Ned Rorem spent the summer of 1967 at Yaddo in Saratogo Springs, NY. (I checked out Yaddo's web site at yaddo.org, and Ned is pictured in the 2000 group photo, looking pretty good.) Diamond spent some time there as well. He speaks about it in taped interviews I have of him. He was there after the war, in the latter 1940s, I believe he said. I'm not sure of that though—I'd have to go back and listen again. He's listed on Yaddo's guest book, without specific dates. (The list covers 1927-present. It's a who's who of America's great artists. The list of writers far exceeds the list of composers. When Ann was with me in Diamond's basement she found a wooden crate that was addressed to Diamond from Yaddo. Pretty cool.) Anyway, on Labor Day, 1967, Ned notes in his diary that he returned that day from Yaddo, flew to the liquor store (he was an alcoholic), picked up a carrot cake, and "gave a wet party for Virgil [Thomson], the Phelpses, David Diamond, my parents, Arlene Heyman and her boyfriend." "In one day," Ned continues, "I lost my suntan, posture, non-smoking resolutions and, fortunately, virginity." I wonder if he lost his summer-long virginity to Diamond? Probably not, but it's fun to speculate. I'm sure, if asked, he'd say. Ned's not at all secretive about such things, at least in his diary. A biographer of Jean Cocteau once asked him if he had ever slept with Cocteau and he said no. Truthfully, I'm sure. I need to read the Paris Diary. That's where all the juicy stuff is, I believe. Yaddo suddenly fascinates me, as does all of early 20th century American cultural history. So many luminaries, such a fascinating time. I'm sure much has been written, but this still seems fertile ground for more research. Diamond wrote a yet unpublished biography which was removed from his house. He speaks of it in interviews. I want to read it. That summer of 1967 Rorem claims to have read all of Proust in French.

Rorem "cannot abide" the word 'delicious' as it is applied to edibles, which seems odd to me. "In a pinch," he writes, "it works for clothes or clouds, or when meaning 'delightful' as the French use delicieux. While eating dinner at a plaza a lady next to him, "relishing a bleeding cherry cobbler," uttered the word 'delicious.'" "Really delicious," she repeated, "the adjective oozing gooily off her tongue like the pastry itself." With that he could eat no more. Hahah I like to use the word myself, mostly in the context of describing a body or indeed an entire boy I think is attractive. Ann thinks it sounds a little gay. Maybe she's right. It never occurred to me. But it sounds right for the unrefined wave of lust, and the imagined sexual satisfaction from the delicious body. Beautiful bodies are consumable. I've had a taste for one lately.

I've spent the better part of the evening swatting at the most oversized, lethargic fly imaginable, yet unbelievably I can't seem to kill it. I bat it to the ground, thinking I have it, but then I loose it, only to hear it take flight jeeringly just beyond my reach. What are these monstrosities that appear in doors now and again? They're like the undead of the fly world. Are they the retarded and discarded of their species?

Having just checked out Ian's blog again, he's killing me with the regularity of his writing. I can't keep up. He's indefatigable. And it's interesting stuff. Fucking stop so I look better. hehe

I have my own tell-tale heart growing more pronounced every day within my bathroom. My tub cold water facet is leaking badly. The sound is driving me crazy. I can't escape it. Am I going to have to begin sleeping downstairs on the couch? Christ, it's the frickin' Niagara Falls in there. Actually, it sounds like someone is dropping pebbles into a ceramic bowl, or maybe golf balls into plastic tubing. My light switch in the adjacent room also recently broke, so I moved a lamp into the room. My apartment is crumbling before my feet. The only thing left to do is abandon the place to its own disrepair. I have to leave.