In the Shadow of the American Dream by David Wojnarowicz Page A

went further. I don’t want to start getting into a heavy relationship with her as there are too many complications in both our lives and though I do love her things won’t be ironed out or balanced by that love. I called Jim and Louie and they told me to come right over so I walked Laura to the car and kissed her good-bye. She split to her parents’ house on Long Island and I bought a bottle of wine and headed down to the party. The party was pretty nice. Jim and Louie had invited a lot of men all involved in the arts to a certain extent some maybe not but a diverse set of characters. I drank a couple of beers and didn’t talk most of the evening as I felt removed from everybody. Don’t know why, just felt slightly inhibited as I knew no one well enough and tire easily of bullshitting conversations. I don’t like to talk unless I mean what I’m saying, can’t make small talk too well when I’m feeling down or inhibited so said little. Met this fella named John—the one person I did talk to for any period of time. He’s an artist/painter, studies at the Art Students League, and works there making sandwiches once a week on Saturdays. We talked about hitchhiking and gradually I started feeling warm in my belly over him, wanted to tell him or say something to indicate what I was feeling but was unable to. Hope to see him again sometime.
    October 6, 1977
    Met Syd down near Port Authority on 9th Avenue in the rush of squallin’ buses and fruit market pedestrian ballet. We headed for New Jersey and went to a motel/hotel across from the railroad tracks and across the street from mobile homes and trucks in the parking lot, etc. We talked about our past two years and I was glad we finally made it back together. It’s amazing how he has grown in two years. I guess he’s in his late forties or fifties and he made me kinda sad at times as I miss him and to hear some of the changes he and his family have gone through is amazing, all of them—the son shooting dope in the army, getting discharged, and eating himself into blimp size; wife getting operations on her ovaries, I think a hysterectomy; other children doing well. It was raining and we sat afterwards in a diner and ate lunch and talked about the city and its homosexual scenes, bars, etc. He drove me back later and I got out on the familiar spot on 40th and 9th to the side of the fruit stand, waved good-bye, and split across the honk snarlin’ streets flap into the Port Authority building.
    October 8, 1977
    Went out to New Jersey and did the suburban trip for the day. It was pretty nice. First time I mowed the lawn in thirteen years or more I guess. Then we toppled the big weed tree in the front yard as it was dwarfing the huge red oak tree Dad had planted. I shaped the hedges square ’cause every other neighbor on the block had square hedges and I figured the house shouldn’t look so conspicuous. Ha ha. So then me and Peter [David’s younger half brother] got ripped on our asses. I toked some gold smoke in a homemade apple pipe Peter fashioned—real good idea. We got together with Billy Wayne and about six other kids and played nighttime basketball on an illuminated court in the woods with no lights around other than those of occasional car goin’ on or off or by. Fuckin’ stoned and played our asses off with great fun and glee. My perceptions were so strange—I’d be dribbling like a madman with quasi-fancy steps and think I see the basket a couple of feet behind me over my left shoulder so I’d spin around to shoot and blam! The basket would be twelve yards or more away. Then I’d go in for a layup shot and ZIP ZIP ZIP run like a drunken arrow towards the basket and do a layup and jump and sail and look up and there’s the basket sailing by thirty-five miles an hour past and twist through (wangle) I’d pump a greasy shot in crazy and usually miss. Once in a while plip!