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around. Annie had a good camera with her and took a few snapshots.

I talked a guy who was there into taking one of us together, with the

ocean in the background.

I have no idea how it will turn out.

Then it was back to Bay Street for a tour of the shops. When we

got back to the cabin, I made dinner and we drank more wine. The

sex was a reprise of the first night, except that all three were

missionary position.

"That other one," Annie said, meaning doggy style, "kind of makes

me sore."

Truth be told, my literary efforts seem to turn her on, it would

appear. It was cold in my bedroom so we had to snuggle very close.

For once she didn’t talk me to death, just threw her head back and let

it happen.

Still, she seems to be wary of me for some reason. Or maybe I am

projecting my own fears. She is of course adorable. I really wish she

were a tad less inhibited, but she really has the most flawless skin and

a lovely complexion.

As for my book, Annie was encouraging, but realistic.

"At least you’ve got a book written," she said. "Whatever faults it

may have can probably be corrected, or you can write another one.

Yours is a pretty unique accomplishment, Patrick. I don’t think you

ought to be ashamed of anything. And don’t take my criticisms too

hard. Promise me?"

"Well, thank you, and I will not," I said.

49

The next thing I knew, Annie’s sweater was off, and I was once

more kissing and sucking her big white boobies, nuzzling them like

there was no tomorrow.

But there I go again, dammit. The woman has an I.Q. of 180 and

typically all I can focus on is her bod.

We laughed a lot. I like Annie so very much. If she was going to

remain in the state I know that we’d see a lot of each other. But she’s

heading back east in a week or so.

Working hard on getting her PhD.

Soon they will be calling her "The Professor," like that fellow on

Gilligan’s Island
. And I will be the Skipper’s half-wit little buddy in

a sailor cap.

Reading Raymond Chandler’s
Killer in the Rain
and other stories.

Has reading dear old Raymio’s stuff altered my style in any way?

Sure hope so. That guy could really write.

I had the right idea there in the first draft of the book, but I was

terribly clumsy. Annie said she’d be happy to try a chapter by chapter

breakdown, as she does with her own reading material. For that, I

would indeed be very grateful. Maybe I’ll help by giving her my

shiny red pen.

Work at the office is still okay. Perhaps I should stay here for two

years and try to buy a cabin in the woods, like Thoreau. A place with

a lot of psilocybin mushrooms around. If I found a place before

summer maybe I could even grow some dope. Get me an illegal cash

crop a-going. That might be fun. If I’m going to live in the sticks, I

might as well live in the real sticks.

Haven’t heard from Ms. Ellsworth, nor do I really expect to. My

last missive was somewhat heavy-handed, I will admit. But who

cares? I have gotten contradictory messages from her and I’d like to

be clear on what she is saying before I turn away for good. I can

always try another letter again. Nothing succeeds like persistent

failure.

I am meanwhile moving along, getting into the final portion of my

manuscript. Annie says the third part is the hardest and I agree with

her. She is very perceptive about things.

50

* * * *

March 17, 1978 St. Patrick’s Day

I’ve always hated this day. I don’t like being named after that

stupid jerk who drove the snakes out of Ireland. I think they should

have kept the snakes and drove the Catholic Church out. I like

snakes. They are useful in controlling vermin.

On the other hand, few institutions have been responsible for more

suffering in the past 2,000 years than our Holy Mother Church. They

even cut a deal with Hitler during World War II to look the other way

while he murdered the Jews, although the Vatican denies it.

But the Jews all know better. Annie said her parents and their

relatives are totally convinced the Vatican sold them out to Hitler. I

agree. Although I am not Jewish, I have a hell of a lot more respect

for their religion than I do my own.

The certified letter turned out to be from Bill Beckwith, the former

boyfriend of Lori Sanchez. Somehow or other Bill still had one of my

old poetry manuscripts, Inner Space Commando I must have given it

to him during one of my drunken moments.

Well well well. I have recovered all of my ancient literary artifacts

in the space of one week. That is a good thing.

I can’t get over how bad my poems are.

A couple may be salvageable, but otherwise blech. Perhaps I try

some new ones over the summer or strike out in a new direction.

Right now I’m just not ready to do it. I’m not ready to do anything. I

am very tired and must go to sleep.

* * * *

March 18, 1978

Got lots of things to do on this, my Saturday. First of all, I’ll have

to make a trip to the dump to get rid of the trash I’ve been

accumulating since I got here. Also need to change the oil in the bus.

And it would be nice to complete another chapter today.

A long one, like Chap. 31.

The landlord came by this morning and said it was okay if I paid

him from the first to the first. We agreed on a pro-rated sum for the

rest of this month. I’m not sure what I will do about money until then,

51

however. I only have about $10 left. I wish the State University

would let them send me my refund. I could make it to the end of the

month easy on that.

* * * *

March 19, 1978

It is Sunday and I did not have such a great weekend with the

typewriter. I think I burned myself out on Friday night and did

nothing yesterday except work on my tan.

It might be because Chap. 31 is such a difficult grind, and it may be

because I am no good. But I really think worrying about money is the

cause of it. I am broke. Either I get money soon or else I’ll be in deep

shit.

The hunger thing really does not appeal to me. Today I only

managed six or seven hundred words.

A dismal effort. Tomorrow I must call my mother and ask to

borrow some money. Groan. Normally I would not do it but she

owes me a giant favor. I spent three months and over $300 last fall

fixing her garage. Now it is usable instead of unusable.

As with any project relating to her, it started fairly small but

ballooned into this huge unbelievable undertaking, eating my days off

for three months. I did it mainly to shut her up but of course that did

me no good. She doesn’t ever shut up. Now she can do me a tiny

favor in return. Twenty bucks ought to cover me. That is how I will

put it to her in fact.

Talked to my neighbor Harry Williams today. He’s about my age

or so. Within a year, I’d say. Very pleasant and smart. He’s in the

process of getting a divorce from his wife, Shana.

Although Harry works hard and gives her every penny, Shana is

dissatisfied with their marriage and wants out. The marriage was her

idea six years ago – an "unplanned pregnancy" was the impetus. Now

that the child is older Shana is bored with Harry and disillusioned with

married life in general.

Women. The only thing worse than not giving them what they

want is giving them what they want. This is my interpretation as

Harry absolutely refuses to be critical of his soon-to-be ex-wife. It is

52

all his fault, he says, for spending too much time on business instead

of family.

For working too hard and ignoring her many complaints. I said

nothing negative about her while he castigated himself but thought to

myself that she has done a real job on him.

Not very eager to go back to work this week. If it weren’t for

Megan, I’d really fucking dread it.

* * * *

March 23, 1978

Finished Chap. 35 yesterday. On page 103 now. A difficult dream

sequence has gone pretty well so far. Expect to finish it tomorrow.

Work is a grind. But with Megan’s help I am making progress and

getting the hang of it. I like this kind of work much better than the

physical type jobs I have held in the past. All I really think about is

my book, though. I want to get through this draft in an artful fashion.

Borrowed $30 from my mother to get me through the end of the

month. I told her I’ll pay her back with interest the very instant I get

paid. Wish Oxygen State would send my balance because my refund

comes to substantially more than I currently owe them.

Talked politics with a quadriplegic client named John Delano

today. He says Jerry Brown will run in 1980 but thinks nobody can

dislodge Carter at this point. Mr. Delano says the system is ripe for a

political takeover, most likely a right wing one. He says the

Republicans will win with Ronald Reagan. I disagree.

Perhaps I am a foolish dreamer, but I believe our generation will

make some positive changes. I believe we will do the right thing and

make a difference politically.

* * * *

March 24, 1978

I may have to ditch this writing scam once I am finished with
The

Dark City
. It takes too much out of me. I am alone too often and I am

turning into a drunk. The booze doesn’t seem to hurt my prose – yet –

but I think it might be hurting me. I’m drunk now, really drunk. I

drink every night. I smoke cigarettes constantly when I am writing.

I’m smoking one now.

53

That idiot Chesley failed to take the phone out of the house on 25th

Street. Now I’m stuck with an extra three week $40 bill since the

goddamn thing was in my name. Sonofabitch!

Did he do it on purpose because I moved out? I can’t believe he

would be so deliberately shitty. I called the phone people today and

told them to take it out. I think he just moved and forgot about it.

That would be more like him.

He told me he would cancel the service and I relied on him to keep

his word. It really burns me up. He flakes, I pay.

Finished Chap. 36 tonight. Kept the good stuff, eliminated the bad

stuff, or so I like to think. Major changes overall, with an

intermediate notebook draft that was very helpful.

Anyway, I like the result.

Slip-sliding away. The nearer my destination, the more I’m slip-

sliding away. What is the purpose of this journal? It has grown

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.