The Journalist’s Birthday

I’m at Park Central Hotel and the whole of seventh avenue was closed down this
morning.   The silence in the new York street was eerie.  In the distance like a
multicoloured tidal wave thousands of women marched towards me.  They were marching for breast cancer awareness.   I pulled hard on my cigarette sensing a pang of guilt.

It is the journalists birthday today.  Her mother died giving birth to her so it isn’t just a birthday but a wake.  I could say it is always a complex day but it isn’t. Grief and celebration swop positions like children in a game of musical chairs.  There are only two musical chairs at the feted French restaurant Pastis   where we travel to for breakfast  in the meatpacking district of NY.

Shortly afterwards we go shopping in Soho and China Town then back to midtown for an afternoon break.  After  great food at carnegie deli we sleep for an hour.  I buy some beautiful True religion jeans . At 7pm  we go  to East Village for birthday cake journalist
and writer   Emma’s (brockes)  place for birthday cake celebrations and onwards
to The Kitchen Club for evening meal which ends only in laughter.

We all go back to Emma’s who laughs and dances with the journalist.  The Journalist and I arrive at the hotel in the early hours.  It’s been a wonderful day and evening. The Journalist seems to have enjoyed it. I am pleased. It was her birthday  we sleep like children  in the New York night.

Today Laurie Anderson and Lou reed played  the PEN international festival in town. I
remember being on a boat with Laurie Anderson all the way to the arctic only a few months ago. She didn’t say much to me, nor I to her. It was a shame really.   But it was a weird trip

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