I’m still having a great time. At least I think I am. I feel so relaxed that it’s hard to say for sure. I’m sitting out by the pool now. I have the beginnings of a tan-and believe it or not I’ve cut down on my smoking! I’m getting healthy. Can you totally, like, believe it? (That’s L.A. lingo for you.)

Love,

Anne

P.S. Did you get my last letter? Please do write.

Sept 24 1983

Dear Sean,

Hi (?). I feel sort of awkward writing to you because I guess you’re pissed at me or something. Or are you? It must have been something I said in that last letter. Maybe you think I got carried away? I can understand that, I suppose. I tend to get a little extreme in my enthusiasm. You know you could have just written to me and told me to cut it out and that would have been cool. Please, Sean, understand that this is kind of rough for me. Can you forgive me for whatever it was I did? Oh God, I just had this vision of me coming back to Camden in March and seeing you and feeling embarrassed and not knowing what to do. And maybe you won’t even talk to me or something horrible like that. Could you write me and explain it all to me? Please? Please?

Anyway I’m sitting out by the pool in this great house in Palm Springs. It’s late morning and I have done nothing for the last few hours but sit in the sun and stare at the palm trees. It’s so tempting to go swimming and lay out by the pool and get drunk or do any of the innumerable decadent things one does in Palm Springs. But I’m just too lazy and the thought of mingling with all these obnoxious suntanned people fills me with dread. Really, the most mindless people are at the house right now: middle-aged studio execs with joints hanging from their lips and gold lighters they have for just these occassions. Dumb blond bunnies reeking of suntan oil and sex. Old rich women with gorgeous young boys (who for some reason are all g*y). I checked out the bookshelves in this house and was embarrassed to find all these  p**n ography books with titles like Stud Ranch and Gestapo Pussy Ranch. Sickening, isn’t it?

About a week ago I was sitting in L.A.‘s chicest nightclub with a few friends and the DJ was playing Yaz and Bowie and the videos were on and I was on my third gin and tonic and I realized that no matter where I am it’s always the same. Camden, New York, L.A., Palm Springs—it really doesn’t seem to matter. Maybe this should be disturbing but it’s really not. I find it kind of comforting. There’s a pattern out here that I’ve become accustomed to and I like it. Is this healthy? Is this the way it will be for the rest of my life? The rest of the time I’m in L.A.? I don’t know. All I can think is that nothing is going to change overnight and the best I can do is keep trying. This might sound like I’m unhappy or depressed, which isn’t true. I’m more content and relaxed than I’ve been in years. I’ve been away from New York for a month (I still kind of miss it) but it has done wonders for my psyche. I can’t say that I’ve reverted back to the wholesome, idealistic little girl I was five years ago, but I’m a lot less depressed and I feel a lot less desperate and confused. Things are coming easier. I think you were right when you told me that night that I should “get the hell out of here and go to L.A.” (do you remember that? you were very drunk). Your advice was good. Well, if I don’t come back happier, I’ll definitely come back healthier. I’m really into the whole health food scene out here. I’m popping vitamins like there’s no tomorrow.

What can I say about life with my grandparents? They’re a pretty normal couple and they’re really nice to me. They buy me everything and anything I want (I must admit that I don’t mind being spoiled out here). They seem to love buying me things and taking me to restaurants. The nicest thing is that they don’t expect too much of me so they can’t possibly be let down.

I seem to be getting more philosophical these days, especially here in the desert outside L.A. Or maybe it’s just survival tactics. One thing I’m learning is not to expect too much from people. If I do I always feel let down. And there really isn’t any need to feel that way. Of course, I still make a lot of mistakes but I’m learning. “Aha!” you’re probably thinking, “I bet she’s alluding to me.” Well, you might be right. Letters are curious the way they can give a person away. Since I’m really not sure what you’re thinking, all I can do is write and hope that you aren’t ripping up the letters. Are you? Maybe you should stick a piece of paper in your typewriter and type out “Stop It” and send it to me (you do have my address in L.A., don’t you? … do you even have a typewriter?). And that would do it. I’m not insensitive to out-and-out denials even though I’d be sorry to lose your friendship (we are friends, aren’t we?). I seem to have this knack for making things complicated for myself. Do I make you feel like things are messy and uncomfortable between us? How awful. Can’t we just simply be friends and just forget about whatever is messy and uncomfortable? Maybe I’m being foolish or simplistic to believe that things can be as easy as that, but why not?