Friday night. Sixth night of Chanukah. I just lit the candles, swept the floor, and now I’m looking out the World Trade Center window, seeing the lights lit, the one lit window across the street and the reflection of my books, the empty wine bottles, the seven candles burning. I like sitting in the light, under the veil; I feel peaceful. Also because I’m getting back to myself by writing. Lighting the candles I thought of the opening imagery in the novel: singing little songs to herself lighting candles on Friday night alone in her dorm room—Shawn said Hedda wouldn’t let him work Friday night, so they can be together—I supposed if I tried I could continue ritual too—mostly I thought of it as ending material. Didn’t I say once, Duane St. is like a college dormitory, but everyone’s got a bigger dorm room—me and my bottles of Chinese great wall vodka, wild turkey, pink champagne, Beaujolais nouveau, vintage Chianti, blausac brandy, the Chanukah candles that Grandpa gave me one time.
My father called tonight, said I’d be sick a month or so, that’s why we wanted you to come home—to go home would be to accept defeat again—I felt that way after the rape too, though at least tonight I was able to cry after I talked to him. Family—a group of funny people who cluster around and look preposterous, worsening your crisis, best not to tell them. If I can’t walk three blocks and do my laundry how am I supposed to get to Kennedy airport. Take a cab. Yah sure.
Breakfast by myself this morning. Then by around two Marsha joined me, bearing fresh fruit god bless her. Tomorrow Debbie Sisson’s coming. John and the Jesuit—I wonder if they’ll run into each other. Hank’s three roses are opening. I figured out I’ll have Shawn call the landlady. After all she has talked to him—John told me eat as much as I can, even if my stomach can’t stand it. He’s there less, but he’s giving and gentle. The comedian’s there but begins the insult hurling—god the grapefruit and banana and lemon and orange look nice. The rose opening, the red and yellow apple, my cat on my couch all do too—in spite of everything with the comedian I did feel a sense of loss watching Wonder Woman and The Hulk, which I wouldn’t have known about without him. I asked my dad—how did all those people get to Charley’s together, who arranged it—he didn’t know. I’d like to get Lizzie to bring me some notebooks—maybe sometime I’ll call her. Talked to Harry today—he gets angry at taking so long writing things too. I suggested—every time you get angry at yourself send me a post card, and I’ll send you one too—you’re gonna be getting a lot of mail he said—and he told me Patrick saw my book in a bookstore in Michigan—we narrowed it further to a Detroit suburb, around Birmingham—my god my memories from school there. I’ve got to get back to that woman too. Read New York Review of Books which came today, job-counseled Marsha, talked to Jaap, Viana, Julie—watched John Irving on the Dick Cavette Show—Now I’m angry that my parents so protected me. That I didn’t know about the importance of living your life so that you structure in other people.
Only yesterday morning it seems that I made a rather long entry—got me hyped up and speedy, soaring on a false energy. Maybe I should wash my hair tomorrow. It’s been a week actually—a week tomorrow since the Harvard woman was here. Dad said to do a little recovery calendar, to build up my endurance. Tomorrow at least water the plants, put away the laundry. Call chuck. Type the Pictures proposal, the Tenkel letter.
 Van Liere, from URPE, who was a graduate student in political economics at the New School at the time but went on to become a curatorial consultant and art editor handling the estate of artist Lee Lozano, whose diaries, drawings and sketch books he edited a collection of with Barry Rosen published in 2006. Lee lived 1930-99 and sketched sexual drawings of tools, and wrote angry pithy intellectual notebook entries which keep her wit alive and continue her following years after her death.
 Pictures of Patriarchy, the title of my second book, published in 1984, which I was still at the time marketing with Fran Goldin, Susan Brownmiller’s agent, to more commercial publishers, hoping to make money, but which I also gave like my first book which I had just published, for half the advance, to South End.