Late at night...

And I'm wondering where I'll be in two months.

Sometimes I worry about this, other times it doesn't seem real: the idea I could actually leave New York.

Today, walking, watching the sun fade into softness against the brown brick on 12th Street, I just thought there is no place so beautiful. But then I think about the rents and I just get annoyed.

Excited to be back in Chicago in a couple weeks, the idea of sitting back in Wrigley and watching mediocre baseball appeals strongly to the core of my being. That and re-reading Gide. I don't know why, but the urge to read Gide is strong these days. Him and Celine. All the French really. All the way back. Why the French? I think I've always liked French literature more than the average person. I remember first reading Zola, I couldn't believe somebody could write so boldly, this depiction of naked want really stunned me. Camus I owe eternal thanks to, he is the most beautiful soul to me. And Celine writes perfectly. I remember his writing like somebody told it to me. Dumas is a different kind of Shakespeare to me. And the poets are out of this world. I'll never forget first reading Mallarme, poetry took a different shape for me. I don't want to delve right now, because I need to sleep a little bit, but Gide was the first to make me want to see the desert.