PFK1 (28 page)

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.

179

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.

180

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

182

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