by U
memories. It is a horror to write and yet I push myself through it, am
deep into it.
What started it was this: My deranged client called me collect from
the mental hospital, demanding to know if she was going to get any
free money this month.
Oh, what typical behavior. I refused the call. Twice. She’s
abusive when she calls, swearing at me and calling me names. A
woman just like my mother. To hell with her, I say. I don’t give a
damn if her next call is to the branch manager.
By all means let it be so. Let’s cut out the middleman, namely me.
There is no reason why I should take shit from a psycho. when I’m
not paid nearly enough for that. I told the manager I won’t deal with
her. I’m just a hired hand, employed to keep the paperwork flowing
smoothly. I don’t make the rules. If I deal with her it just takes away
from the normal poor people. I don’t care what the rules are. Just
give me a desk and a stack of forms and I will pump out the work.
I’m not here to be abused by some fucking scrag.
Damn.
Still looking for places where I can send my stories. The
confession market buys hundreds of scripts every year but who can
read that stuff, let alone write it? Is that any outlet for my sharp,
superbly paced prose?
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The broadest vision, the deepest scope, the deftly fluid style that
effortlessly combines both grace and power? Wouldn’t I be wasting
my time writing confession stories? I think so. Perhaps horror or
detective stories are a possibility. Sex comedies might even be more
like it.
Spent all last month working to snag a slot on the Central
Committee and I still lost. Fuck politics. It’s a fool’s pastime. Their
loss is my gain. I’m going to concentrate on earning money instead.
Things don’t always go the way you plan, but they usually work out
somehow.
* * * *
July 7, 1978
Split work early to go to the Country Fair with Megan today. In
separate vehicles. The fair opened right at noon and we were among
the first people they let through the gate. Afterwards, I came back to
town and she went on to meet Mark in Eugene.
I had a pretty strange experience there with a palm reader. Megan
was trying on a couple of tie-dyed sundresses while I waited for her.
We were both kinda stoned. This middle-aged hippie dame had a
palm reading booth set up near the place selling dresses. Her name
was The Amazing Maureen. The Amazing Maureen kept pestering
me to let her read my palm. I refused but she was very persistent.
"For you I will reduce my fee," Maureen said. "Three dollars
instead of five."
She had an attractive face and a nice body, with flecks of gray in
her long black hair, which was partly tied in a braid. A hippie
masquerading a gypsy. Or vice versa.
Maureen also had about 20 bracelets on her wrists, and wore a
shiny blue vest over her print dress. The vest was decorated with
crescent moons and stars. And I sort of I did like the way Maureen’s
skimpy vest displayed her braless breasts.
Hmmm.
Megan was taking her time so I gave Maureen three bucks. After
asking my name, she took my hand in hers. She jumped a little at our
first touch.
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"Ooooohh," Maureen said. "My goodness! Such potent male
energy. I’m sure the women can’t resist you."
"They have so far," I said.
"Oh, I’m sure you’ve had your problems," Maureen said, gazing at
my palm. "But look at this peculiar triple-pronged heart line of yours.
There are of course many ways to read the palm, but mine is to
consider the love signs."
"Love signs? What do you mean?"
"The wounds left by Cupids are known as love signs. Cupids do
the work of the feminine spirits here on earth. Their arrows bring
lovers together or split them asunder."
Maureen traced a long red fingernail down a narrow valley ending
at the edge of my right palm. The center line there splits into three
shorter lines about two thirds of the way across, like a pitchfork.
"Your triple-pronged heart line shows that three feminine spirits are
competing fiercely for your heart. In ancient times these feminine
spirits were referred to as The Fates. They spin the threads of
existence in different colors. Your hand shows a conflict between a
gray spirit, a brown spirit, and a blue spirit. They have struggled over
you from since the beginning of time. Eventually one will prevail,
and she will rule some future universe with you. In this life, each
spirit fields a champion. Every life you go through plays out another
round in the game, until a day and night of Shiva has passed."
I had to admit. Maureen’s line of bullshit was damn good.
"How long is a day and night of Shiva?" I asked.
"About twenty billion years."
"Holy cow. That’s longer than I can wait."
The Amazing Maureen laughed.
"In your life," she went on, "the feminine spirits are not yet finished
with their war for ascendancy in matter of your heart. I see the battle
becoming very bitter."
"You’re telling me," I said, sarcastically.
Maureen pointed at my palm. "See how your heart line is so
crooked, so braided? – its quite a struggle among them. You are a
tempting prize, Patrick, one all three are determined to win. Watch
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out. You must be very careful in the near future. Dangerous days lie
ahead."
"I want my money back," I said. "You’re just making all this shit
up."
Amazing Maureen laughed and kept right on talking. She read both
my hands and even turned them over to check out the backs. She said
I was going to be very successful but it was going to take an ungodly
long time and require a huge amount of work.
"I’m not sure I like that prediction," I said.
Suddenly Megan was at my elbow.
"You’re having your palm read?" She asked.
"Just for the hell of it," I answered.
Maureen shot Megan a glance.
"She has pretty blue eyes, doesn’t she?"
"Yeah," I agreed, as Maureen let go of my hand.
"Your lucky card is the Nine of Diamonds," Maureen said, as we
walked away. Megan asked me what Maureen meant with the bit
about her eyes. I said it was just a bunch of bullshit.
Other than me wasting my money, the Country Fair was, as usual,
quite a spectacle. The brazen sight of so many bare breasted young
women cavorting about hither and yon had me rubbernecking no end.
* * * *
July 11, 1978
Wrote a long letter to an editor at Avon Books today. I got her
name by calling Avon on the state WATS line. I’m not so sure about
this letter – it’s an uneven piece, not too remarkable. It’s hard to sell
myself. I find myself parodying my own style, and that’s the worst
thing you can do. I mean, I’m not even myself yet, so who am I
kidding?
The question of "Am I who?" continues to plague the 26 year old
>
Patrick. He is in a quandary. Oh, what to do, what to do?
Been reading a lot of B. Traven lately. I absolutely love The Death
Ship. It’s like working at the welfare office – not one bit different, I
swear.
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Traven’s such a storyteller. I wish I were more developed than I
am. I suppose it will come with time. I am only 26. What does
anybody know when they are 26?
The child abuse story is getting lost in a jumble of other ideas. It
may be a dead cat. I’m beginning to worry about myself again. I feel
these self-destructive impulses welling up within. I feel so detached
from other people. My neighbors Harry and Nick, are fun to drink
and shoot the shit with but nevertheless we three are interested in
different things.
Waiting for Ms. Ellsworth to return my manuscript. I expect her to
respond something like this:
"I know how much this probably means to you, and I admire your
effort in writing it. But it doesn’t do a thing for me. Nor do I
particularly appreciate how you view other people’s lives. I think you
are bitter and quite disturbed. Why are you so hateful and negative?
Why can’t you be more positive?"
My guess is that it will be something nice and uplifting and cheery
like that. She’s very mature now, you know.
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CHAPTER SIX
A Ted Ted Ted Ted World
July 12, 1978
Yesterday I decided that I am a lousy writer because I write like a
simpleton. No New Yorker style prose is mine. Whenever I read my
own stuff, it’s like reading the words from a cretin who can barely
string a sentence together. A punk moron with a typewriter is what I
am.
I’ve thought about it a zillion times. What difference does it make
if you have something to say? If you can’t express the words artfully,
you’re sunk.
Can’t get anywhere on this child abuse story. The concussion and
the little head-shaped hole in the drywall are there, but beyond that
it’s formless. No real theme. No focus. No unity of vision. I can’t
get into the mind of a woman who would beat her children so
viciously and so often that the grade school feels compelled to call the
Child Protection Division.
Even though I have had a psychopathic harridan as my own mother,
the underlying thought process (or lack thereof) which result in the
torture of children simply horrify me.
We were more neglected as children than actually abused. We only
got hit when we demanded their time and attention. We soon learned
not to demand either. My way was to avoid Lois and Jim as much as
possible. It is still my way with authority of any type: Strict
avoidance. If authority must be confronted, I prefer guerilla warfare.
Now that I think about it, the old bitch probably could have been
effectively threatened, if Mick and I had ever thought of doing it. As
teenagers we could have just squealed on her to the authorities if she
didn’t behave.
I’ll bet that would have had interesting consequences.
Might just go in another direction altogether with my story, if I can
marshal the emotional strength for it. The desire to write another
novel brews in the back of my head all day long, day in and day out. I
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yearn to throw myself into it. It might give me a reason to go on
living.
The truth is I am sick of life as I am living it now. Often, I consider
suicide. What is the point of living? I just don’t get it. My life
counts for nothing. The notion of checking out early is one I find
infinitely attractive. It doesn’t frighten me nearly as much as it used
to, still retaining that old cynical appeal.
A death trip for the brooding boy.
All in all, I am feeling pretty expendable. Not very happy with
myself. I feel shame, know I have hurt others needlessly and truly
wish things had worked out differently. The best way to avoid getting
things is to want them. The more I want things, the more they elude
my grasp.
Thus it has been all my life.
So what? Forget it. Destiny is calling me. To my so-called
friends, my petty ambitions appear foolish, and so I play the fool.
Who am I trying to kid? I’m not a writer. I’m a nothing. A foolish
kitchen table experimenter without talent.
* * * *
July 13, 1978
Don’t forget what you did with the manuscript, you drunken fool.
Don’t forget what you did with her letter. May 4, 1976. Says it all,
doesn’t it? It is ink on paper, isn’t it? The words. Chiseled in stone.
Permanent. I’ll never live that one down, will I? Nor anything else.
Am I worried? I think not. It’s been weeks. Really scared her off
this time. It was stupid to have put that shit about her boyfriend in
there, even though all I did was tell the truth. After all, I do know her.
Okay. Don’t tell me I’m crazy. I already know that. One short
story this summer is all I ask. No happy ending required.
* * * *
July 17, 1978
Went to Eugene over the weekend to party with my friends.
Visited John Thomas, McNeese, Katrine, Charles, Arianna, Lori, Bill,
and a host of others. Drank. Smoked dope. Drank some more. Ate
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breakfast yesterday with John Thomas at the Home Fried Truck Stop.
What a zoo that was.
Bought two new (old) books.
Got a letter from Random House today, a form letter. They say
they will read fiction, but only a complete work. So now I must
photocopy my spare manuscript and ship it off. Another stab at it
can’t hurt anything.
Saw Foxe of Foxe and Weasel at Duffy’s on Saturday. Foxe is an
extremely attractive brown-haired beauty with gorgeous blue eyes.
When she sang that Dave Mason song The Words it really blew me
away. Foxe’s real name is Polly.
I know, I know.
How many women have that crazy name?
While they did their show on Saturday, I noticed that Weasel is an
aptly named fellow. Unfortunately, he did not seem to appreciate my
chatting up Foxe between sets.
But she came to my table. Honestly, I wasn’t bothering her. At
one point he was positively rude. Ah well. I would say that Foxe is
the talented one but Weasel hogs the show and (in my opinion) really
stinks up the act.
She was extremely friendly to me the whole time. Laughed at my
jokes. Gave me her address up in Portland. Put her hand in mine
briefly. Sat very close to me.
They play for practically nothing around here and it’s pretty sad to
see her under his thumb.
Told Megan at work today that I am seriously thinking of pulling
up stakes and leaving town. She appeared somewhat dismayed. Kept
asking where I planned to go. Said Hollywood. Besides, I said, what
is there for me here? I made a list: Nada. Nyet. Null. Nuttin. Ixnay.
Zip. Zilch. Zero.
I don’t even know why I took this job in the first place. Five years
I spent trying to get it and now I don’t want it anymore. The
poor
truly are their own worst enemies, if you ask me. I can’t relate to
them. I don’t want to be here at all.
* * * *
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July 18, 1978
Sent a letter to my mother and sisters today, a kind of farewell in
case I leave town on short notice or something. I wish I had more
respect for my mother but I do not. As for my sisters, I feel sorry for
them because they have had to live in abject poverty ever since my
father died in 1968.
The old hag would never work and was (is) always stoned on pills.
My poor sisters have had to raise themselves, not unlike the Man-in-
the-Moon Marigold girls.
My father. You never really miss anyone until they are gone.
Although, at the time Jim died, he and I were not on good terms. For
example, I never really appreciated getting smacked when he got
angry. His constant belittling sarcasm and mean-spirited put-downs
likewise got old really fast.
But at least he acted as a counterweight to our evil, insane, creepy,
self-centered scrag of a mother.
I curse him for dying.
The misery and defeat of our lives really drags me down and makes
me wish I had never been born. Once in a great while when things are
okay I feel a kind of bitter pride in my family, but the moment is
usually quite brief. Most of the time it is just sad to be a part of this
crew and that’s all I’ve got to say.
I wish things were different. I wish I wish I wish.
At the welfare office last week these two women’s advocates gave
a presentation on how to determine whether you are in an abusive
relationship. Based on the materials they passed out, I was in an
abusive relationship with Polly Ellsworth. But instead of being the
typical male abuser, I was the abused one!
Their nine-point handout read as follows:
1) Does your partner... get jealous and possessive? Check.
2) Insist on knowing where you’ve been and who you’ve been
with? Check.
3) Accuse you of flirting or cheating? Check.
4) Rifle through your stuff? Double check.
5) Make you feel like you can never do anything right? Check.
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