by U
Another book, Cell 2455, Death Row, by Caryl Chessman, was
irresistible this morning. Couldn’t stop reading it. I love true stories.
My leisurely weekends are read-a-thons and I love every minute of
them. Now, if only I could quit smoking.
Made myself an excellent dinner tonight. A small sirloin steak,
fluffy white rice, a huge green salad with mushrooms and tomatoes,
carrot sticks and a glass of milk. It really hit the spot. I like to cook
but it’s no fun eating by myself. I mostly like to cook when there’s a
woman around. If you make her warm and mellow with good food
and drink she is much more amenable to a nice long session of
physicality in the rack. I would say that Ms. Davidson’s boyfriend
knew his girl.
Need to take better care of myself. Need to calm down, be less
driven, less brittle, less emotional.
Intend to polish up the script in a slow, deliberate manner. No
sense punishing myself. It is done and I don’t have anything to worry
about anymore. There is plenty of fuel in my literary engine, more
than enough. I must preserve the vehicle of my talent, such as it is.
Going to bed early tonight. Sometimes I lay awake thinking about
women I have known. Lately it’s been Marie Susan Montambeault.
It’s because I came across one of her letters recently, in a folder in my
black trunk. There were a bunch of other letters of hers, too. I
thought I got rid of them. Guess not. This one was dated July 16,
1975.
It reads in part:
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Patrick, you should fucking come to Florida. There’s plenty of
room in my apartment and in my bed. I’m making almost 500 net a
month. Enough to feed us both until you get one of those big shit
jobs. How long can you handle cutting roses?
It wouldn’t take you long to save up for a plane ticket if you put
your mind to it. I think you should consider it seriously and think
objectively about the comforts of home and old friends.
Hey, your beard looks great in the photo you sent. I’m glad you’re
letting it grow again. Was it taken at Manuel’s in Atlanta? I wonder
what it would feel like between my thighs. (You’re not the only one
with lecherous thoughts.)
There’s more along those lines but that’s all I can transcribe
without getting pissed at myself all over again. The thing is, when
Marie wrote that to me I was already six weeks into my disastrous
affair with Polly. Talk about bad timing.
I wonder how Marie is doing? Such a sweet and sexy woman. So
smart and so much fun to talk to and be with. I sure hope she found
someone who truly loves her. I have since kicked myself at least a
thousand times for blowing her off as I did. I’d call her right now if I
wasn’t still so ashamed.
For example, whenever I think of that first time I went up to her
cabin in Northern Georgia four years ago, I feel a shudder and start to
curse myself.
One beautiful, eerie photograph from that weekend still exists
among my things, a picture of me and Marie standing in front of her
little blue VW, our arms around each other. It was taken by Marie’s
roommate Carolyn, and I can’t look at it for more than a few seconds
before I start to think that I am insane.
After spending all those years with Leanne (1970-73) I became
convinced that I would probably never find a woman who liked me on
a permanent basis.
Leanne liked me at first, then she disliked me, and eventually it
became impossible to tell whether she liked me or not. In retrospect, I
think the fundamental issue was that the chemistry between us just
wasn’t right.
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That was definitely not the case with me and Marie. We hit it off
immediately, and as lovers, were as compatible as a couple can be.
The sex was fantastic from the start, as Marie reciprocated my
enthusiasm in every way. For birth control, we had to use what Marie
called "yucky" foam, but that did not seem to interfere with the
pleasures of our lovemaking.
It was a real revelation to be with a woman who got off on me as
much as I got off on her.
Before the weekend at her cabin, we had made love in Atlanta
where I lived, but those had been hurried affairs, conducted in less
than perfect surroundings. Then I visited Marie at her place in the
woods. I had no fucking idea how sweet sex could be until that series
of hot (in more ways than one) July nights.
Marie had a covered porch in the front of her cabin, with a screen to
keep the bugs out. The sun went down in a blaze of red and gold as
Marie fed me dinner and glass after glass of red wine. Her Napa
Valley origins were evident in the fact that she seemed to know her
way around wine, far exceeding me in the level of her sophistication.
"I bought this table wine in Atlanta when I was there," Marie said.
"There is nothing remotely drinkable around here."
"This wine tastes very good," I said, swigging it from one of the
long stemmed glasses Marie brought from home when she joined
VISTA.
That was another thing about Marie. The way she went through
life, it seemed almost effortless. Although her cabin was small and
kind of ramshackle, Marie and her roommate Carolyn kept the place
perfectly and had it nicely appointed with many attractive feminine
touches.
There was a Persian run on the shiplap floor in front of the fireplace
and the furniture was well-worn but clean. Window dressings of lace
and chintz gave the place a comforting feel, as did the abundance of
flowers, incense, and candles.
Moreover, and this was perhaps the most engaging thing, there was
always plenty of delicious food on hand when Marie was around.
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And, skinny as she was, Marie wasn’t shy about eating. A woman
of good appetite who remains slender, sleek, and eminently fuckable
is truly a prize. In my previous relationship with Leanne, the prize
had eluded me. Not so with Marie.
Man, oh man, did Marie love to fuck! And I loved to fuck her.
When my cock was in her pussy, it was in heaven. I also loved
kissing her and sucking her nipples, not to mention the shapely breasts
they crowned.
And there was her hair. Both up top and down below, her hair was
long, thick, soft, and luxurious…
All right, enough! Back to the present.
I loved Marie, but I just couldn’t bring myself to move in with her
after my unfortunate affair with Ms. Ellsworth. I was still suffering
from aftershock. I honestly believed that I was in love with Polly.
What a fool. I’m not always the best judge of where my interests lie.
Sometimes I think if Marie had lobbied me a little harder – maybe
called me and bugged me about it some more, I might have confessed
what was going on.
But after that last letter she never really pressed me and well, shit, I
just don’t know. I mean, what the hell do I know about anything?
Nothing.
Now at night I am sad and lonely, listening to the r
ain patter down
on the roof of this tiny cabin. Alone in the darkness I remember
beautiful Marie. She was so striking, so incredible. What a gorgeous
body. What a great laugh. Marie knew what to do with that lovely
body of hers, too. Dammit. Sure wish I had that fucking decision to
do over again.
Tonight I would have done it differently. Back then I recall making
a conscious decision to become miserably unhappy. In so doing, I
succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.
As much as anything else, I think what most embarrassed me about
getting involved with Marie was my extreme poverty. Experience has
always shown me that when one person has the upper hand in a
financial sense it always means trouble.
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If you have to depend on someone else for money, even for a short
time, they hold it over you. It doesn’t matter what you offer in other
respects. Money counts most of all. Oh, they can deny it all they
want, but the truth is the person who brings the most money to any
relationship calls the shots.
You know how it is with humans.
Tomorrow a long, busy day beckons. At least I get paid. That
helps a little.
* * * *
May 2, 1978
Sorry journal, but I gotta lay this exercise on you:
Synopsis for The Dark City:
1) The novel opens in the fall of 1969. From the beginning, the
story is cast in the form of a search. A self-absorbed and slightly
awkward young man named Dale Murphy collects his high school
diploma months after the ceremony and heads off to college. He is
looking for kicks, girls, fun, and knowledge, in about that order. Dale
considers himself a typical example of his generation, born in post
World War II baby boom. He is a child of suburbia, interested in
girls, TV, beer, sports, food, music, girls, comic books, humor in bad
taste, and girls.
Oh, and lately he has discovered pot.
2) Some silly adventures. Dale reveals things about himself
through introspection, flashbacks, and interior monologues. All the
stuff you’re not supposed to do in a novel.
3) His friend Toby Schwartznecker is introduced, a barbarian who
is even wilder than Dale. Toby, a true marijuana fiend, is beset with
bizarre delusions and is jealous of Dale over a girl.
4) They superficially discuss Vietnam, student protests, and
politics. But they really don’t care much about it. They are mainly
interested in having a good time.
5) Dale arrives at Oxygen State, meeting his new roommate Jethro,
another lunatic. Good for a few laughs. A former mental patient,
Jethro fits right in. Does Jethro have pot? Yes, he does. A major
point in Jethro’s favor.
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6) Dale has an older brother in the military – Rick, the poor bastard.
Will he be killed? Hard to say.
7) A cast of characters is quickly introduced. Most significant is
Maxwell, a crazy Jewish kid from California. Max is smart, funny,
and every bit as rebellious as Dale, but hides it better. They dislike
each other at first, then hit it off.
8) Drugs. The environment of 1969-70 is saturated with drugs and
drugs are utterly cool. Dale smokes too much hashish one day and
has a big freak out.
9) Food. Eating is described with relish and few aspects of the
human excretory process are left unexamined, especially by Maxwell,
who obsesses about such things. Scatology reigns supreme.
10) The past. Dale thinks about life constantly, goes back and forth
over it, in a search to discover what the fuck it means.
11) Toby Schwartznecker falls in love. Slightly nauseating is the
phrase that best describes The Schwartz in amour.
12) Sex and drugs, rock and roll, beer and politics. School takes a
back seat to all the things that are, like, happening. Everything is a
joke and everything is wrong. This is what it was actually like back
then.
I know, it seems like a dream now, but I remember.
Like Marcel Proust, I remember.
Getting a little drunk, I think.
Also right, now I am so very sick of writing. I’m so very sick of
everything. I hate my life. I hate it, hate it, hate it.
I make myself sick. I’m so goddamned fucking stupid, such an
idiot. Asshole motherfucker piece of shit. The Dark City – what a
pile of shit.
Shit shit shit.
Send it off to a publisher. Big fuckin’ deal. I hate my work. I
despise it. After reading it over for the ten zillionth time, I feel like
throwing up.
The typist is getting the sample chapters ready tonight. I’m sending
them off next week.
Why do I even bother?
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All I want is nothing. I want nothing at all. I have nothing and I
want less. No paradise within. No paradise without. No Eden in this
fucking Adam, that’s for sure. I’m a drunken fool. Like my old
Uncle Rick. A fucking boozehead. Slobbery sick drunk, stupid, and
crazy. I hate life and I just want to die.
I should have jumped off that fucking bridge when I had the
chance. I don’t believe in myself. I don’t believe in anything.
Polly Ellsworth. I loved you. Truly I did.
But you never loved me. You trashed me good. Thank you very
much, sweetheart.
You were brilliant and beautiful, but also fickle and faithless. That
was why I didn’t quite trust you, why I kept my options open,
apparently for good reason. You were a fucking phony. You never
had faith in me, never really believed in me. I gave you more on my
worst day than you ever gave me on your best. Your brand of
affection deserves a john, not a boyfriend.
So where does the living go, when it stops?
I want to die. I hate being alive.
I hate it, hate it, hate it.
I’m drunk. I want to talk to my brother, but he is 12,000 miles
away. And I’m lost in dreams of death.
Why must we live? What is the point?
I’m insane. I’m crazy. Cruzan Rum. It’s poison, man. I swear.
What the fucking hell. I’m draining the bottle, smacking my lips,
looking for more.
The novel: The Dark City.
It has taken so much out of me, so many long hours. I am ashamed
to show it to anyone. I don’t believe in it. Writing this book has
ruined me. I am destroyed. Let the motherfuckers tear it to pieces.
Of course they will. I don’t care. My mind is a total blank. I can’t
write anymore. I can’t even think anymore.
I must go to sleep.
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CHAPTER FOUR
The Trap
May 7, 1978
Looks as if I’ll be writing a third draft after all. I’ve gone through
14 pages of manuscript since April 26, and the end is nowhere in
sight. Nevertheless, I will not let this annoying state of incompletion
prevent me from offering it for publication. I am splitting off Chap.
49 as a separate excerpt and intend to submit it along with a query
letter.
Katrine spent the weekend here.
Probably the less said about Katrine spendi
ng two nights here, the
better. But I will describe it anyway because I want to reduce the
chance of succumbing to temptation again.
Her father Roland dropped Katrine off over at the Whistler
Restaurant, saying it would be easier than them trying to find my
place in town. Then he drove to Charleston, where there was a group
of Russian scientists visiting the Marine Center. I put Katrine’s
overnight bag in my VW and brought her to the cabin. We spent a
long 48 hours together.
Two days later, at noon, I took her back to the Whistler and
consigned her to Roland, who said it was damn nice of me to look
after Katrine for a couple of days.
"It does wonders for her mother to have time to herself, for a
change," Roland said. "And you’re about the only person my wife
trusts with Katrine."
"Thank you," I said.
Roland talked like his daughter wasn’t there, standing next to him.
Apparently one of the stigmas that go along with being mentally ill is
that other people feel free to talk about you as though you are a fence
post or an idiot.
What I try to do with Katrine is to have fun, and go light with
things, even with sex. I don’t know what else to do with her.
Because Katrine is not the kind of woman I want to squire around
town, I made dinner here Friday night – spaghetti with meat balls,
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greed salad, and sourdough bread with a cheese-garlic glaze. As
always when I make a meal for her, Katrine ate like she was fucking
starving.
She went through two major helping of my special spaghetti with
the roasted tomato sauce, as well as three servings of bread. I also had
to give her extra salad and the last meatball.
There we were, the lonely young writer and his mentally ill but
exquisitely beautiful young blond girlfriend, having dinner together at
the Cal style table in the living-room/dining room, with the big brass
clock on the counter, slowly ticking away the seconds.
To fortify myself for the night ahead, I drank three big glasses on
red wine. Of course, Katrine had none, on account of the medications
she takes. I gave her apple juice instead.
We talked about what had been going on in our lives. What that