Who am I? I am a friend of mine. What am I doing here? I am listening at Juanita’s in El Veranto. How am I? This is New Year’s Eve; I’m feeling out, because I am out; I’m hanging out until next year. Why am I so curious? I’ve never been here before. There’s no panecea for the past. No one is talking to me, and I came here alone. How do I know all the answers? What makes me think I’m so important? My nose, which tells me that what other people are doing makes more sense.
Who are you? Second Person, singular. Who are you? Who you are. What are you writing? I’m OK. What are you writing? What you are writing. How are you? With a pen or a typewriter. How are you? God made me ambivalent. Why are you writing? I don’t know what to say. Why are you writing? I’m not, you are.
Who is she? She knows a man in the band, and she looks very young and pretty, although she said she graduated from high school in 1960 in New Orleans. I said this place is like a River Queen, and she kissed me after auld lang syne. What was I thinking of? I wasn’t doing anything. She sat down and began talking with me. She asked me what I was writing. Why did she do that? Pamela, she said.
1 January 1975