Friday's dead. Maybe not really, but as good as. The awful burden of trying to provide for him against the winter has been lifted; I am free to go, having no impediment but books and degrees: A wandering scholar I. Maybe I'm getting a little old for it, but I've done it all my life and I'm good at it. I neither beg nor solicit, yet I find my way, and people help me. So mote it be.

Meanwhile, I am enjoying the hell out of being Gerald's shill or agent. He's incredibly prolific--like Picasso, sort of. Never a false note, or a hesitation; and his best stuff (figures and faces, in my opinion) have such depth of character
that you can fall into them, and sit and stare at them as you might at a living person. In fact, it being too soon to have another practise with Kristen (having had an okay one only yesterday), and having nothing whatever else to do, I think I'll put on my purple whore-shirt and my flannel over-shirt and go out drumming up exposure, maybe revenue by, first, visiting some galleries, seeing what it would take to get his stuff up on their walls, and start getting him the fame and fortune about which he, Van Gogh-like, cares not a rat's patootie.