beyond my original intentions, and writing it has become a
compulsion. It shows me growing older, harder, sadder. Still, I yearn
for something more than what I have. I wish to achieve. I wish for
love. I want something that will stand forever.
And yet I know it will all disappear like the smoke ring I just blew
from my cigarette. It will vanish in the haze, get covered in the fog,
become submerged in the fast-running stream of time. I may only be
26, but I feel very old. I feel like 90.
Been digging clams in the mud. Horsenecks. Mmmm. Mighty
good eating. Tasty and cheap. I know how to live but love is beyond
my reach. I deserve what I have – nothing.
I lied to Annie the other day when she was here. Told her I had
destroyed all our old correspondence. Of course I haven’t. I never
destroy anything. Well, almost never. I destroyed the semi-nude
photos Ms. Ellsworth let me take of her although I still have the bikini
shots. Damn, I wish I still had those.
Just to look at. Man, what a Formula One bod that woman had.
(Still has?) I use the past tense only because it (the bod) is no longer
available to me.
What a shame.
54
Yes, it’s really too bad. Nobody knew how to operate that
screamin’ machine better than yours truly. Perhaps Polly has found a
more compatible man in the occupational or financial sense, but at the
chemical level I know I will always reign supreme. That burning
passion we had is rare, very rare.
Goddamn, we could make each other cum like you wouldn’t
believe. One night I swear I had two orgasms in a row, about a
minute apart. What an experience that was. And I could tell it was
the same for her, even just from intercourse, although Polly was
always ready to do anything, try anything.
Amazing.
It is not the same with Annie, I am sorry to report. Good, not great.
I wanted to put her mind at ease, but I’m not sure I succeeded. She’s
too smart to be fooled by my crude lies.
Oh well.
Annie’s letters are bundled up in the black trunk, there to molder. I
may yet write a book about that period in my life. Raw material is
precious. I want to damn myself forever. I want to show the world
what a bastard I truly am.
* * * *
March 25, 1978
Today I am going to check out the local library. I may also take a
drive down to the ocean for a while. Need to clear my thoughts
before I begin cracking on Chapter 37. I’ve got my cut-off jeans on
and I intend to take a swim in the freezing ass fucking seawater. As
long as I am here, these tawny beaches will know much of me. Who
wrote that? What was her name?
Sarah Teasdale?
Only 13 more chapters need to be rewritten. This is a drag, the
most difficult part. However, my progress is good and the product is
sound. Most of the chapters are fairly short, the exception being
Chap. 49, which runs nearly 21 pages.
Re-did the dinner segment last night. It flows a lot better now.
Need to ponder the Aldous Hasbro incident before I plunge into it.
Not sure what direction to take there.
55
* * * *
March 28, 1978
Spent my reading time over the weekend with Dashiell Hammett –
The Glass Key. Oh man, is it ever good! Hammett is much better in
his novels than his short stories.
I loved the character of Ned Beaumont and believe the clues were
nicely spaced. Great plot.
Most of all I like his style. Short, simple, crisp, direct, biting
sentences. I’ve also been reading Grace Metalious’ No Adam In
Eden. A later work by the author of Peyton Place. A lot of pure
female sensuality in it. A very underrated writer, in my opinion.
Someday I’d like to write a critical article about her. Grace
understood people better than any writer I know of. I wonder why
even the feminists seem to ignore her.
She took it all on – sex, love, hate, child abuse, abortion, wife
beating, crime, hypocrisy, abuse of power, homosexuality – the
works. I seem almost alone in thinking she’s great.
material. Junked Chap. 39 as needless, poor, badly written, and
irrelevant. Glad to be rid of it.
Glancing back at my old timetable for the completion of this draft.
Looks as if I might come in right on schedule.
Spring is here after a complicated winter.
56
CHAPTER THREE
No Eden In Adam
April 4, 1978
Work has been a real bitch the past few days. I hate it when the
welfare checks come out. It wouldn’t be so bad if these dorks would
just do what they’re supposed to do as insofar as the paperwork is
concerned. But no. they expect us to just do it for them. It drives me
crazy.
Finished Chapter 40 last night. The page total is 122.
Tonight I also did a nice notebook draft of Chapter 41. I have a
few reservations about this section, but think I can flesh it out
tomorrow.
I know I am pushing myself, but I want to get this damn thing
finished.
May have found a typist for it. A woman at work named Lisa said
she would type it on her IBM Selectric if I pay her fifty cents a page.
I wonder if she can also keep her mouth shut. The idea of having
someone at work knowing my business – well, I don’t like it.
Still, I would very much like to have a nice clean typed copy of the
manuscript ready soon. The big push is underway – I can’t stop
myself. I’m writing continually. The fiddling around period is over.
I’m totally focused on the work, getting out the work. This feeling of
incompletion bugs me to death.
My weekend in Eugene at the state Democratic convention was
productive. I got there late because I accidentally ran the state truck
off the road while I was up in Swisshome. Sheesh.
For several hours I tried to dig it out by myself, to no avail.
Finally, a local named Tubby Beers (that’s his real name) helped pull
me out. Cripes, why do I screw up like that?
At the convention I saw Ron Madison doing his thing. He’s a dork
if ever there was one. Gimme a couple of runs at him and he’ll be
gone in no time. I saw him make a fool of himself on at least two
occasions Saturday.
57
I really want to run for the state legislature. I hunger for it.
Sometimes I ask myself why and I have no explanation. It’s a visceral
urge, that’s all. There’s no other reason.
Jim Kozlowski was in top form. He’s really in his element now,
cracking the whip over the central committee. John Thomas, Dave
McNeese, and myself all plan to run for state central committee slots
after the primary. We want to be thorns in Jim’s side.
The book the book the book. I am on the verge of completing the
greatest literary achievement of my life. More than anything else, I
want to see it be commercially successful.
* * * *
; April 6, 1978
Yes! Today I found a copy of Gracie’s novel The Tight White
Collar. First time I have ever come across it. And, of her four novels,
it’s the only one I haven’t read yet. Last weekend I read No Adam In
Eden. I also liked that one a lot. Reminds me of my own family – a
bunch of people who can’t stand each other are forced by poverty to
live together.
AAARRRGGHHHH!
Sound familiar?
Why is Grace Metalious virtually ignored as a writer? Answer me
that. I think she’s terrific. Peyton Place is a great American novel,
perhaps as good as any book written by the beats. Her masterpiece is
a timeless, sensual novel about real people in true-life situations.
Really brave stuff. I dig it.
Still, why is so little attention paid to her? Why so much to the
beats? Why is she so out of favor? Why?
Because she was a chick, I think.
As a writer among women, Grace is practically without peer. What
other female writer of the 1950s had such an impact? She sold eight
million copies of Peyton Place! She wrote about wife beating,
corruption, abortion, child abuse, homicide, and sex in a realistic
fashion. She was, in my opinion, a genius.
58
I suspect she is ignored by literary women of our generation
because she liked men. Yes, Grace liked men, liked fucking them.
Liked real cocks, real balls. She was no dyke.
Fucking a real man is out of fashion with influential literary
women. They are not particularly interested in fucking, or only want
to fuck each other. Yes, lesbians. Ho hum. Yawn. Not a lot of risk
in that kind of sex, is there?
The successful writers now are fruits and queers, or rilly rilly
beautiful people. I can’t believe the shit that gets published.
Rubyfruit Jungle – gimme a fucking break. What a piece of crap.
Fucking Rita Mae Brown.
They appear only interested in boring fag and dyke stories, no
matter how shallow, sappy, and drippy they are. Nobody understands
me because I’m a dyke, claims Rita.
Don’t get me wrong. I like queers every bit as much as I like non-
queers, but the point is there are other stories besides queer stories.
Those candy ass little dilettante literary mags are so fucking lame they
make me want to blow chunks from here to Timbuktu. And I am not
exaggerating.
At this moment only Bukowski, Gracie, Kerouac, Chandler,
Hammett, West, and a few others speak to me. Or give me a good old
underground comic any day of the week.
Just wait until they get a load of my stuff. Blow their precious little
minds to kingdom fucking come. Those current literary darlings eat
shit.
Aaahh. Felt good to get that off my chest. Sure is something I
would never want to say in public, however.
* * * *
April 7, 1978
My novel Ding A Ling will be written in two parts, about 500 pages
each. Part One will be "childhood." That will be the Ding A Ling
part. The second part will be called "Mavo." That will be my high
school story.
Between 30 and 50 chapters. It will contain most of the
background material before The Dark City and will be a vast
59
compendium of my personal mythology up to age 18. After that I
plan to write a romance (with plenty of sex) tentatively called The
Girl And The Boy. Or maybe something sensual like The Painted
Lady Spring.
Unlike the movies, in my stories the girl gets top billing. The boy
is only interesting when he is interacting with the girl. Otherwise he’s
kind of a stupe.
* * * *
April 8, 1978
Stayed up late again last night and polished off Chapter 42. Plan to
do 43 today and 44 tomorrow. I’m following a schedule that requires
me to push this beast to completion by May 15 at the absolute latest.
Second draft, final rewrite, typing, you name it. I want to get it done
so I can move on to other things. First, I will take a little break from
writing. No scribbling for a week, except maybe in this journal.
Then I will begin my campaign to market the book. You never
know what they want to publish. I doubt if they even know
themselves. I feel kind of uncertain about it, but I am resolved to give
it one hell of an effort.
Manuscript now up to page 132.
I have a lot of letters to write. I’m thinking about sending one to
Meredith. Mmmm. Or maybe not.
Got a letter from Jane K. today. John is history and she’s thinking
of moving back to North Carolina. Wrote her a reply right away. I
told her she can go home again, but don’t expect much. Plan to write
Lloyd Schenzler soon as well. I have quite a bit to do tonight besides
my work on Chap. 43.
Doped out a name index of the characters in the book this morning.
It’s all falling into place. I should have no trouble with names in the
final draft, as long as I don’t get fancy with any of them. Can’t wait
to see how beautiful it will look when I’m all done.
Later: Finished Chap. 43 tonight, right on schedule.
* * * *
April 10, 1978
60
Ripped off Chapter 44 tonight. A notebook draft and then a retype.
I like it. I have this feeling that it’s really rolling along now, that I
might be finished with the beast real soon, perhaps sooner than I
expected.
How about by next week? Maybe.
Seven more days. Can’t stop pushing now, gotta get it done. I am
obsessed with it from the time I get up in the morning until the time I
go to sleep at night. No doubt there will still be more revising and
polishing to do but for the most part it is nearing completion.
The Dark City is about to emerge in finished form. I can hardly
wait to see it through.
I’m almost there.
I’m almost done.
What a fantastic accomplishment!
* * * *
April 16, 1978
Leanne showed up out of the blue on Wednesday. Put the book off
to entertain her. We had a deluxe dinner at the Windward Inn
restaurant, got stoned, drank wine, and went dancing afterwards. The
whole time we talked. And talked.
She’s a girl that likes to talk, and I am a boy that likes talking to a
girl that likes to talk. And, I must admit, Leanne is usually enjoyable
company. When the bar closed, we came here and went to bed.
Leanne wouldn’t fool around, though, because she doesn’t think we
should become "involved" like that, either now or in the future. I was
persistent, but finally gave up. Her reasons for saying no were pretty
convincing.
Still, we slept in the same bed for the first time in many a moon.
We talked for a long time before we went to sleep. Leanne said she is
still very fond of me and said I am very special to her. However, we
were not and never had been right for each other as a couple.
Without thinking about what I was saying, I confessed that I had
cheated on her while we were together. Leanne said it didn’t matter
becau
se she had cheated on me as well.
61
What? This was news. Beyond that she wouldn’t elaborate.
Adamantly refused. Some mysteries will remain unsolved, I suppose.
"And that other thing," she said, meaning the baby we gave up for
adoption eight years ago, "don’t even think about bringing that up, do
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
62
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