January 2, 1983
Showered, dressed. Downstairs Terry and Anne Marie make banana crepes while Kevin broods over musical compositions. They haven’t found any of their New York City friends at home, and don’t know where they’ll be staying tonight. This lack of definite plans upsets Kevin, and his upsetness upsets Anne Marie, makes her nervous so that she grinds teeth over the Sunday crossword puzzle.
Nana needs someone to go with her to pick up George Daniels at the hospital. Why has he asked her to pick him up? I’ll have to go with her. Today would’ve been her husband’s (80th?) birthday. She didn’t remember that; can’t even remember her own.
In the meantime the perspective has shifted entirely—like layers of earth, all those geological metaphors… On New Year’s Eve, Anne Marie and I decided—just in time for this New Year—we decided not to go to graduate school this fall. I am relieved. I am not ready to commit myself to anything—and her self-doubt is equal to mine. We feel like imposters, spies in the house of…. And we must wait, wait until we really want it, can’t do it just because we need a plan. Suddenly everything has changed. Now the months open up in front of me, waiting to be filled….I am glad to be avoiding that stupid school trap. Life’s just life now, not a passage of time until the actual thing begins. I’m not waiting for anything.
I want to travel—I’ll go live in Kansas with Terry for a few months, then spend the summer and fall in the northwest, and move southward as it gets colder.