by Lucia Berlin
Dear Helene,
Your welcome letter just caught up with us a few days ago, via Oaxaca (bless those unpredictably efficient Mexican mails) and so did Wild Dog—with your very lovely cover. What a good issue. Wow, I feel so pleased to be printed in Wild Dog. Please thank Drew for me and Ed.
Well, we are back from Mexico, feeling very strange, foreign and homesick. It was a good (almost a year). Vallarta got to be too much. Alas, why are beautiful places, like Santa Fe, filled with people who can’t stand anything that is not beautiful and easy (which is why we went there, I guess—it seemed such a sunny cheap solution).
We spent last 4 months in Chiapas and Oaxaca and Guatemala—mostly in house in hills above Oaxaca—very very great. Except for the damn fact that we had no “real” reason to be there and it is simply not our country (which is one reason for being HERE!). Anyway, you can’t keep on sight-seeing.
The plan had been to build a house and to try to start some new scene—but got very discouraged about both those things. THWARTED AT EVERY TURN.
So, we’re back where we started, except don’t have the dream of “wouldn’t it be great to just go off to Mexico.” Buddy has the (really!) terrible problem of if he stays here and works at Important Motors he can make $20,000 a year plus the plane. But he simply can’t stand it and if he doesn’t do anything he still makes $5,000—he can’t stand not doing anything—but if he has $5,000 there’s no reason to do anything else etc. Bill Eastlake wants him to raise cows. Bill, by the way, had bad accident on his horse, pierced his lung and it really tore him up and shook him up. He’s OK now but still very uncomfortable, and in pain. It was good to see him and Martha—they have many values.
Creeleys, we saw the 1st few days we were here—we stayed with them—a bad time to arrive as Bob had a lot of letters and articles to write. Bobbie was decorating the new rooms of their (crazy) new house and we were about as harried (?) getting back to Albuquerque as we were in Pocatello, when we were so anxious to get out of Albuquerque (I can’t tell you how sorry I am that we were such a drag then). So we didn’t see much of them and the kids watched TV from 7:30 A.M. to 9 P.M.
Oh, that is the saddest part. Mark and Jeff and David were so happy in Mexico, so swinging and simple for them. Like, it was weird to get back so soon to TV and popsickles and skateboards when only a week before they’d spent all day with Niko and his 60 goats in the mountains, in caves to get out of, in summer storms, eating bread and goat’s milk and coming home every day with a dozen ADVENTURES and treasures, sunburnt and cut and scratched and HAPPY.
Jeff wasn’t going to leave Oaxaca. “No, I’m staying,” he insisted and later when he asked, “Well, will you ever be back here?” we thought he was sorry we were leaving and would miss us, so we said, “No, we may not be back”—thinking he’d decide to go with us—but he said, “Well then, I’ll really stay.” He keeps asking to go back.
Oh, I wrote a silly, what, parody of LeRoi’s objections to people living in foreign countries—except that I agree with him (we Americans should be HERE)—so it didn’t really work—except about those damn cheap servants (I’m so delighted to have a SINK and hot water and THRILL detergent and nobody hanging around all day). I always ended up cooking for all the maids and (their 10) children (so they did do the dishes). It is a terrible relationship for me, and we had only problems with David—big Freudian scenes with maids who were never going to marry because they would never have a child so beautiful and would rather dedicate their life to spoiling him more rotten. Dreams recounted every A.M. of they and David “alone in heaven.” David, however, flourished. He is remarkably unspoiled—so affectionate and witty and silly and lovely. Sure of himself and loved. Doesn’t speak English and on Double Stamp Day hollers from the cart “CALLATE LA BOCA!” to the whole Safeway.
We’re in a weird teeny-weeny apartment somewhere in the middle of Albuquerque, near schools and shopping. M & J are in summer school, I’m shopping. (2 blocks from Levine’s and fabrics and meats in cellophane, chicken peeled and cut up!) I could never adjust to seeing what the chickens ate. We’re in a neighborhood which must be part of some sociological study or an Orwell book—everybody works—wives, secretaries, and most of the husbands at Sandia or the public service company or gas or telephone, married 2 years, no children, and for four blocks around it is DESERTED from 8 to 5. NOBODY. No hoses or cars and at 5 they all come home and shut the doors and windows and turn on the air conditioning and TV and sometimes a woman hangs up some laundry or a man takes out the garbage but mostly they do it on Sunday when they water the grass. (Glorious wet Sundays!)
I love the Sandia Mountains. And the LIGHT here.
The only other natural scenery that turns me on so much is fields that remind me of Idaho and Montana mountains—surprise clearings and openness—and is one sentimental reason I like so much the painting of Ray’s. We sent for it yesterday—I hope it isn’t too late. I’m so pleased!
Never did hear from Meg—and never did write anything she, they, might print either—except, almost a parody of her Convention of Poets, which was the accidental convention of (?) from California, metal men (welders, electricians, carpenters) we knew in Oaxaca. Crazy guys, 30–40 year old SURFERS who worked construction jobs in L.A. 60 stories above the ground. WILD stories. Made enough to spend most of the time surfing and turning on. Not “beatniks,” whatever they are, but with tattoos and crew cuts and muscles and toothpicks. In Vallarta (we never saw them) to surf and fish, and in Oa-xaca because they ran out of money up from Puerto Angel—were importing LSD and mescaline from England—legal in Mexico—to take to L.A., sell, and make a FORTUNE. Which, happily, they did.
They were the only Americans we met. Because we speak such good Spanish, I guess, and because we’re sort of un-American, we had mostly Mexican friends. Which was sort of the gist of my unpolished argument with LeRoi’s article. We didn’t sit around with Americans as if we were in Cedar’s Bar (?) (I’m very out of fashion) or in San Francisco but did “penetrate to very innards of all walks of Mexican life.” BUT IT DIDN’T COUNT. (Better that we should be so nationally culturally etc. strong—we should sit around in a sidewalk bar with, as Buddy’s father would say, our own people.)
I’m still not sure why it doesn’t count—but it doesn’t. I’d rather penetrate into all these boring, predictable, apartments here (which I tried to do in that BAD “MAMA & DAD” Savage Nobleman story), altho everywhere we were in Mexico, all the people we knew had a BEAUTY (not sentimental on my part) and dignity (not false pride) that NOBODY has here. But it is FOREIGN to me—the dignity Americans do have has nothing to do with nationalism, family, tradition, religion etc.—it is truly personal and moral. Oh, I wound up feeling very patriotic and glad to be back!
I got very sidetracked. Please write a card—would love to hear about New York (Did you see Race?) and Buffalo.
Can imagine you all in your jazzy new convertible sailing over the Mississippi!!
Hey, when you get home and if you feel like it, I’d love to hear you, if we’re here. Our phone is 255-9458. Please call, collect (we don’t pay for it).
Love, Lucia
P.S. Please write—if only a card. I miss you all, very much.
P.P.S. I’m in love with Ringo and have a Beatle haircut (only just got rid of dyed hair).
October 15, 1964
1500 Fruit Street, NW,
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Dorns
Barton Road,
Pocatello, Idaho
Dearest Dorns,
I swore when I was a kid I would never say it … Oh, but Chan, how you have grown up! Thank you for your sweet letter.
I don’t know how to describe how much better everything is, or why, we just got back from Boston and New York, but here we are and at about the tenth cup of coffee in the morning we lean on each other and laugh and laugh. Ai, in spite of everything (what, anyway?) everything’s pretty great and simple. But, like, this morning we started dreaming of going back to Vallarta and
Buddy said he’d fly down and find us a house and then come back and then we’d get a bus and all go down. The kids could go to school and we’d teach them at home. Oh, and maybe before we go we’ll come up and see you. (Oh, jesus that would be so great.)
(David just woke up and captured the typewriter.)
Anyway, the fact that we’re back right where we were a year ago (except I sold all the furniture and gave away the plants) has stopped being depressing, is in fact hilarious when you think about it. Buddy’s father, 3 years ago, when we eloped, was talking about time, and life going on, and who knows what he meant to say but he said very prophetically, this is life, the world keeps going around and around.
Boston was too much, we wept most of the time we were there—like, Buddy’s father, the spoiled querulous (old) bastard was too much, so damn sweet and sad and for the first time, so loving with Buddy—and the sisters still fighting all the time and worrying about which will inherit Uncle Dave’s millions (we know, but they don’t—will they ever be pissed off—he’s left every cent to a 19 year old stewardess!). We went to see Uncle Louis in a horrible place for old people—like some surrealist hell—it was impossible to look into the eyes of these old men and women. We rode up in an elevator with a nurse and an old man in a wheelchair, paralyzed like a bruised skeleton and none of us, Buddy or Uncle Dave or I recognized that the old man was Uncle Louis, until finally Buddy did and he said “Uncle Louis” and the old man looked at him and smiled, with his eyes full of tears. Like, the nurse even cried, it was the first time in nine months that he had responded at all to anything.
Well, everything was weird and all the people like different angels or prophets from some Hasidic tale. Oh, and it was great to be away from the kids and to go to museums and hear music etc. The Boston and Peabody museums are fabulous. We had a ball in New York … Yi, it was so wonderful to be there with Buddy. Saw Henry, my dear bastard agent, and that was great, as was seeing the Kneppers. Except it turned out that because of that lawsuit thing with Mingus, Jimmy had a police record and did time in Lexington long ago. Mingus had tried to frame him by sending a package of bad stuff to him and simultaneously tipping off the FBI. It was so poorly done that nothing happened except the FBI guys came and asked them for pictures of me. It seems they think Buddy and I are smuggling etc. Which is OK because it is almost two years now since that crazy nightmare in Seattle and there is no reason to worry. The big drag tho is to find out that they listened to all our phone calls and still are and they knew of two letters I had written to the Kneppers. Whether they read them or not we couldn’t figure out. Jimmy says it’s me they seem interested in, and I guess it’s because of my name in drugstores here and there (legal). Well, that and being followed and all the people in Albuquerque telling us they’ve been questioned, and the fact that Buddy never got bugged enough in Mexico to even want any cough syrup. All the other scenes here make Mexico seem very free. Plus the fact that he is so bugged he’d love a bottle or two but neither of us would dare to get any. I don’t know how I got started on that, oh, except I’m paranoid enough to say don’t write things about Tangiers busts and name people. When I heard they knew even about the letters, I thought of that and the like terrible irony of someone (him) getting busted because of my mail (like they know every intimate thing).
Probably the thing of New York that most straightened me out was not seeing Denise and Mitch … Jesus they were such a part of my life there, and after so many years of bitterness toward them I realized I love that damn Denise and Mitch and their weird son Nick. Yi, and I don’t even hate my mother or Frankie Fernandez anymore … in fact nobody even bugs me, except maybe Bobbie Creeley and this little kid next door who is a dropout from the second grade.
Que más, oh, that it was so great to get home to the kids and New Mexico, even the jets start bumping around when they get around these mountains and clear skies.
(Oh hell, to get David away from the typewriter I traded for a box of Cheerios and the sugar bowl.)
Thanks for the beautiful Redon … wasn’t it great to see them? There is one landscape in Boston with two figures … if you are there or near there. We tried to find Gene or Pat but couldn’t, do you ever hear from them?
So long, I hope we see you soon.
Love, Lucia
1964 [November]
Edith Boulevard,
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Dorns
Barton Road,
Pocatello, Idaho
Dear Helene,
Hello! Buddy, Mark, and Jeff are off getting passport pictures. (I don’t need one—isn’t that Mexican?) So we’re off again and very glad to be. Altho everything is in that moving mess—that’s why I haven’t answered your, or Paul’s CRAZY letter (it made us cheery for days). Altho things seem better organized—we know now what you need there (EVERYTHING) and what to take (NOTHING). Buddy didn’t get a house after all. The only one we’re sure of is a little grass Arthur Godfrey shack overlooking the ocean. Which seems almost better than the little concrete box we were in last year and anyway “it’s” all you need there unless you want to have a bubble bath or baked potato or something and you don’t even need a house for that. So the only drag is that 18-hour, 180-mile jungle trip, from Tepic … parrots, flamingoes, rivers and MUD, and poinsettias and wrong turns. We four are going to fly from Mazatlan, and Buddy will get some friend to drive in with him, which will be great for us, and easier for Buddy (in a way) than with me and Jeff bawling every time we ford a river.
Hello! David and Jeff and I are waiting at airport in Mazatlan and Mark and Buddy are on that awful road. We just had our last Thanksgiving dinner (4th day). TOO much, on the beach under a palm tree—cranberry sauce and dressing and turkey, olives and celery even!
The trip so far was great—we’re all in high spirits and happy—it’s two weeks later than last year, and that much drier, so I hope the road in to Vallarta will be better. Mark is thrilled.
Did I say we were taking nothing—thought we had the minimum this time but that poor bus is bulging. We camped all the way down tho, but couldn’t sleep, the sky was so starry and it was so quiet always.
Saw Bob the night before we left—hadn’t seen him since his trip and it (England) sounded wonderful and so does he. Got the three writings of Don Allen—Olson biography was great and we really dug reading “The Camp” again, and by itself. Also sent the Coyote—thanks for all the information!
Gee—I can’t think of anything—we’ve got 2 more hours to wait (2 gone) and that David and Jeff are getting sort of awful—so we’ll have another Coke and David will spill it, then they’ll have to pee etc. Then I’ll have a beer, more Coke, pee.
He, Buddy, heard a terrible thing when he was in Vallarta from a woman from Tangier who knew Race. She said he got busted and was sent to prison there, for 5 years with no parole. Have you heard from him? If not, maybe you could write a card to Dr. Morris Newton, Box 613, Little Falls and ask where he is.
Well, I wish we thought we would see you soon. Please write and tell us how you are and what’s happening.
All my love, Lucia
P.S. Thank you for The Death Ship. I’m sorry I forgot to tell you it came.
1965 [Summer]
Edith Boulevard,
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Dorns
Barton Road,
Pocatello, Idaho
Dearest Dorns,
Well, I’m very sorry I didn’t write before to thank you for your care package of Ed’s beautiful book, The Peace News, letter, card. Oh, if you knew how it cheered us both up—as did your card today—just when we are at a second low ebb (?) tide? Shit, like (we’re very LOW). Moved back into Edith … Buddy got out of the hospital 2 days ago and is able to walk a little but is very sick and tired of pain—3 months now—the nerve in his leg so damaged it will be a long time before he’s OK.
So, we moved back to US—it always seems so logical. Like, I can’t have a baby in the jungle (altho it seems lik
e a great idea now), Buddy’s back, kids have to go to school, etc., etc., $. Oh, once we’re here we can never remember why.
The house was abandoned. We still have to pay for it— nobody will buy it—we now see why—it is unlivable. The bastards ruined everything, the pool is irreparable, there is not one blade of grass, most of the bushes and trees are GONE, and most of walls. Everything is a wreck, plumbing, stove, walls.
I suppose it’s philosophical and symbolic and all that—to come back to start ANEW—except there is so little reason—this horrid country, town etc., so repulsive and SCARY for us.
I went to Yelapa to bring back, and send back, our belongings—left Sunday and was back Wednesday. Had about adjusted to the idea of not going back there. Where there’s no doctor if a kid breaks a leg, or whatever, and no school and no civilization. Was surprised on the boat trip—2 hours over from Puerto Vallarta—at how happy I was to be going home. It was awful to see the hills and mountains at the end of the dry season and I expected to find our garden a desert and was sort of glad—it would be easier to leave—but as the boat came into the bay I could see the bougainvillea and petunias from a mile away. A friend of Mark and Jeff’s had come every day for 3 weeks to water (with buckets from the river)—he wouldn’t take a penny for it—had just wanted it to be nice when we got home. The whole damn day of packing was the same—everybody came to ask about Buddy and the kids and to carry cartons across the river to the beach. It seems like ever since the bloody boat pulled out, and all those decent friends waving and crying on the most beautiful beach—I’ve been weeping. Los Angeles airport did me in—I missed Yelapa and our friends there so much I couldn’t stand it. Very mixed up about our responsibility toward the children. In so many ways they are now like the kids there—how to keep that part here.
Had tons of bad and fabulous other scenes too in those few days there. Oh, Mexico! The last night there was sort of a nightmare which would take 40 pages to describe. Briefly, I got arrested and spent the night in jail, and the morning, until 20 minutes before the plane left and I bribed my way out. All started at Festival for the Sailors—where I went with some friends. I went to the bathroom, came out, and a sweet kid about 19 tried to kiss (etc.) me. 3 DRUNK cops appeared to arrest him (for rape) and most of all to go thru my purse, for $, I think, but I flipped because I had all these HEAVY bad things in it, so the boy and I tried to get the purse away. They started to beat him up and I INTERFERED and they took us both away. It all got very weird, apparently the new mayor wants convictions and they weren’t going to let me go for 5 days unless I signed a rape charge—which I refused (all this went on in the Police Station—nobody else in town was around— everybody was at the Festival). Then they wouldn’t let me go until I “made it” with them and I got into horrible fight which brought my charges up to indecent behavior, resisting arrest, drunk and disorderly conduct, assault and battery (upon?) 3 policemen, vile and profane language, etc. The old guard threw me into the tank to protect me from the police! I was sort of Queen of the jail since I fought the cops and wouldn’t sign any charges against “El Tiburón,” my “attacker.” It would have been (it was) nice, like the old guard gave me cigarettes all night and I cried and smoked all night with an 18-year-old kid in for 2 murders. In the morning I ended up spending 2 humiliating hours in the mayor’s office. He could not understand why I would risk a scandal and not help the community convict these vicious attackers by sending “El Tiburón” to jail for 6 months or so, etc. I told him the only attackers had been the police and then he really got nasty, threatening, etc. Beautiful scene with “El Tiburón” (The Shark) who, when he finally woke up, couldn’t believe I was still in there (having coffee and tortillas with a bunch of queer prisoners) and that I hadn’t busted him.