September 25, 1978 - Journal Entry - East Village

Living in the shadow of the Blue Hill Meteorological Observatory during the 1960s I was obsessed with the weather created by the long chain of hills south of the Neponset River. Snow filled the woods in the winter, spring rain flooded the streams running across the overgrown farmland the bogs buzzed with mosquitoes in the sweltering summer, and the trees black with New England colors through the autumn. Winter was winter. Cold, but Northern Europe was colder and I was surprised, when Clover said she was planning to leave New York for Poland. No one from our scene traveled to Communist countries and I asked, "Poland?"

"Krakow is supposed to be beautiful and cheap."

"I've never been farther east than Bar Harbor." I visualized a coal-stained medieval city

"I have never crossed the Atlantic." I thought about Paris, but I want a real place on the edge. I have more than enough money after selling the door Jean-Michel Basquiat painted for me. Will you be my big brother?"

Of course. Any Polish people give you a hard time, buy me a ticket and I'll save you."

"I wish my brother was tough, but he's the way he is and he's happy with that."

"He certainly does look happy." Brad was earning good money dancing in a jock strap at the Adonis Theater in Times Square. He was in love with one man while fucking scores of men every month.

His Mexican partner beat him regularly. Jose is a surfer stranded in New York and frequently quotes the Tradewinds hit - NEW YORK'S A LONELY TOWN. "I hate the surf in New York." Clover's packed bag rests by the doorless entrance to the apartment. She pulls me into the bathroom. We had only made out. We had never made love. She wanted me to violate her. I couldn't do that even as pretend.

"This is your last chance."

"Maybe I'll met you on the other side of the Iron Curtain."

Forget it." Clover was angry. "You have to leave. I have things to do."

I wanted to go with her, but whatever we were, we weren't anymore and she was headed to a country where wheat fields ran all the way to Siberia.

Clover vanished completely that year. I received two postcards; one from East Berlin another from Krakow. She seemed happy from her writing. I searched the Internet to find a trace of her, but Clover is gone forever.