MY NASCENT REVOLUTION
All those things are blooming again : ideas that come
to fruition. Let's march down Flower Street and shoot
off our mouths. There's a guy there holding a sign about
something : he's claiming to know what God says.
I can't retreat, but my charge hasn't started. Like my
gay friend Richard said : 'I spent this Summer at the
beach, reading all of Balzac!' I replied, curtly, 'I bet
you did,' meaning somehow to say ball-sac, but I
couldn't find a way. These Hamptons fellows
make me chuckle, so cute and ripe are they.
At eleven we start for the cape - lunch begins at noon.
There's a juggler at the entrance - he's pretty good actually,
three, four, five pieces in the air, and he keeps them aloft
ever while he quickly twirls around. Two cops stand by,
watching. Hard to keep order when things are (literally)
flying about. The juggler wears a jester's cap.
The surf here is nice too - all that Hamptons beach water
is on a long shallow shelf, so you can really walk out far
before it gets deep. It's a nice feeling, one of owning the
water in mind, while it twirls and gnashes around you.
Somewhere around here is where John O'Hara got
killed by a beach buggy - getting run down in
a dark-night accident along the beach. And it
was a safety-wagon, no less. Sometimes
things just really go wrong.