1994 - Autumn
I have been on a grand tour. Firstly I visited Minneapolis, summoned thither by an Organization for Human Rights. . .This time I really saw the city, because I was welcomed by a Mr Pufkin. He took me in his car to see the many lakes and beautiful green parks of which Minneapolis consists.
From Minneapolis, I went to Chicago, and from there to Los Angeles. . . where I read in a faltering voice from my autobiography to a small huddle of people who looked quite bewildered. A few people turned up on Sunday evening and questioned me about my lvoe life. I explained that I didn't have one . . .
After the question-and-answer session, I went to dinner with a heap of wonderful people, including a gay banker and Miss Patricia Nell Warren. . . She was signing copies of a sequel called Harlan's Race at Unity Expo. She gave me a copy, but, like a fool, I forgot to bring it home.
The following morning I rose at dawn to be photographed for an advertisement for some spectacles and returned home to answer a pile of all the usual letters asking me the usual questions, such as how does one succeed in the profession of being, what do I think of AIDS, and what is Crisperanto.
The face of the Lower East Side is darkened. The restaurant in the windows of which I used to sit on exhibition like a Dutch prostitute has been shut by the authorities. This not only means that I starve, but also that there is no place where Ican meet all the strangers who telephone me. The system of dealing with the outer world has broken down.
I have been auctioned off at Christies. . . Who won me and what my duties as a slave will be I never found out in all the hurly-burly.
From Minneapolis, I went to Chicago, and from there to Los Angeles. . . where I read in a faltering voice from my autobiography to a small huddle of people who looked quite bewildered. A few people turned up on Sunday evening and questioned me about my lvoe life. I explained that I didn't have one . . .
After the question-and-answer session, I went to dinner with a heap of wonderful people, including a gay banker and Miss Patricia Nell Warren. . . She was signing copies of a sequel called Harlan's Race at Unity Expo. She gave me a copy, but, like a fool, I forgot to bring it home.
The following morning I rose at dawn to be photographed for an advertisement for some spectacles and returned home to answer a pile of all the usual letters asking me the usual questions, such as how does one succeed in the profession of being, what do I think of AIDS, and what is Crisperanto.
The face of the Lower East Side is darkened. The restaurant in the windows of which I used to sit on exhibition like a Dutch prostitute has been shut by the authorities. This not only means that I starve, but also that there is no place where Ican meet all the strangers who telephone me. The system of dealing with the outer world has broken down.
I have been auctioned off at Christies. . . Who won me and what my duties as a slave will be I never found out in all the hurly-burly.