was N ew Y ear’s Eve. It made me feel special to be there, even
though I was scared. I felt like someone, not someone famous
or someone rich, ju st someone who could be somewhere
inside with people and nice things, I felt warm and in the midst
o f grace and abundance. It made me feel that there were people
in the world who were vibrant, who talked, who laughed. It
was not ju st some place to be— it was fine, a fine place. I was
almost shaking to see it, the table, the candles, the china, the
silverware, vigorous, jubilant people, warm and ruddy and
with this physical vitality that almost bounced o ff the walls. I
was so lonely that winter. I came back in N ovem ber 1972, all
broke down. It was a bitter cold winter. I went to Paul’s loft on
N ew Y e ar’s Eve for dinner; a formal dinner; except no one
was dressed formal or acted formal. It was shimmering. It was
dazzling. There was plates and beautiful glasses and there was
food after food, all cooked, all served, first one thing, then
another, then another, it went on and on, it was like a hundred
meals all at once, and no one seemed to find it surprising like I
did; I was like a little child, I guess; I couldn’t believe it was
real. There were candles and music but not just candles, the
candleholders were so beautiful, silver, crafted, antique, old,
so old, I thought they must have come right from Jerusalem.
There were about twenty people altogether. The men were
mostly painters, mostly famous, pretty old. They talked and
told jokes. The girls were painters too but they didn’t say
much except for one or two who talked sometimes and they
were real young, mostly. There was a man and a girl and a
man and a girl all around the table. There was all these wines
and all these famous men asking you if you wanted more. Y ou
had the feeling you could ask for anything and these great
men, one o f them or all o f them, would turn heaven and earth
to get it for you. I was shy, I didn’t know what to say; I
certainly wasn’t no great artist
dreams private in my heart. I said I was writing stories. I said I
was against the War. The men said, one by one, that you
couldn’t be political and an artist at the same time but they
didn’t argue or get mad at me; it was more like how you would
correct a child who had made an embarrassing mistake. One
o f them took me aside and asked me if I remembered him. He
looked so familiar, as if I should reach out and touch his face. I
said hadn’t we seen a movie together once. He said we had
made love and I was on mescaline and hadn’t I liked it and
didn’t I remember him. He was real nice about it and I said oh
yes, o f course, and it was nice, and there were a lot o f colors.
He didn’t seem to get mad. I smiled all night, because I was
nearly awed. The men had this vitality, they were sort o f
glowing. I never knew such a thing could happen. Y ou
listened to them, because they might say something about art.
