard on the street, handing out leaflets to the passing parade. He looked like someone out of Puritan times. I wonder if he was being punished? He was advertising custom-made suits.

I like to peek at people in parked cars. All kinds of private stuff going on in there, all kinds of stories. People kissing, talking, arguing. I even saw a guy shooting up drugs. A few days ago I saw a bald man crying while a young woman held his head to her chest. Maybe they had had an affair and were breaking up. Maybe he was telling her he couldn’t leave his wife. Or she was leaving him for another guy. Who knows? Stories. It’s all stories.

Finally got settled into the new apartment. Complete and total feeling of a new beginning. Like the start of a new school year. Except it’s not school, it’s the rest of my life. My future. I’m taking one step into my future.

Living in Times Square was very stimulating, but in the long run, dangerous. After eleven p.m., there is no law. The police disappear and I could get my throat cut and everyone would just stand by and watch me bleed. Besides, I knew it wasn’t permanent, they weren’t going to let me stay in that attic forever. This is much better. No transvestite prostitutes outside my new Upper East Side apartment!

And I start the new job on Monday, which gives me all day tomorrow to finish unpacking and go grocery shopping. Have to remember to pick up vitamins and ginseng powder and tea. And a toothbrush which I seem to have lost along the way from there to here.