Diary of Marie Stanley: January

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Sunday, December 31, 1972

Fresh new diary, virgin white pages for the New Year to come – oh Fatality! May there be few blots to sadden you…

I have not kept up my diary these last months – unforgivable but I have had to be so awfully active. Such trials! After leaving school I went home, and left home… it took three months to find my little secretary job. With no experience, no wish to even work at all, and torrential rainstorms all the while, ruining every pair of shoes I had.

Then dear Georgy, best friend from school and best friend still finally arrived in August, and we got our apartment here, at 92 Horatio, on the corner of Washington Street, Meat Market district, convenient to his cruising. Three hundred a month — could never have gotten it on my own.

Georgy had been delayed because his mother committed suicide right after he got home from school. From this tragedy emerged a huge inheritance… he never talks about her anymore. Audrey, Audrey, God I never even looked at that huge bag of her evening gowns he brought me – which we promptly, drunkenly left on the subway his first night in town.

How we loved the flayed sheeps’ heads set out every morning in barrels below our windows. The kitchen is still decorated with the photos Georgy took of their last grimaces. That night I made lamb-chops for us and we got hysterical over the “gristly moment…” Now I just wish Georgy would stop eating my food all the time. I make $132.00 take home each week, and it is hard enough to decide each week whether to buy fresh food OR booze, or canned food AND booze. When I try to eat properly and stock up on fruit, vegetables and butcher meat, I come home to find scraps.

But there’s always HIS liquor cabinet, lavishly stocked. Will adjourn now to enjoy myself a festive Chartreuse, then round off its sickly yellow-green with the crisp pink of the watery-blood Rose he favours… These are the greens-and-reds of my decadent holiday, which I spent in bed, taking Georgy’s Libriums, sleeping through the whole Xian sham.

Now it’s time to draw on the burgundy satin gown for a foray into Night-life – a bacchanal at the Mercer Arts Center. Terrible splurge at $25 a ticket. So shall end my first era in the flat hard bosom of the world’s great Satan, Manhattan.

Monday, January 1, 1973

Did not even notice midnight come OR go, Georgy and I tossing down surges of Mumm’s, two bottles somehow smuggled past the fascists at the door in his gigantic purse. So glad my dearest is not cutting his hair, even if everyone else is bobbing their left-over-from-the-1960s romantic locks. You never see beautiful long hair on men anymore, just hideous ‘shags’ dyed unnaturally. Georgy retains his long and flowing. He was tonight so charming.

Drunk out of our minds, we discussed The Shadow, The Double who is a living part of the personality and therefore wants to live in it IN SOME FORM.*

We both agreed we must remain faithful to The Shadow, respect her deep coffers, never become ‘square’ if that’s what it means too, always stay in a half-light. Because of the way of creativity, which is machined by way of difficult discovery.

We ventured out of our ensconcement in the upper regions of the wrecked balcony to snarl at the doped-up fans of the New York Dolls. Everyone on heroin, it’s the latest fashion according to New York Magazine. All the more reason to abhor it. Mealy-dough faces, bored beneath the glitter.

The Dolls did try hard as per Mick Jagger to look evil and cruel but only came off grouchy. Swing yer hips, snap yer tips while ye blow out your brains? Eh. Existentially significant ennui in a rock band does seem far-fetched, “an irrelevant thematic” agreed Georgy, who prefers more sensuous stuff.

The place was crawling with what Georgy termed “fags” though it was very like a school dance with homosexuality and flagrant sex. All shrieking so queenly, so dominantly queer, contemptuous of all yet hoping you’re staring. The most admired had the tiniest hips supple as a wrist. Everyone in make-up, Twiggy lookalikes abounding.

Crawled to David’s Pot Belly at …

[…Cent-sign AM? What time was that? There isn’t a cent sign on my keyboard anymore.]

4 AM for a bloody-meat infusion, Georgy raving, “We must have blood, BLOOD!” as we enter the restaurant, of course we have to wait forever for a table. Spicy stuff, bloody meat always a necessity after the potent nay shall I say portentous libations of a New Year’s Even night. Afterwards Georgy Traipsed off to the Trucks for more meat, while I struggled home against a frigid wind off the Hudson to dump the tainted carcase into bed.

[*Footnote: Plagiarism from C.G. Jung – not attributed to him by Author.]


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