Monday, April 27, 2015


So I have returned to New York for what I hope will be a happy time, but by my own philosophy, I understand that is up to me.  I went back to Quaker Meeting on Sunday, after a lifetime of moving from Faith to Faith, with Faith only in Faith, having come to what I am sure is some kind of wise conclusion, that what the Quakers believe, i.e.: that That of God is in everyone, especially Jack Kornfield, with whom I have also had the pleasure of studying, is the Truth.  Naturally that does not hold true for murderers or sociopaths, whom I will try to avoid.  But I bussed and ambled through the streets of New York yesterday with a sense almost of Peace, and could actually imagine being happy here, so will give it a shot, though without bullets.
      Most of all I hope I will write something worth reading, bringing to Life, and/or remembering.  I still define myself by what I create, which is probably a little neurotic (a lot?)  But then it might lead to something worth reading and/or remembering, and even though the book business is out of business, to seems to be, (very convincingly,) there was still someone on the plane reading, and I myself am making a stab at Donna Tart, who appears to be struggling valiantly and wordily on.  It has been a long time since a work of words fully captured me, and I feel a tightness in my soul at approaching the theatre, appalled, in a happy way at what has won the award(s?), the adaptation of Kind Hearts, as I didn't consider it that good.  By which I mean good enough: the way things used to be when there was an Abe Burrows, or a Frank Loesser even though in real life (mine) he was a shit.  But then I was twenty, and thought if someone was gifted that had to mean they were a decent human being, ("Moss and I have a show in rehearsal in Connecticut," he said to me.  "And we've used a couple of your songs."  "What about money?" I said, when I was able to get words back.  "Write your family," he said.)
     So it turns out that the ones in my life who have appreciated me are the educators, Mrs. Schatteles at P.S. 9, and Miss McBride at Bryn Mawr, and I am going to end up when I end appreciating them, giving what I have to give to some kind of scholarship commemorating them.  I would have liked to leave a musical, or at least some songs or melodies to lift the spirits.  But I understand having lived this long that the great gift is Life itself, and I have to leave that behind and can't give it to anybody.
     It is very unlike me to be looking at the world with an eye towards leaving it.  But I appear to have slowed down somewhat, though I went back to my old (it isn't really) health club yesterday and actually swam for a half hour, something I haven't done in LA where it is more natural and expected to swim, because the people I expected to be kind and generous aren't.  Thrilled to be still able to move, and ecstatic that the woman who came to meet with me in Beverly Hills was wrong when she said  I couldn't leave anything less than a million to some future Aspirer, I begin again.