Smash Cut: A Memoir Of Howard & Art & The '70s & The '80s - Plot & Excerpts
Every week I’d visit Dan Deely for the humiliating exercise of examining my hair length, until the telex was finally sent announcing its acceptable length, and then back on the plane I went. In big brush strokes, my second departure turned out to be a replay of all the distress, separation anxiety, and punchy psychodrama of my first exit, though the cards were played in a slightly different order. Our goodbye this time was formal and awkwardly unruffled. I flew on Air France instead of Alitalia. I traveled to an actual apartment promising an adult life in much more intriguing and dimensional Paris. But I inadvertently left behind a ticking bomb, like Poe’s telltale heart, on an orange-crate “table” by our mattress: my black sketchbook journal in which I’d scribbled all my private thoughts as well as descriptions of illicit escapades, a slip whose implications I didn’t need Sister Mary Michael to explicate. Tick-tock, tick-tock. For several days, Howard, on phone calls, didn’t say a word about the diary, and so neither did I.
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