MONDAY
9:10 p.m. At Balthazar with a Leo and a Libra and a cute pup whose sign I don’t know. Some nights, I have to drag myself into a cab. Go downtown. And have dinner and a million glasses of wine with really remarkable women. Just to feel something of my former self.
But I have this thought, as I switch from rose to red, that the former self is not what is being retrieved. More like, I’m building a new self. Which can be done only when you’re around people who actually see you.
And what about the whole self? The whole self—that’s not a myth—that’s all the selves. Together. (Which is why physical death must be so powerful, I don’t know).
11:49 p.m. I make the mistake of a second stop after what was a cathartic night. When will I learn. Sometimes you just need to go home.
But in my imagination, and in life, the word home is static to me. What I mean to say is, I’ve never really built anything out of it. I think my favorite thing about my childhood was my own mind.
I love you, New York.
