Authors: U
Spent the weekend with Chesley in Portland. Brought Nick along
with me for some fun in the big city. We would have had a lot more
fun except that it rained the whole goddamn Labor Day weekend.
Boy, was I ever pissed! Nick seemed to enjoy bar-hopping with us,
though. He thinks Portland is cool, and says I’m wrong to call it
"Cyanide City."
* * * *
September 9, 1978
Megan came over as usual last night and visited with me. I don’t
know quite how it happened but it happened.
Yep. We did it. What can I say? When a beautiful woman kisses
me and tells me she wants to make love to me, right now, this very
minute, I find it hard (impossible) to refuse.
Oh, I suppose I could refuse if there was some other beautiful
woman I was already making love to on a regular basis, but such is
not the case.
I am weak and sensual.
The second time around (about 1/2 hour later) we puffed on a little
reefer to heighten the experience.
However, it needed little in the way of augmentation. Megan is
really wonderful, a wildcat in bed and intensely amusing otherwise.
She has this animal magnetism effect on me that I am powerless to
resist. Ever since meeting in February, we hit it off great and both of
us feel this special chemistry.
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The third time was the best of all. She came and came and came,
gripping me like a vise. When I finally ejaculated, it was like our
bodies were fused in a nuclear detonation.
I feel as if we are destined to be together. I know for my own part
that I intend to be real sweet to her and keep my true (rotten)
personality in check as much as possible. She tells me she wants to be
free and finally feels free after having left her husband last month.
Who knows what The Future will bring? But if being with her like
last night is a taste of tomorrow, I can hardly wait.
Shipped 18 pounds of books and magazines to Mick in Swaziland
yesterday. A choice selection, if I do say so myself. He should
especially enjoy the three skin mags I swiped from Nick and sent
along with the rest of the stuff.
Soon I am going down to the Beachcomber to swill beer and watch
the Huskies play UCLA on the tube. I get the feeling Washington is
going to pound the shit out of UCLA and I don’t want to miss a
minute of it.
Received a rejection from Dwight Allen at Scribner’s. He said my
novel showed remarkable talent but unfortunately was not right for
them. Whaddya know? Talent!
But fuck it. I am kind of discouraged at this point. I have the
feeling
The Dark City
will never get published. The only thing I have
ever officially published is one lousy poem, and not even a very good
one at that. It’s no Dover Beach, that’s for sure.
Where do I go from here?
Ding A Ling.
It could be the great American novel. Ha ha. I feel myself getting
psyched up. I’ll try pouring it all out in one long insane rush. That’s
it. I can feel that long insane rush coming on. My 27th birthday
approaches and life is short. I want to get it down, baby, need to get it
down. Make them laugh and cry.
I want to take a good hard look at the crazy inner workings of life,
explore the things ignored by other writers. Trace my origins back to
their gnarled roots. My earliest recollections.
I know I can do it.
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Reading Knut Hamsun’s
Hunger
. Even in translation, it has an
incredible effect on me, putting me in this weird mental state. I feel as
though I am totally in his power.
Hamsun can do whatever he wants to my head. The writing style is
so fucking deep. How the hell did he learn to do that? Makes me
think of my square headed Scandinavian relatives. Well, I am a
storyteller too. Read my new book, coming soon:
The Dark City
!
When I was at Chesley’s apartment in Portland, I couldn’t stop
pacing because I was so worked up with sentences and ideas for
stories. I wrote them down as fast as I could, but as soon as I sat
down, another one would hit me. There was a mad flowing rush of
brilliant thoughts coursing through me.
Soon I will begin. Next Friday, perhaps. I don’t care how hard it is
or how long it takes, I just want to do it.
Chesley hates it when I pace. He says he hated it last year when we
lived together in Portland and says he still hates it now because it
drives him nuts.
Washington beat UCLA 10-7, a narrow victory. The game was a
disappointment because it was all defense. I hate those Los Angeles
schools. They think they are so cool.
I’m thinking of going on the wagon for a while, maybe for as long
as it takes to complete Ding a Ling. No dope. No booze. No
cigarettes. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I feel
unhealthy, like I’ve been pushing myself too hard this past year. No
more. I shall strive for a more purely creative, life enhancing balance.
I can’t keep beating myself down.
Why do I keep punishing myself? What have I done that is so
wrong? Answer: Plenty.
So what? What of it? I’m not a goddamned saint. Not like those
people who are so unbearably self-righteous.
On and on it goes.
All I know is that the month is September and the air is warm and
sweet. Our little beach town settles into night as I gaze out my
window, thinking about the days of my life.
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September 10, 1978
My brain is finally working again, or so it would appear. I love the
mushroom article I wrote. It reads just fine. I also hope the magazine
I’m sending it to also likes it. They can’t ignore the wonderful color
photos. They make the whole piece. The psilocybin season is
supposed to start sometime soon. (Try saying that three times fast.) It
lasts maybe three months. I intend to sock away a whole mess of
mushrooms this year. Need to find a good mushroom.
Megan has taken two weeks off to hash out some financial issues
with Mark. He has moved to Eugene for the time being, staying with
his Eastern Fellowship buddies. I don’t like it that Megan is away but
as the boyfriend I am in no position to object. We shall see what we
shall see.
* * * *
September 22, 1978
Work these past two weeks has been a total bitch. When Megan is
gone, everything falls on me and the pressure is intense. More than
ever it becomes clear that Megan, Josie, and me are the only
competent workers in the office. We don’t piss the clients off, we do
our work, and we actually understand what the fuck is going on. The
others are totally worthless or worse, an impediment to the effort.
The clerical dames continually bring cases to me that belong to that
fool Elmore because he screws up everything he touches. Although
he has a degree from a college down south, he does not seem to be
able to read or write with any skill.
The boob strikes me as functionally illiterate.
I also wind up with some of Foghorn Leghorn’s work because she
has a habit of always being missing in action. It pisses me off no end
because they are such lousy workers the clients make it a point to
avoid them. As a consequence, the bad workers get paid to do little or
nothing. They can’t even fill out a simple AFS 415 properly.
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All I think about is Megan Megan Megan. Her husband is trying to
win her back and I am beginning to worry that she will slip through
my fingers somehow.
Josie says it is touch and go.
Time will tell. I am not ashamed of anything I have done. I follow
my heart. That is all.
* * * *
September 23, 1978
A poem:
THE AUTUMN QUESTION
Fading sunlight is a yellow beam
through my kitchen curtain
evening softly falls
the voices of neighborhood kids at play
drift in through the screen door
Derrick, Sunny, and Moonflower
I hear their voices
at the end of a beautiful day
I glance across the dunes
temperature 74 degrees
in and out of bed all day
smoking dope and drinking
reading and dreaming
Alabama lost to USC, 24-14
but exciting to the end
a dog barks
a gull cries
I am at home
no work today
on and on it goes
I get so sick of myself
and bored
I am rotten company
I’ve got to learn to be more careful,
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more circumspect
The woman in my life
is skittish and I wonder
if it is right to get involved
I would be a liar if I said
it didn’t bother me
that she is married
to someone else
the answer I get today is not
the same one I get tomorrow
I only want tomorrow’s answer
not today’s
What then, is happening?
I feel sort of like a sneak
which I probably am
* * * *
September 24, 1978
More adventures with Bartleby the Scrivener. The typist is
correcting the errors she made on the manuscript today and then it will
be ready for submission. That reminds me – I need to rewrite the
query letter that goes with my sample chapters. I’ve got a lot of new
ideas that I want to try out.
Had a TV Mexican dinner for my evening meal last night. Yuck.
It didn’t sit well afterwards.
Think I might start writing Ding A Ling tomorrow. No reason not
to. My notes on the project grow rather voluminous. I have nothing
left to do except write the goddamned thing.
It will be an eclectic mix of comedy and melodrama. I can’t help it.
That’s how I write.
More later.
* * * *
September 28, 1978
Much to say, but the words come hard. Michael D. is in town,
ostensibly to do work and socialize. I believe he is invading my
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territory. We went hunting for mushrooms yesterday. Found a few
campanulatus but no semilanceata. Might be a bit too early in the
season. They better show up soon because I’m tired of waiting! I
wish to commune with the Mushroom Goddess.
The days go on. Now Megan won’t let me touch her. She is
conflicted about things. I didn’t start this but now I suffer. I adore
her body. What an incredible beauty she is. I look at her constantly.
I especially enjoy watching her from the side. What a profile. She is
so beautiful it makes me want to cry.
What the hell am I doing? I could spend a lot of time with her but
suddenly she is the nervous one. I can sort of understand why. Sort
of. What the fuck are we doing?
No success in starting Ding yet. Going up to Portland soon. Have
to spend time in training relating to my job. A major bore. May even
go visit dear mater, the old bitch. Also need to write a long, gossipy
letter to Mick.
Received a pretty good letter from him just the other day. He’s
been reading the mystery novels I sent him (Hammett and Chandler,
mostly). I get the feeling he is devouring them.
Mick’s letters are incredible sometimes. I really feel he is every bit
as literary as I am, though uninterested in the pursuit of it as a career.
Meanwhile, he says he is thinking of taking his "pecker" in for a 3,000
mile check up because he has not yet fathered any children among the
native women. Hmmm.
For me, sterility would be no great cause for concern. It is the
opposite problem which has caused me everlasting anguish.
Wrote another version of my query letter. I may write it over yet
again. It’s so hard to decide what stays in and what goes out. A one-
page pitch is all that’s necessary, I think.
* * * *
September 29, 1978
Work is a hell from which there is no escape. The manager let
Mavis go today because the repulsive old crone of a clerical
supervisor dislikes her.
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It stinks. I don’t care how much the manager tries to justify it, the
whole business is rotten. Mavis did solid work and needed her job.
Fucking rotten bullshit. Those two hags the state put in charge of this
operation are really on my shit list now.
There will be retaliation and I guarantee they won’t like it. We
wrote a nasty protest letter on Mavis’s behalf but Megan insisted on
changing it. Oh well.
Glad to be going to Portland for a while.
* * * *
October 5, 1978
The fall weather has been absolutely exquisite all week. I am in