I decided years ago not to read stories about myself anymore. Each one is a potential minefield: Whatever it says, you’re bound to take it the wrong way. Why do it if you know it’s going to make you miserable?
For days on end, I would hardly speak, and when I did only the vilest sort of gibberish would spout forth. I became morose and fat. Unapproachable, except when eating – and then only by waiters.
I read a comment that made me think I should stop singing for a while. And I didn’t want to stop singing, because it was the only thing I loved. At first I thought,
I loved the photographs of people wearing elaborate makeup and costumes – they really pulled at me inside. I was in that library every week for years, until I was about 13. I had a rich interior life, because I didn’t have much of a social life.
Unfortunately, every time there’s a budget crunch in New York, the Parks Department is usually the first to be cut. So they need all the help they can get.
When I read that, I burst into tears. It was so generous and so basic. Not fluffy. I can’t understand why we scrimp on education and shortchange our kids. Why would the citizenry do that to the people who are going to inherit its republic?
Do you want to live and work in a garbage dump? I don’t. That’s partly because I grew up in the most pristine environment possible – Hawaii, where it is sacrilege to leave your garbage on the ground.
