Friday night, I planned to host an informal dinner at home, as I often do (and much prefer it to going out). It was raining in New York and quickly became one of those days –– one friend packing for a long-delayed honeymoon the next morning, another stuck at the office, a third in her newsroom on deadline, so much so that by the time one showed up a bit breathless, I cheerily informed her that it was to be a table for two, and a nice little chance for us to enjoy a tete-a-tete. We opened a bottle of bubbly, took the slow road, rang up the afore-mentioned office, just as the editor, now a neighbor, turned up, and a friend from Maryland arrived at eleven. In the end, a full table, dazzling in charm, and much more than I'd hoped, in the nicest of ways. Last night, I went to Christen Clifford's Abreactions performance at Dixon Place, and it was electrifying, especially when she staged her response to Yoko Ono's Cut Piece and I was invited up with other members of the audience to cut her hair. There was a moment of utter silence at the culmination of the act that was powerful and profound. Also, nudity is an exquisite and beautiful thing. Today I woke up at 9, jumped in a cab with a friend and sped off to the Whitney where we experienced Yayoi Kusama's Fireflies on the Water, an extraordinarily moving study of infinity and consciousness that does more with lights, mirrors and water than one might think possible. Each person is permitted to spend one minute inside the structure due to space constraints, which seem to disappear as soon as the door shuts. I'm thinking about the week ahead, which culminates in a wedding in Chicago, where I'm flying just for the night. I changed my ticket in order to attend a dinner the previous day here at home, and did a little research for it this evening. Presidents of most republics are called "Mr. President," for life.