no one I’d rather watch a fire with

Wednesday, January 31, 1996
8:25am, train

Well here it is, friends! I mean, self! It’s a letter from Jackson, a letter mailed to me from the mailbox across the street, because that’s SO POETIC. I can see him pouting his lower lip as he opens the mailbox lid, hand over heart, so serious. But I can laugh, because here it is, the letter foretold: I want you back. Hah! Of course you do, you dick! I fucking warned you about that in May! The three most beautiful words in the English language: I was right.

He’s been thinking. He’s realizing some things. He thinks we should talk. Can you imagine?

His timing could not be better. He has no idea that my life has moved on without him. I can’t wait to tell him. Not in person, as I do not feel the need to spend time in his company for any reason whatsoever. But maybe I’ll wait a few days just to torture him and then answer the letter and say you are a crazy person! You were dying to have me, then you were dying to get rid of me, and now you’re dying to have me again? Just die, already! You don’t even have to fuck off first, you can skip straight to being dead.

Oh man oh man. The horrible thing is how much I still want him. This letter is run-right-to-the-bedroom material. Fuck. If I even considered getting back together with him, I would be the stupidest version of myself I have ever been. If I went back he would do the same exact things he’s always done. His moods, his criticism, his pettiness. And how long before he would decide he couldn’t do it anymore, and pushed me away until I broke, and then said it was because I was broken? No, you are broken. Not me.

I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to say some of this to his face. I wouldn’t mind hearing him grovel a little more. Maybe we could have passionate hate sex. Or maybe just hate dinner. I want to tell him I quit sucking my thumb. He can tell Ava to go write a poem about that.

Thank god I’m with Ted now, otherwise I could see myself caving in. If I were single I’d probably run over there right now. Instead I’m just going to sit here gloating, like the cats basking in their sunny spot, blinking my eyes and yawning.

Later, desk

I guess I’ll respond in a few days once I sort everything out. Realize I always go through the ritual of looking for him, wondering if I’ll see him coming up the opposite stairs in the subway. Walking around the corner from Flatbush to 8th, looking up at Ava’s window. I can break myself of the habit.

I could hear him alone in his apartment, reading his letter out loud to himself, “I don’t hardly see you any more,” and thinking how true it sounds, how well it scans, his hand on his heart, every word its own, separate, declaration.

I have to be like infinity percent on my guard against him. The taste of his mouth, sweet like prunes. And there’s no one I’d rather watch a fire with than you.

I’m disappointed in myself sometimes. I had to admit it. I guess I’ve been writing my feelings and thoughts down too much. It’s a crutch. Or maybe it’s a new support. I don’t have any conclusions to draw.

Okay, so I’m just filling up books of junk, just so I can fill them. Not even so I can read them later. But maybe in six months? Will they be instructive then? Are they helping?

I’m tired because I got so high this morning; also because my job tires me out. It’s nice to have a little time away from Ted. Not for any reason having to do with him. Just because I need room to figure out what to do and who I am.

I love myself because I have consistently been a good person even when I’ve been fucked up. I don’t need reasons to love myself. I’m doing better, I know I am.

Time Travel. At 80, I am indomitable but quietly so. I have no idea what I am. I am alone, I suppose, having outlived my partner. Or maybe with a partner still.

I am terribly, terribly, wise and have seen a tremendous amount and can hardly remember these days except through records and I’m grateful for the records, though I can barely read the handwriting. I’ve written many good books and have supported myself as a writer and a teacher.

I walk every day, slowly, in the good weather. In the bad weather, I sit by the window and watch it. Maybe I have grandchildren, or a grandchild, though I never had kids. I have cats, though unfortunately not Fang and Petunia who I loved dearly. Of course, when I think about loving something dearly I immediately think about the fact that it is going to die.

What did I do after the age of 50? Traveled around the world on a literary tour and read to 75 to 200 people in major cities all over. Just visited some cities and read in others. Met interesting people who were talented. Not necessarily famous. But obviously very good at what they do.

I made some political speeches for causes I believed in and did pro-bono work for charities. I developed some new system of education that helped people feel better and know more. I never got too famous to the point where it was no fun. But people did sometimes recognize me. I didn’t have an ordinary career. I was an iconoclast.

Dear Janice, you were trying to picture us at 80, which we are now. And we remember what it was like to still be wondering, and we wonder that we never stopped. And we wonder that every day the world still hasn’t ended.

We’ve been incredibly lucky to be us, that’s for sure. We’ve been happy to have our talent and our brains and all the good solid stuff that has come genuinely from inside us. From those early experiences it took so long to recover from, came good values, as we decided I don’t want to be like that. I want to be better than that.

The older I get the happier I will be. I’ll be released from all kinds of sex, bullshit, and bizarre expectations. I’ll have done it all and can look back and say, I’m so glad I’ve been there.

To read the girl bomb diaries in chronological order, click here.