by U
without.
Worse, I know all these dirty little secrets. To tell the truth, I loathe
all these jive ass white honky motherfuckers. I have no compassion
for them whatsoever.
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But I do weep for their children.
I’m spinning my wheels here. I keep telling Megan that she can
come up as soon as I get established there. She doesn’t seem too
thrilled about that plan either.
What can you do? I haven’t told Megan this, but I’ve already put
my name on the worker transfer list. To the Portland area. They like
transfers because no training is involved. No word about any
openings yet. I’ll just sit tight.
* * * *
April 17, 1979
Reading about Jack London again. It is hard for me to believe such
a human being ever existed. Truly a self made man. His short stories
are fantastic, the novels good and bad.
London’s novel The Call of the Wild has a mystical quality to it that
can’t be denied.
I fucking love the way it ends:
But he is not always alone. When the long winter nights come on
and the wolves follow their meat into the lower valleys, he may be
seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or
glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great
throat a-bellow as he sings the song of the younger world, which is the
song of the pack.
Oh, how I love that last line!
London sold The Call for $2,000 outright. Never made another
dime off of it. Never sell anything outright is the moral of that story.
About half finished with The Dark City. Not sure what to do from
this point on. I don’t think I care. I’m just going through the motions.
It is lousy and artificial. Everybody who looks at it hates it. Megan
has many reservations.
In the meantime, I’m not dead yet. I’m extremely restless and
driven by forces I do not fully comprehend. It has always been thus.
What will happen next?
Megan took a photo of me standing beside the shore pine outside
the welfare office a couple of days ago. The sun was shining brightly
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overhead and, as usual, Megan made me look like some kind of a
slick fucking male model instead of the stupid twit I actually am.
I can hardly wait until I’m old and fat. Then I will have an excuse
for feeling lousy all the time. But when Megan takes these
photographs of me, I appear extremely handsome and look like I am
having a ball. I look as happy as those guys in soft drink
commercials.
* * * *
April 23, 1979
Another long work day. I am hoping the state employees will go
on strike this year. I could really use a break from the routine.
Chesley called. He says I need to shell out $100 for a tux to attend his
wedding. I said what the shit?
He says Shirley is insisting on an elaborate ceremony and he is
going along with whatever she wants. The date is now definitely set
for July 28.
Let me see. I spend $130 on the flight to California and $100 on a
suit. Probably need a haircut too. Then there will be food, beer, and
possibly a rented porno movie for the bachelor party. Wait a second.
This whole thing is spiraling out of control, just like the Pentagon
budget. I can’t believe these cost overruns.
I probably wouldn’t mind it however, if Shirley wasn’t such a
fucking scrag. Feel like I’m losing a friend. I probably am.
Chesley and I discussed Randy and Wilma at length, arriving at
similar negative conclusions via independent paths. We can see what
is wrong with others, but not ourselves. I told Chesley that I hope he
won’t fall into the same trap as Randy, married to a crabby, self-
centered, and domineering woman. He assures me to the contrary,
though I have serious doubts.
Planning to wind up The Dark City at 140 or 150 pages.
Because it is so full of violence and perverted sex, I feel like I am
writing for popular tastes. Perhaps, however, I am being just a little
too obvious. I’d like to think of it as Swiftian satire, but maybe it
ain’t too swift.
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One thing I promise: When complete, The Dark City will contain
all my own special touches. A throw away novel for a throw away
age. Not art, just plastic.
As apathy leads to ignorance, so ignorance inevitably leads to
disco. Verily I say unto you:
These are troubled times.
Night is falling softly. I have to go outside and dig it for a while.
Megan is coming over later to spend the night. I have prepared in her
honor a luscious vegetarian lasagna, a big green salad, garlic bread,
and a chocolate cake dessert. Eleanor, Nick, and Harry will be joining
us.
I am hosting a dinner party.
The evening sky blazes a gorgeous red, a burnished blood crimson,
a red like no other red I have ever seen. It is a most glorious sunset,
tinged with sliver, blue, and gold.
It is a purely glittering rubio horizon. Our orb hurtles through
space, a water world crawling with itty bitty organisms.
* * * *
April 28, 1979
This business of Nick showing no respect for my privacy is really
beginning to bug me. I appreciate that he has such a high opinion of
Megan but that doesn’t seem to extend to me. I’m pissed off at him
because he let some friend of Eleanor’s spend the night in my study.
Without asking me, a room I pay for each and every month!
When I came back from Megan’s this morning, I walked in to find
this Connie dame snooping though my Dark City manuscript. Fuck!
"Is this your stuff?" Connie demanded. "I don’t like it."
Who fucking asked her? I didn’t answer and told her to get out of
my room. Later, she told Nick she thought I was rude.
What the shit? The bitch roots though my private stuff – and calls
me rude when I object?
Goddammit. Another dumpy, crabby woman. I’ve had my fill.
The guy who winds up with Connie will have himself a real Shirley-
style prize.
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I should buy my own house but I don’t know where I want to live
and I don’t have enough money. Nick is okay most of the time. I
gave him a raft of shit about letting her stay in my study. The fucking
jerk. I pay him extra for that room, goddamnit.
Took a long drive in the bus after my go around with Connie.
Megan is shopping in Coos Bay with her pal Ginny.
This new book I’m writing in cost fifty cents more than the last one
I bought. Goddamn Jimmy Carter inflation. Whenever I start a new
book of this journal I look back over the old ones to see if I’ve
changed any.
A little. I still don’t know what I’m doing most of the time, but
I’ve got big plans. Meanwhile, I just try to survive from day to day
without getting into too much trouble.
I don’t know what else to do.
The Boston literary magazine Dark Horse said no dice to the
chapter I sent them. So did the magazine Neworld, also rejecting me.
<
br /> My story The Noisome Wind was not what they were looking for,
they said.
Three fourths of my submissions are still out. If just one or two of
them connect, it will have been worth the expense and effort. The
personal rejections are what I like most. The one from Neworld was a
plain form.
Most are like that.
* * * *
May 6, 1979
Torrential rains are pounding down as I write this. I’ve got six
pages done on Chap. 18 in The Dark City. I’m on page 47 of my new
notebook. Writing is such a chore sometimes. But never a bore. But
sometimes I’d rather smoke dope and dream the day away.
But writing beckons: It requires steady concentration and constant
effort. When it goes good, I look up at the clock and it is 9:00 PM.
Then I look up again and it is 11:40 PM. Serious work is very
satisfying, unlike this stupid diary, which is six plus volumes of pure
mind vomit.
Precisely how I intended it.
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Got a new padlock for my black trunk, a real bruiser, put the key on
my ring, and had a duplicate key made.
No more intrusions. Motherfuckers.
Megan and I got the garden fully planted this morning, just before
the rain started. We still have room in the greenhouse but the outside
plot is done. What a pain to put up the chicken wire. But necessary to
keep the stupid cats out. They seem to think the garden patch is in
reality a large outdoor litter box.
Megan moved into her new place, a one bedroom apartment in a
house out on Rhody. What she has her eye on, though, is the cabin in
Heceta Beach next door to Ginny.
* * * *
May 7, 1979
Then again, maybe I’ll just move to Portland no matter what.
Megan really disappointed me today. I won’t go into the details or
hash it over, but my disappointment was keen.
Mainly, I blame the managers. I think it’s a crying shame how they
are allowed to abuse the employees. The old biddies are clearly afraid
to mess with me but everyone else is fair game.
I keep telling Megan this is isn’t the environment for either of us,
that we must get out of here as soon as possible. Sure, the physical
setting is spectacular beyond compare but we must consider the
human factor as well.
My beloved beauty and I need to be in a big city where we can rock
together, not go stale in some crappy little one-horse town. Maybe I
can get a half time in one of the branches up there. I have over
$2,000. My student loans are manageable now that I’m caught up
with the Eugene one.
I could wipe out those old loans today if I felt like it. But they get
cheaper every day. So why bother? The rate is fixed at three percent
and inflation is running 13 percent. Besides, I’ve got plans for that
money.
Like politics.
* * * *
May 11, 1979
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At the union meeting in Salem. It is weird. Buncha chronic
complainers, if you ask me. I say if you don’t like your job, go on the
attack. Start fucking with the managers. Fight back. Screw with their
heads. These whiners are so pathetic.
Job Rep methods. Teamsters. AFSCME. Ratification of OSEA
contract. Do we ratify? Bob Ghouley – reorganization. Become like
private industrial unions by 1981. Leadership.
Membership. Adequate pay – are they really saying that?
Adequate? Why hasn’t this issue been addressed in General Council?
Staff. Board. District Directors. Delegates. Interested people.
Ratification issues. BURC. Job Reps again.
Senate Bill 57
Job Reps key to the entire union. Impasse or contract offer – which
will it be?
Later: I left the meeting early and drove home. Burned out from
the drive, I walked in through the kitchen, where I found Nick and
Lisa laughing. They were ridiculing The Dark City, which they had
been reading upstairs while I was in Salem.
They were giggling and calling it "The Dark Tittie." What a
charming sense of humor they both have. Why do people feel free to
piss on things that mean something to me?
I would never do the same to them. Why do they do it to me? It
hurts my feelings and it really bums me out. Dealing with people is
such a struggle. What I get is a big drag down. Even worse than a put
down.
Now I know I am leaving here. ASAP.
But I shrugged and told them that writers write and snipers make
crappy jokes.
Surprisingly, that kind of shut them up.
* * * *
May 16, 1979
Ah yes, it’s all falling into place and life is good. My big
opportunity may arrive sooner than I think. I worry altogether too
much. What is the fucking point?
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Got a new camera on Monday. A 35MM Olympus OM1 single
lens reflex camera, exactly like Megan’s. Now she can teach me yet
another special skill.
The only difference in our cameras is that mine comes with a silver
and black body while her camera is completely black. I’m way
beyond Instamatic photos but until I met Megan, never had the
courage to buy a serious camera.
What a beautiful machine. I love it.
Mailed back my warranty card and everything. Took some
experimental color and black and white pictures. I can hardly wait to
see the results. There are so many photos I can take now that I
couldn’t take before. Mushrooms, for example.
While in Eugene, saw my dentist Don Miller again. My 1972
fillings seem to be holding up all right. All eleven cavities were filled
back then, mostly in my molars where I wasn’t brushing right. Don
may replace the porcelain filling I have in my right front tooth.
The discoloration would go away, I think, if I quit smoking dope. I
promised Don I would brush and floss more carefully.
A client complimented me on "my pretty white teeth" not too long
ago. If nothing else, I intend to keep them sound. Good dental health
is an outward sign of class, in my opinion.
My mother, by way of illustration, has hardly a tooth in her whole
head.
* * * *
May 19, 1979
Salem again. These union jerks are really putting me off. This
stupid board meeting is interminable.
People do not need to know that I do not exist in this world. My
interior world is far more compelling than this tawdry real one. Only
two things keep me tethered: My love for Megan and that absolutely
gorgeous bod of hers. Otherwise, I do not fear oblivion. Fear of
death is cowardice. Do not fear the inevitable. I suppose it is
acceptable to be a tad disconcerted, however, when death suddenly
comes by surprise.
Otherwise, let it roll, roll, roll.
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The Dark City will be finished soon. It is full of dark humor.
Absurd dark humor.
Life is very dark in The Dark City.
John Thomas is working hard on the anti-nuke campaign. He has
filled three shoeboxes with the names of volunteers in the Third
Congressional district. He wants to make his State Representative the
next Congressman.
John says the time has come and if his guy won’t do it, somebody
else will. Old Bob Duncan is ripe for the picking, John says.
I think he is right.
Later 9:30 PM: Back in town. The sun went down a little while
ago, a fiery star sinking into the broad, blue Pacific. I look out over
the water and forget my own name. It is as though the Pacific Ocean
is a total brain wipe.
Worried about the VW. The engine’s running hot and hard. Nick
says he knows a guy who can fix VW’s.
Dammit. More expense.
Ruminating on just how to conclude The Dark City.
So many options.
We shall see.
Birds cry in the shore pines outside my window. I can speak
enough bird lingo to know they are saying goodnight. Cars are
making noise on the street. Noise. More noise. We are in the midst
of the Rhody Festival.
Author Ken Kesey is the Parade Grand Marshall.
I am like everybody else. I think Kesey wrote one classic
American novel and another pretty good novel. One Flew Over The
Cuckoo’s Nest is the classic, amazing and beautiful. The other book,
Sometimes A Great Notion, is overwritten and way too long, but also
very fine in many respects. I skipped a lot when I read it, thinking:
yeah, yeah. Get to it, Ken.
But here in town is our own Mr. Kesey.
The genius in our midst.
Got an amusing letter from Mick. He also thinks Chesley’s
marriage is ill-advised, but then again he knew Karen and like most
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guys, Mick can’t think of many women who can match that exquisite
female.
Myself, I only know of one woman who compares favorably with
Karen, and it definitely is not Shirley. Mick thinks Chesley is
probably getting married because his mother thinks it is a good idea.
And what mommy wants...
* * * *
May 23, 1979
Made an appointment for a job interview at Maryhill AFS on
Tuesday morning. The college there has a state welfare branch, using
an old women’s dormitory for the office space.
It’s a beautiful, wide-open campus with nice private offices for the
workers. I am ready to leave town right now.