"I never wear this into East Hampton. This is my Revolutionary Attire."

Robert, my African dance teacher, does not celebrate Thanksgiving. "The music is my Thanksgiving," he says. My gentleman friend Siyavash does not celebrate Thanksgiving, either. "The math is my Thanksgiving," says he. Lenya, for one, is looking forward to cranberry sauce and delicata pie.

As I look out the window here in Bloomsburg, great, terrible flakes of snow are falling down from the sky. Its a sea of snow - I've dropped things, scarves and things, you know, out there and I know I'm never going to find them again. Its a beautiful sea today, but I know I'll go mad if I stay here in Bloomsburg. My darling friend Rosa Nilpferd came for a visit and we had just a terrible time. It was the most atrocious thing ever to happen in America.

Lately it occurs to me how lovely it would have been if, at the end of Return of the King, Frodo and Gandalf and Galadriel and Elrond had boarded their elven bark and sailed across Long Island Sound to Grey Gardens instead of Grey Havens. I would have been waiting for them with lembas bread and a can of liver pate.