I was walking down Third Avenue yesterday and these guys were gutting out a theater, throwing all those red, plush seats and seat backs into a dumpster waiting on the street. I saw the seat and seat backs, this mass of red velvet before I realized what it was, before more were tossed on to the pile and I realized what this was I was looking at. I thought there must be some creative use for these chair pieces. I couldn't think of any. I thought of ghosts and progress and continued walking.

Whenever I was on the train yesterday, I stepped out of this New York world and lost myself in Philip Roth's, was taken somewhere. I am getting high reading The Human Stain. I love when books give you that feeling.

Last night, I went to galleries with JS and there was/is some really amazing stuff. Margaret Evangeline's "paintings" (shot up pieces of metal) were mildly scary, but so beautiful. Luckily, JS was there because her mind works in a great way, making analogies and associations that I would never think of. She compared them to acne and constellations. I really liked both of those associations. Larry Clark's "Teenage Lust" was at ClampArt and I like this series but it was hung and framed so horribly. They are framed in these gray frames that are totally inappropriate and I couldn't even focus on the photos because of it.

Pat Steir's show at Cheim and Read was so nice after the Clark show just because that gallery is so elegant. The work was good, but perhaps only because it was so large. Chuck Close was there. The wine at this gallery was so excellent. So excellent and not just because normally galleries serve horrible white wine. This was the yummiest white wine I think I have ever had and of course, I didn't find out what it was.

There were some good group shows of young artists and I don't remember any of those artists names but there is some good stuff in Chelsea right now which is nice because for a while I thought everything was crap.

I am going to attribute part of this to Philip Roth - my appreciation of other things, of not thinking everything is crap. You just need something in your life to make you soft. Like when you are having good sex regularly and are just more pleasant and receptive to things this life will offer. Nothing can you get down then, life just seems more wonderful, you notice people and make eye contact with them. A good book can have the same effect. You just need one companion, one thing to return to and soften you up, break that shell, and then nothing else matters, or it all does because you are feeling good and have already had that certain gland pricked and so it is so easy to have it pricked again and again. The wound is still fresh.