PFK1 (30 page)

admitted that I smoke dope from time to time and have been known to

swill a beer now and then.

He said no problem as long as it doesn’t get out of hand. He also

suggested that I use a condom if I’m sleeping around. He said there

are a lot of dangerous diseases out there.

He specifically mentioned herpes but also said some deadly

immune system viruses may be sexually transmitted. Even the old

bugs are again causing concern because many are growing resistant to

antibiotics.

Well into Chap. 2 of
The Dark City
. My goal is 1000 words per

day, although I have yet to achieve it. I’d like to be done by Xmas.

Also need to request some time off at work. Writing answers all my

questions, even the ones I don’t know how to ask. It is the only work

I do that matters.

What else is there?

* * * *

October 27, 1978

It is late Friday night. I’m just about to write the death scene at the

end of Chap. 2. But I’m a bit stumped here. I can’t quite figure out

190

how to croak the girl. Maybe I’ll let her live and croak somebody

else.

Nevertheless, at least one person needs to die before I start the

chapter three.

This is a lot more fun than
The Dark City
was to write. An entirely

different challenge.

Boiling some eggs for lunch tomorrow. Planning to go mushroom

hunting with Nick. Hope to find a big batch.

* * * *

October 29, 1978

Well, I have finished the first 17 pages of
The Dark City
. It is first

draft work, but going well. Making a few changes and corrections as

I go along. Still, I’m not being too tough on the material just yet.

Chap. 3 is complete. Scheduled to begin Chap. 4 later today. I did

murder the detective’s girlfriend but that merely paves the way for the

appearance of her double later on. I was brutal with the killing. It’s

horrifying.

The story is weird and crude.

I am no Raymond Chandler.

Went mushroom hunting with Nick this morning. Found exactly

two semilanceata mushrooms. We went all over the place, up the

North Fork east of Mapleton, then down along Canary Road. Very

little luck, but it rained heavily today and that is an encouraging sign.

This new book will be much better than
The Dark City
. That

shouldn’t be too difficult. Right now I am writing on my bed again,

because the bedroom is warm while the rest of the house is freezing

fucking cold.

The black male character introduced at the end of Chap. 3 is a

homosexual queerio. He is a funny fellow. If I keep going at this

rate, I might finish the first draft by Turkey Day instead of Xmas. I’m

keeping my fingers crossed.

Later: I’m up to page 21. The plot is beginning to thicken. I see

that I have my work cut out for me. I’ve got a good feeling about it,

though.

Nick calls his job a "slave."

191

I must go back to my slave at 8:00 AM tomorrow.

Blech.

* * * *

October 31, 1978

Went to Eugene today on a work trip. Mission: had to deliver a

welfare case record to the circuit court, per the subpoena, on a

paternity trial. This creep is trying to weasel out of paying. The most

interesting item was Form PWD 385, in which the woman described

the extraordinarily romantic night of conception.

Let me see. They met at a bar. They drank for a while, then they

went out to his truck whereupon she sucked his cock and he sucked

her tits. Then they fucked.

After that, they went back inside the bar.

One more time they fucked before parting company. She got

pregnant, had the baby, and went on welfare. He never saw her again

afterwards (seven years) until the child support people came looking

for him.

He claims he is not the father but the poor kid looks exactly like

him. I am the courier for these very informative dossiers on these

people. This is what I do for a living.

Oh well. Got me out of the office, anyway.

Bought Frank MacShane’s biography of Raymond Chandler at

Koobdooga Books today. The store name is "A good book" spelled

backwards. On the way back to town, I stopped at the county park to

use the restroom. As long as I was there, I spent about forty minutes

searching for mushrooms in a field nearby. No luck, however.

Arrived home at 6:00 PM. Looked for Dreaming of Babylon again

at Koobdooga but it’s not in paperback. The story is the first or

second in a series called Brautigan Diversified. I will give Brautigan

another chance, although I am disappointed in his recent output.

It’s all very thin, I’m afraid. He really hasn’t grown as a writer.

Where are his big fat books?

Cannot find a decent biography of Hammett. Wish there was one.

I’d write it myself if I knew how.

192

I am stoned on Harry’s excellent homegrown weed and
The Dark

City
is up to page 26.

Such superior dope. I’m in and out of reality here. Must be

Dreaming of Babylon. Let me see. Hmmm. Over there are the

hanging gardens. Mmmm. Over here are dancing girls, dressed in

their filmy, transparent costumes.

Come to me, you slender little wench...

* * * *

November 2, 1978

Hello.

Megan came by this evening. We spent our time together making

love and talking. Only got about half a page written on Chap. 6. I

offered to let her read some of what I’ve written, but she declined.

She says she’s not interested in my writing. She’s only interested in

me.

For some reason I find her attitude refreshing. Unlike some women

I have known, she is not a shameless snoop. Nor does it appear as if

she seeks to "mold" me into some pre-set pattern to make me

acceptable husband material. Strange as it may seem, she likes me

just the way I am.

Hmmm.

Novels to write:

The Dark City

The Dark City

Ding A Ling

The Lonely Dream

Even Dreams Die Young

This Dark Dream

Mavo

Permission

The Perfect Wife

Burned Out

Nothing Else To Report

The Forever Girl

How To Adore An Older Woman

193

Public Assistance

Rubio

There are no words yet to go with most of these titles. But

someday there will be. I swear it will happen.

* * * *

November 3, 1978

Typed a bunch tonight. This damn Chapter 6 is slow going. I think

I drink and smoke dope more than is good for me. But thanks to

Megan, I haven’t touched a Marlboro in two months.

She didn’t nag me to quit or insist that I quit. She simply said that

sex with me would be a lot more fun for her if I stopped smoking.

Suddenly I experienced an intense desire to make my body parts more

purely desirable and immediately ceased the filthy habit. Thank

goodness.

Chesley is supposed to come down this weekend for food, fun, and

booze.

Wonder how
The Dark City
is doing at the various places I have

mailed it to? I wish I could get someone to publish it. I believe it is

very well written, very cogent. The publishers like that sort of thing,

don’t they? Why do they not immediately pounce on it?

How do I convince them?

* * * *

November 5, 1978

Holy Moley! Found 200 specimens of Ps. Semilanceata in the field

by the boat landing today. Megan went along with me to hunt for

them. Just as we were about to give up, she spotted a whole batch of

them beside a tree stump.

From that point on it was one batch after another. The field was

crawling with them. There is a trick to finding them, we have

discovered. We picked enough for five good doses.

Tomorrow we may go out again. This is the prime part of the

season and new ones pop up every day. I’d like to pick enough to last

through the winter.

They are not for mere entertainment. They are a profound

sacrament in my personal moon-worshipping goddess religion.

194

Up to page 30 of the manuscript but I am bogged down and not

quite sure why. I think I am going wrong somewhere. Either that or I

am just plain tired. I don’t know.

Plans for later scenes:

The detective gets into fistfight

He snorts cocaine

His employer gets shot

The bad guy is a sadistic killer

The detective goes to an after-hours joint

It is always raining – it literally never stops

There are seven bridges spanning the river

And seven days in the week

This truly is
The Dark City

Megan and I are going mushroom hunting again tomorrow at

lunchtime. If we find some, we’ll store them in the refrigerator in the

break room at work. Must remember to take food with me so I can

spend the lunch hour out in the field.

195

November 9, 1978

In a few minutes I will ingest 30 dried specimens of psilocybe

semilanceata. It is now 5:50 PM. Megan and I each picked another

25 of them today. My share is drying to a lovely shade of gold in

front of the heater.

The ones I intend to take are from the batch we collected on

November 5. Part of our first big score. I plan to clean the house and

work a little on the new book if I am in the mood for it. Still need to

complete Chap. 6.

Chesley is coming down tomorrow.

Later: It is midnight. Old Angel Midnight. The mushroom dream

ended about an hour ago.

What can I say? How shall I describe it?

It was for me a religious experience. Central to it was a vision of

my own death, the passing away of my earthly body. There is no

doubt in my mind that the universe is indeed created by a supernatural

being, but one for whom words like love and mercy have no meaning.

This supernatural being is beyond all human concept.

I laughed and cried, not really upset but feeling an emotional

catharsis. I came to grips with the life I have led these past 27 years.

The person I want to be is the person I am.

Nobody has any claim on me except insofar as I allow them one

and nobody has any more knowledge into the workings of life than I

do.

Still, it is also clear that I have been misunderstood, misread, and

mistreated by others in many instances. I feel compassion for others

but rarely have compassion extended to me. This is not complaining

but simply grasping the truth as it exists in the world. People think I

am a sucker and they try to use me.

They do not see themselves as I see them and they do not see me as

the person I am, either. I see others pretty clearly while they see me

196

through what appears to be like a sideshow mirror, all distorted and

skewed.

Meanwhile, somehow or other I have been convinced that I am

unworthy of respect and do not merit decent treatment. At bottom, I

believe that the two creatures responsible for bringing me into the

world also did an outstanding job of undermining my self-respect and

personal confidence.

Conjured up by the mushroom spirit, the hateful images of my

mother and father came rushing into my mind. If they had planned it

out beforehand, Lois and Jim could not have done us more harm

emotionally.

However, I am determined to overcome it.

I suspect that my relationship with the woman I call "the other one"

was a continuation of the same negative pattern. Apparently I

deliberately sought out a mean-spirited, bullying, lying, sneaking,

nagging, dishonest, controlling and ultimately selfish woman.

"I hate to get this down on anybody," she wrote, "but..."

No wonder I rejected Marie Montambeault three years ago. She

seemed to think that my poor self-image was undeserved. If Marie

could accept me as I am, I figured her judgment must somehow be

suspect.

Conversely, the other one sought to manipulate me and when that

failed, was happy to blow me up. All of this fits in well with the

overall picture I have had of myself.

Up to this point, no one has been more ready to put me down than

me. I am always first to agree with any criticism, sure that I am

wrong, sure that I am no good, sure that I am (in my mother’s favorite

word) "stupid." I cannot tell you how many times the word was