Saturday, February 9, 1985

 If I sit up and look out the window, I see the skyline of New York City. It is late and clear and cold and the sky is black so I can clearly see the tops and bottoms of all the buildings, including the World Trade Center. The Staten Island Ferry, aglow, pulls out of the dock toward Staten Island and disappears behind the St. George Hotel. The luxury and economy cars speed uptown on the East River Drive (lower), past the heliport, past the tennis court bubbles, past the South Street Seaport...and they're gone. If I stand up, I can watch them drive past the Brooklyn Bridge. Even New Jersey is lighted up and the Bayonne Bridge is a green arc linking Staten Island to New Jersey. When I was little, I thought it was the Verrazano Bridge, but I cannot really see the Verrazano from here. The lights in the windows of my favorite apartment at the St. George Hotel are on, but the curtains are closed so I can't tell whether or not anyone is inside. I sip my bourbon and water and silently toast the St. George and then the Manhattan skyline and wait for my mother to return my phonecall, thereby shattering my peace of mind and the peace and quiet as only she can.

 My mother and I have been having a cold war. She wants a détente on her terms and I'd just as soon have out and out bloody warfare. So, we're at a stand-off. No shots are fired and no peace talks are attempted. In a way, it's a small victory for me because I have not yet surrendered (my only real alternative to cold war). I am not strong enough to win without guilt, so I can't win. But I am strong enough not to let her win either. If asked, she's totally unaware that a cold war exists. That's life behind the iron curtain!

 The Staten Island Ferry reappears. There are three different ferries coming and going all night and day from the tip of Manhattan Island to Staten Island and back. My bourbon has run out. The flowers on my table are old and dying and I should throw them away since dying flowers are depressing and I can depress myself easily tonight without the help of dying sunflowers. The Jehovah's Witnesses' Watchtower (Brooklyn Heights is the headquarters of the Jehovah's Witnesses) says it is 24 degrees outside. Normally, I wouldn't care. I'd simply snuggle up to the radiator in my long johns. But I want to go out and purchase the Sunday New York Times and therefore the temperature is important. 24 degrees is cold and it must be less degrees what with the windchill factor and all. Fear of cold creeps into my soul.