Authors: U
you hear me?"
"Not a word," I promised.
Then we talked about life and relationships and all their attendant
problems. I had already described in detail how things went wrong
between Polly Ellsworth and me, expressing the wish that I had the
chance to do it over again.
"That skinny brunette who went to nursing school?" Leanne said.
"Your brother Mick told me about her."
"Yeah? He did?"
Leanne shook her head and said not to worry, that any woman who
got down on me the way Polly did had no idea what the hell she was
talking about.
"What do you mean?" I said.
"Patrick, you were 19 and I was 18 when we moved into that house
in Springfield. Remember? You and I lived together for two and a
half years. I know you. I’ve seen you at your best and at your worst.
Your best was simply wonderful. And at your worst you never did
anything that made me feel scared or unloved. From the beginning, I
knew I was safe around you and liked you as a person. You were also
very, very attractive. I saw how other women looked at you. Part of
the reason why I broke up with you was to let you find a woman who
was more your type, which I was realistic enough to know that I am
not. I figured you would scurry on back to that Marie woman you
were so hot for in Atlanta but for some reason you stuck around here
instead."
"I probably should have gone back," I said, "given the way things
turned out. Instead I blew Marie off."
Leanne shrugged. "Well, what’s done is done. I know you and I
are way too different to make a go of it. That’s why we should never
have gotten together in the first place. But Patrick, I’d be less than
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honest if I didn’t confess that I will always be a tiny bit jealous of any
woman that you fall in love with."
"That’s pretty sweet of you to say, Leanne. You know, I’m
remembering why I fell in love with you in the first place."
Leanne kissed me tenderly on the cheek.
"Don’t worry. You’ll find her, whoever she is," Leanne said.
"You’re a special guy, Patrick. The woman you fall for next time
should consider herself very lucky."
"I fell in love with Polly Ellsworth," I said. "But I don’t think she
considered herself lucky. You know, it happened so fast on the heels
of our breakup I was still leery about becoming too involved too fast.
I just wanted her to slow down a little but somehow or other I let her
slip through my fingers."
"Patrick, that chick was a fool to let you slip through her fingers,"
Leanne said. "I saw her enough times to know. She was real pretty
and smart maybe, but a fool. There’s no way she could have done
better than you. Never in a million years."
"You think so? She’s with some doctor now," I said.
Leanne snorted. "Probably a loser in spite of that."
I told Leanne I was sorry about being such an ass when we broke
up and she just laughed.
"You weren’t such an ass. Actually, I thought it was sort of
flattering how upset you got. You said some stuff that I felt was
uncalled for but on the whole, I could tell you didn’t hate me or
anything like that. Did you think I hated you?"
"Well no," I admitted, "but I did hate that fucking Eduardo."
"If it’s any consolation, I hate him too. Turned out he was an even
bigger criminal than I thought he was. I’m sorry I ever got involved
with him. But I’m not sorry about you."
"Hey, you’ve got a good eye for losers," I said.
Leanne laughed merrily.
"Stop it," she said. "You’re no loser. And you could always make
me laugh. I really loved that about you."
As the night wore on, we talked about old times, only the good
stuff, and not the bad stuff, until we fell asleep. The next morning, we
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took turns showering, got dressed, and had breakfast together at the
Florence Café.
Then we said goodbye.
Leanne is on her way to Gold Beach, where she is setting up a new
Best Buy outlet store. That girl is really going places. All in all, I’d
have to say she’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had.
Meanwhile, I’m up to page 148 now. I plan to finish Chap. 47
today, right after I’m done washing clothes. Yesterday I wrote Chap.
46 and also did the typing on Chap. 45. Things are still moving along
well, though not at blinding speed. Just keep going, I tell myself.
Yep, it looks like one more draft after all. I will have to keeping
working it through the summer, I suppose. But it must be perfect.
August 1 looks like the final target date, perhaps a little later. I’ve
been pushing myself very hard these past few months, writing for long
hours in the evening besides holding down a regular forty hour per
week job.
At times, I think I’m going to crack. After this draft I intend to let
up a bit and take a look at it critically. It is essentially worked out and
putting it in final form is all that remains. I just want to have a salable
manuscript.
The Dark City
. My first book. My first real book.
I called Katrine today and asked her over for a weekend of sensual
amusement. How’s that for crazy? I can’t help myself. When I go
without female companionship for any length of time, all I do is work
and drink and smoke cigarettes and get stoned out of my fucking
mind. There just seems to be nothing else to do. I’d prefer not kill
myself just yet, although I always hold it out as a distinct possibility.
In the meantime, I feel like sleeping with a real live woman and on
that score Katrine sort of qualifies. I’m single. She’s single. I’m an
adult. She’s an adult. There seems to be no reason why I shouldn’t
invite her for the weekend.
Each day I spend alone. Each day I die a little. At work Megan is
delightful and we have much fun talking but she is married. And
while it is true that I respect almost nothing in life, marriage is an
exception. I do respect marriage.
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Recently, Megan took some 35MM photographs of me sitting at my
desk at work. She says I make an interesting subject.
"Just keep right on working," she said. "Pay no attention to the
camera." I heard the shutter click several times. Megan’s father is a
professional photographer and he’s taught her how to take pictures.
She’s a whiz with that single lens reflex camera. You should see this
one picture she took of a post sticking out of the sand at the beach,
surrounded by grass and flowers.
Looks just like an oil painting. She’s got this black-bodied
Olympus OM-1 35MM camera that does it all. She says if I ever want
to learn how to use it she’ll teach me. It’s a beautiful piece of
equipment, solid and weighty.
I might take her up on the offer.
Went looking for some mushrooms today but found none. I am
seeking the fabled psilocybin of the great Northwest, either the
psilocybe semilanceata, the cyanescens, or the supremely potent
baeocystis. But instead of finding any legendary mushrooms, I
tumbled into a bog filled with foul-smelling muck, and ended up cold,
dirty and wet. Blech.
Most of the magic psilocybes are autumn mushrooms, but there are
a few exceptions. I will go hunting in the deep dark woods outside
town again this weekend.
Cranking along on Chap. 47. Should be no problem.
* * * *
April 19, 1978
Probably won’t write the childhood novel for a long time, I have
now decided. Need to put it off until later. Need some more
perspective. We were not treated well as children, I am sorry to say.
The two idiots who brought us into the world despised us afterwards
for the crime of being around. We were inconvenient to them,
interfering with their golfing, bowling, partying, drinking, and drug
use.
There is nothing about them that I will forget to include, I’m sure.
My accursed memory retains everything, much of which I’d prefer to
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forget. I’m going to be very balanced though. My goal is to depict
absolute reality in a fictional form.
Not sure what to do after
The Dark City
. Maybe I should simply
check out of existence entirely. In all honesty, I don’t see much point
in living. It’s just drudgery, shame, misery, humiliation, absurdity,
and struggle. We are inmates of a planet-wide death camp.
Auschwitz Earth.
Only my work interests me.
Later: Knocked off Chap. 48 tonight. I like the result quite well. I
want to complete the final climax chapter by Saturday night. I want
this whole draft done by Sunday night.
It won’t be long now!
Reading Thomas Wolfe’s
You Can’t Go Home Again
. A little
stuffy in parts, but some pretty good material throughout. He’s wrong
about going home, though. Like I told Megan, you can go home again
but expect to be treated like shit when you get there. That’s pretty
much what happened to me when I came back from Atlanta in 1975.
I’m also reading Dostoevsky’s
Notes From Underground
. That
man was utterly insane, cutting capers left and right. He’s pretty
funny but hard to fathom. I suspect a lot gets lost in translation from
the Russian.
Thanks to Megan, work is going well. I know, I know. It’s just a
lousy job. I thank Megan for making it palatable at all. For some
reason, extremely smart women are an incredible turn on for me. The
smarter the better, as far as I am concerned. There are many things I
don’t like about working at the welfare office, but Megan is not one of
them. Truly, I just look forward to seeing her, talking with her.
Meanwhile, I try not to dwell on the petty intrigues or be drawn
into the bullshit, but they are always there nonetheless. Blech.
I’ve got to write a letter to Mick. He is in the Peace Corps in
Africa. What a trip. Also need to write to Lloyd, Barry Ascot, Mario,
Michael, and possibly Katrine. Haven’t yet heard from Ms.
Ellsworth. Nor do I really expect to. Such is life.
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When I finish this current draft, I’m going to quit smoking again.
When I finish this draft, I’m going to do a lot of things, not the least of
which is get good and fucking drunk.
On page 156 of the manuscript. It will probably run no more than
ten pages longer than the original. However, it will be a whole hell of
a lot better.
* * * *
April 20, 1978
About to begin work on Chap. 49. Still reading You Can’t Go
Home Again. Wolfe speaks of a philosophy of life that he does not
share. I feel the same way. I have no beliefs or philosophy of life
save one: "Where’s my check?"
* * * *
April 21, 1978
I’m re-writing Chap. 49 tonight, getting it ready for the typewriter
tomorrow. I’m having a lot of fun with this part. My satisfaction
grows with each completed sentence. This draft is undoubtedly the
finest writing I have ever done.
I am so proud of my work. Although I am aware that it may not be
the best writing in the world (yet) it is mine, and my pleasure in it is
boundless.
Took a long walk on the beach near Heceta this evening. It was
raining and I walked for miles, thinking about things. I was soaking
wet by the time I got back to the bus, so I stripped down to my briefs
and ran back to jump in the ocean. There was nobody around to see
me. What the hell. I find that a dip in the chilly seawater can be very
bracing.
Back to the primordial womb.
Right now, at this moment, I’m drinking red wine and chain
smoking cigarettes. I am laughing at myself and the life I have lived
so far. What a stupid fucking idiot I am. I learn the key lesson the
exact instant after I have made the irreparable error. I have made
every mistake a man can make, some of them twice.
That is why I hate myself.
That is why I am unloved.
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My sense of humor is still razor sharp, though. Crystalline. I am in
awe of what I am putting on paper. I do not know yet if my writing is
publishable, but it sings, man, it fucking sings.
Confident, ain’t I? I look around and see no one writing the stuff I
am writing, taking the risks I am taking. The books I see in stores are
boring, so meaningless. It’s all just shit.
Where is the real thing, man? Huh? The true stories. I have no
competition. Writing is hard work. Watching TV is much easier. I
gave my television to Chesley Harlan. I don’t intend to buy another