scott warren wilson



This afternoon is a splendid spring-like afternoon of Manet clouds - rich gray with sparkling white borders against pure cobalt - floating past a hide-and-seek sun. Its rays shower down, dissolve and vanish in an instant to leave the moment before bright street monotonous gray - only to reappear again on a whim. One expects to see flower vendors with great bunches of jonquils an each corner.

Thanksgiving Day was an uneventful day until Paul (Fine) arrived from Princeton that evening. We were invited to Pinkie’s for dinner with her and a friend - Alice. Pinkie had heard a great deal about P. when I first arrived in Philadelphia, and I wrote to him in Morocco about her, so their meeting had a predestined quality. And right I was to think they would hit off, for hit it off they did increasingly as the evening wore on and the bottle diminished. We lounged, each at separate a corner or her bed, talking about all manner of things from books to biology ( a hobby of Pinkie’s and Paul’s field of study at college) until about four, when Paul and I weaned our way back to my place for still more talk.

Friday night to the theatre with Eileen Haac (Inadmissible Evidence by John Osbourne) and supper for me, a night cap for Eileen at the Adelphia bar afterward.

Saturday afternoon Jean and a friend arrived from New York. After a drink at my place Jean invited Reinaldo - a Cuban emigre who distinctly reminds me at times of Miguel Ferrera - to the Emperor for dinner. They rushed off to the theatre, I went to a movie before meeting the two of them for several rounds of nightcaps at the couple of pulsating bars later. As the night wore on and the haze gathered I was actually aware as I have been over the past months of my change in mood when drinking - from one of fairly general amiability to one of increasing withdrawal dosed with a certain bitterness.