July 2, 1998
Sunday, 9:00 pmSevere, debilitating depression today.
This morning I could barely make myself stay out of bed. I took naps frequently and painted in between.
The worst is in the morning when my brain will simply not think of anything but bad things. I went out to dinner about 4:00 and things have been going better.
Reading Patrick MaGrath's "The Grotesque." Maybe I feel superior to the character trapped in a wheelchair, spewing loathsome thoughts but unable to verbalize. Well, at least I can write them down.
I don't remember much about Friday at all though I think I was fairly cheerful. I talked to Simon a couple of times during the day and to Chicago. I'm sending them another drawing for an August show.
Thursday I had dinner with Merv and brought a lily that drove me crazy all night with its perfume. Or maybe Merv was the irritant. We didn't seem to be talking about the same things all night and I got bloated on his tuna spaghetti concoction.
Saturday I went to see the Whitney Biennial again because I thought I may have missed something the first time but learned I hadn't. Though in some ways I enjoyed it more the second time it is still boring and sparse.
An older gentleman and his younger escort kept running into me on every floor. Good-looking kid with veiny, muscular arms and vacant face. The old man was a toad. I ran into them again in the bookstore.
I bought a copy of the "Letters of an American Farmer" by J. Hector St. John de Crevecoeur -- as much for the author's name as for the subject. I carried it to the Frick and in the cool and calm I noticed a Vermeer with the most incredible yellow in the coat of a girl. Why don't they let you into the garden at the Frick? It would be pleasant. I sat and stared at the frogs spewing water in the courtyard.
When I got home I must have worked because there are two drawings in progress: a "Manito Park" diamond and a "Pool" along with a "Grange" painting. At night I bought a paper and read a very long rant by Hilton Kramer over Mapplethorpe. "Should Government Fund Pornography?" It's getting boring.
I found a sparse but friendly crowd at the bar later that night. Tony Lombardo from Barbara Toll Gallery was drunk and, under the impression that he loved me, kept fondling me.
The man with the tattoo from the gym was there and I got up enough nerve to talk to him. His name was Greg, he's a writer and lives on 6th Street and Avenue C. We didn't connect as he was waiting for someone he'd met at the beach earlier to show up. That someone eventually showed up and I sulked. I looked for a substitute and started to talk to a guy I'd never seen before who informed me that we'd had sex with each other three years ago. Oops.
Jack Ben Levy had seen Erotophobia and liked it so much he wanted to write about it in OUTWEEK, the new gay and lesbian weekly. I told him I was in it and he was impressed.
That little hunky guy from the gym was walking up Ave. A with his shirt off as I was going to dinner. He must have been sunning in the park.
I packed up the things I'll need to take to the studio Wednesday. Then I can think about fixing up the living room into something livable.
Either my depression has lifted or else I've been too occupied today to take notice of it.