Liberation (110 page)

On December 3, we went with Tom Siporin, my ex-pupil from UCLA,
³¹
and Marilyn Goldin, to see Muktananda,
³²
at the ashram which his followers have set up for him in Santa Monica. As far as I was concerned, I suppose the visit was foredoomed to be a flop. I was in a bad mood, I now realize, arising out of mixed ego-attitudes. I didn't like the crowd, although it was very well behaved. I didn't want to bow down to Muktananda or stand in line to do so, and yet I would have been equally unwilling to meet him in a private one-to-one interview. So I behaved rather rudely to poor Tom, who is bubbling over with a new convert's enthusiasm, and insisted on leaving before Muktananda spoke. (Admittedly, this could have been no big deal, since he only does so through an interpreter.) Was I
afraid
of Muktananda? Perhaps a little. They all stress his extraordinary power, and speak of shocks and visions transmitted by his hand-touch. I don't want any of that from anyone outside the Ramakrishna Order. It would be a sort of disloyalty to Swami, who was always inclined to be jealous of his disciples' contacts with other gurus, even Ramakrishna monks.

I suppose, to be quite candid, I also have a prejudice against Muktananda merely because his ministry is so hugely successful. I equate any kind of large-scale success with falsity of some sort—at any rate, in the West.

Yesterday, Joan Quinn, I think it was, told me that a new version of my adventure with the Mexican boys on October 18 is going around town. Instead of my saying, “O mi corazon!” I am being quoted as having said, “O mi parasol!” which is supposed to mean that I was pretending to be crazy. . . . Don felt that this was giving the story an anti-gay twist—the silly old fag resorts to camping, even when in danger.

Yesterday night, at a party given by Kiki Kiser for the pianists Arthur Gold and Robert Fizdale, Kiki confessed that she is terrified of her house (157 Kingman Avenue).
³³
So I told her that we have always felt it had a bad atmosphere and might well be haunted. Luckily, she has already managed to sell it to a family who simply love it!

I must record that I have been having a slight lapse into face making—of both kinds—these past few days. I must be on my guard against this.

 

December 12.
Tony Sarver died on the night of December 7. His funeral was yesterday, at the chapel in the veterans' cemetery. Tony had been a very devout Catholic while he was in the navy, and a Catholic priest had visited him at the hospital—the terminal ward section known as the hospice—although, by then, Tony had lost much of his faith and didn't care to receive the last sacrament.

This priest spoke at the funeral. He had funny wavy hair which looked as if it had been curled with curling irons—but which Don, the expert, said was natural—and rather campy overemphatic gestures. We were both curiously impressed by him, because he talked about death so naturally, as a consummation of life rather than an embarrassing medical accident, a doctor defeat.

The get-together afterwards at Bill Scobie's house made Bill's predicament painfully evident, because so many of the mourners were black and one got the impression that they were Tony's friends rather than his. What will he do with himself now? Will he stay here or go far far away? Is there anyone around who might be prepared to make him want to stay?

Last time Tom Shadduck was here, he asked me what does the word karma really mean. (I find that he, too, has had a Catholic upbringing; and lately he has been seeing a psychiatrist who is Catholic and, I believe, a priest.) So, to illustrate my answer, I told him—maybe not quite accurately—the story of the two men who went into the forest; one of them picks up a coin of the lowest value; the other treads on a thorn and hurts his foot. Later, the first of these men is told (by a holy man?) that his karma is very bad—otherwise, he would have discovered a gold mine; and the second man is told that
his
karma is very good—otherwise he would have been bitten by a cobra.

A few minutes after I'd told Tom this story, he picked up a penny, while watering the plants down at the back of the house. He at once came up to the carport, where I was, exclaiming: “I've got bad karma!” He said this jokingly yet with a certain note of superstitious dismay. As he spoke, I looked down and saw, lying at my feet, another penny. What made this all the odder was that
this
penny, judging from its appearance, had been lying there for a long time; it was rusted. I must have walked very close to it over and over again.

 

December 25.
A model Californian Christmas Day—quite warm, the sunshine lighting up the external scene. But not the internal. Despite the uplift of a Dexedrine tablet, I'm down. And so is Darling—in one of his states of acute frustration: “What's in all this for
me
?” To which the answer is always “nothing” or “something,” according to mood. What we're both suffering from, right now, is pressure. This “Paul” screenplay, which we don't really want to write and yet feel we should. And the abiding nuisance-presence of poor old gaga Glade—and of me too, as far as Darling's concerned. I am, I suppose, “wonderful for my age,” but nevertheless still an old crabby killjoy drag, and often a bore.

Well, as usual, let's just repeat it, the only possible watchword is
courage
. Let's get on with the show.

Perhaps one cause of my downed spirits is that, despite pretty regular sits, night and morning, I feel a dryness, even a lack of faith. Am I getting anywhere with my religious life? Where's the joy in it? To this, the answer is: Don't ask, simply keep at it. And, when I say that to myself, I find that my faith
consists
in keeping at it. I have no other source of strength. So I echo Jung's, “I do not need to
believe
—I
know
.”
³⁴

 

1981

 

January 1.
I woke up heavily depressed, this morning—and yet I don't quite know why—unlike so many New Year's Eves, this one had been pleasant. We were with Rick, whom I'm fonder of than I am of almost any of our friends. It was Rick's birthday, so we also invited one of Rick's close buddies, Jeff Capp. Jeff's maybe a bit dull but adequately intelligent and (for my taste) more than adequately sexy—blond, feminine, but muscular. I'm turned on by his arms, which he usually exposes by wearing only T-shirts without a jacket. The film we saw was adequately interesting though Frog-cute,
Mon Oncle d'Amérique
, and then we ate at El Adobe which I always like, and then we went to a quite small party of young men, many of them attractive and all friendly.

So why my complaints?

 

January 3.
I
do
know why I was depressed; it was because these hernia pains are lowering. Also I guess I am worried about the cyst in my mouth. It hasn't grown larger but it hasn't grown smaller either; and, now that we're past the holidays, Elsie will want a specialist to look at it.

Anyhow, this is the time for a pulling of myself together. This morning is beautiful and my mood is up—admittedly this may be partly because I just took a Dexedrine tablet which seems to be doing its job.

A big flap right after breakfast because I got confused and gave David Hockney the wrong message—that it was all right for him to bring his two friends from Bradford to dinner tomorrow night, when Virgil Thomson (at his own suggestion) is to cook at our house. Darling, who has been in pain from one of his muscular spasms in the shoulder, exploded in fury against his/our life, with all the work load that it puts on him. This time, he did something he has never done before—picked up a bunch of papers in my room and flung them around over the floor. His recurring complaint on such occasions is that I've upstaged him, grabbed the role of dear old saintly celebrity who always emerges from every crisis “smelling like a rose,” and leaving him to play the nasty little vixen. This is true. It's also true that I, deep down, feel put upon, groan and picture myself as a martyr to our entertaining—a heavily burdened social secretary. The truth is that we are both highly talented charming amusing attractive (yes, Dobbin too) individuals and selfish as such creatures nearly always are. Why should we stay together? Only if we love each other—which I sincerely believe we do. And that doesn't alter the fact that my death—I sincerely believe—would set Darling free. He wouldn't collapse. He would spread his wings and fly higher.

Well, courage, Dobbin. Pray to Swami for love and devotion and acceptance of dying. And get on with your work and don't sulk, and watch that face making. As I noted last month, it has been recurring.

 

January 4.
The weather of the household is sunshiny again—thanks to those two sweet boys, Bob Drennon and Billy Faught. We met Bob about the middle of December through Mark Valen; he's a curly-headed, funny-faced, well-built, bespectacled
joli laid
, with a cast in one eye—intelligent and very sexy. Billy we met at the New Year's Eve party—in fact, I think both Bob and Billy were among the hosts of it. After a while, Billy got drunk and slept, which enabled us to admire his beauty—he is Texan, American-Indian Irish, with goldish-red hair. His eyes are blue. Darling wasn't charmed when Bob showed up to be drawn bringing Billy with him, unannounced. But the two of them had soon endeared themselves to both of us. They are very married. At least, Billy is very married to Bob, though we gather that the marriage isn't sexually exclusive. Billy told me, “Sex isn't so important—what matters is to love and know you're loved.” Looking through our
October
book with Bob and seeing the double portrait of David Dambacher and Gene [Martin], he said, “That's us, twenty years from now.” So far, they have only been together a couple of weeks; and I wouldn't be too sure of Bob's devotion. But they make a quite adorable pair. They returned later to have dinner with us at Casa Mia and then drink some more at The Friendship.

 

January 9.
Yesterday, I went to see Dr. Alfred Katz, whom Elsie Giorgi recommended, and showed the cyst in my mouth. He said that it is almost certainly nonmalignant but should be taken out. He guaranteed that the entire operation—driving to the Cedars-Sinai hospital and having the surgery—would take less time than a trip to the airport and back! I was impressed by him, although he works very hard at keeping up a line of facetious chatter.

The year is opening grimly with confident forecasts of economic disaster—inflation, a fall in real estate values, unemployment, increase in crime. Not to mention the prospect of nuclear-war scares plus nuclear accidents.

Against all this I have whatever I can muster of my religious faith, plus Don's love. Yesterday, for example, his love seemed extraordinary, as good as new, no, far better. It's almost incredible to realize its strength. And to realize that there must be other people who enjoy such love. (They'd
better
!)

Am plugging along with an outline of the rest of the “Paul” screenplay, dictating it to the tape recorder. This is a
very
stiff push, but I must have something to show our producers.

 

January 13.
A perfect day. Ran down to the beach, where I saw— for the first time, almost, that I can remember—someone reading a book of mine (
Guru
)!

Have now scrambled somehow through the “Paul” outline (on tape) as far as where he leaves for the forestry camp. The ending itself is still uncertain. But I do feel there's
something
—

 

January 24.
I still have a sore mouth after the removal of the cyst on the 21st. Dr. Katz correctly said that the surgery itself would be brief and painless—it lasted about eight minutes and I felt nothing while it was going on. But the whole experience was unpleasant because of the scuffle and fuss of getting a parking space, filling out medical forms, having to undress completely and put on a robe, slippers and cap, lie on a trolley keeping up a line of bright chatter with swarms of cute Asian nurses and being strenuously “nice”—as was expected of me by those (quite a few) who knew “who I am”—and it took two and a half long hours!

Kitty has been adorable about it all. And yesterday, after so many career disappointments, he had a reward: Bob Miller phoned to say that a Swedish art dealer, who had seen Don's New York show and was greatly enthusiastic, returned and told Bob he wants to buy
twenty-five
Bachardy paintings! Admittedly, he'll get them at a cut price. But this is a first European beachhead. And the dealer will be obliged to make propaganda in the art world to secure his investment.

Not only this, but Kitty has also been invited to compete for the art prizes offered annually by the Academy-Institute. He'll be able to exhibit some of the pictures he has at the Robert Miller Gallery. I don't know who it was who suggested his inclusion. Maybe faithful old Glenway.

The other day, when we were feeling very loving, I asked: “What'll Kitty do when Dobbin has to depart?” Kitty answered, without hesitation, “Give him a great send-off.”

 

February 12.
I
must
try to write more often in this book. Because this is an extremely interesting phase in my life—one might call it the pre-terminal phase, meaning that the event of death is
more or less
recognized and accepted although health remains still pretty good, with regular bowel movements, full nights of untroubled sleep, adequate amounts of energy available.

The terminal phase would be, of course, the phase in which one's principal occupation is dying—that is to say, a phase in which death becomes a constant threat and, to some degree, a desired release. . . . What was I beginning to say in this paragraph? I forget—because, in the midst of writing it, I was interrupted by a call from tiresome but admirable Jim White to tell me that Harry Brown is in hospital having tests for his emphysema. This led to Jim's enthusing over
Exhumations
, which he is teaching from, at USC, and to a declaration that he was going to try to get the book republished in paperback. Bless his heart. His buzzing often drives Don and me to distraction but he is a tireless ally.