The pathetic young male roommate didn't last longer than five months and became very sick of our hectoring and expectations and moved out in a huff. He left his bedroom in a foul smelling mess. The stench was incredible (it took ten days to dissipate) and appeared to be coming from all of Dopey's missing bath towels. There they were, almost ten of them, festering in the closet. He must have masturbated an awful lot. Can't say I'm surprised.
The very nice young man soon replaced him, a young fellow of just under thirty we knew from St. James. He was clean, considerate, liked us, and wanted to participate with us. We quite liked him. He also helped take care of Dopey, though only enough to offer support. She was still my responsibility. This was the year when I changed my name.
I was still painting and still showing my art: sometimes garden landscapes featuring rhododendrons and azaleas in full bloom, often clusters of highly coloured and plumaged birds with backgrounds of iridescent gold and flames of fire raging against the darkness and light springing from the silent depths. I sold perhaps one painting during that year, to a friend with whom I had always had a nervous and fragile relationship. It was a huge composition of several golden pheasants in an endless green field with three little trees on the horizon. I did actually very well finding places, usually salons and cafes, where I could show my work.
Dopey informed us that she would be moving in a few months, just a few days after my name change became legal. The community was dying its natural sputtering death. The very nice young man left, then Dopey and a day or two later so did I. The timing couldn't have been worse. My hours at work had been cut back and paralyzed and I really didn't know if I would be able to survive on my own even in a cheap East Side bachelor apartment.
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