“You have no fuckin’ choice!” He bellowed. “Satan wants you! He wants your life! Go for it!” John lifted the axe high over his head, then drove it down onto something. A spray of splinters flew up in response and the crowd gave a collective “Ahhhh!,” leaned away, then flowed back into the void they had created only moments before.
John spun playfully, swinging the axe in a large circle. Then he seemed to wilt, I couldn’t see him anymore and the twisting bodies closed in and he was swallowed up amidst the froth of the crowd. Someone stuck a beer into my hand and I brought it to my lips, which reminded me that my bladder had become a time bomb. I made for the door. I was suffocating on the exhausted stench of dozens of fucked-up partygoers.
As I grabbed the handle of the heavy door, it swung inward and a tall, thin girl with perfect eyes entered laughing. I stared at her. It was too depressing. Did God make beautiful women only to torture me? And yet, at the last moment, she did meet my eyes as she slipped past. A moment. How painful are those moments? Everything slowed down, I don’t know why, so I asked her her name and she said, “Vera,” then slipped away into the crowd.
A tremendous yearning shot through my heart. This woman was my soul mate and if I missed this opportunity to grab her and pour myself into her, I would die. This moment would never come again. And if I left now, I would never be able to find her. But she was gone. “Vera.” Lost forever.
My mind cleared enough for me to finally escape the loft and negotiate the worn, endless staircase. I lost my balance, flipped forward, completely out of control. I thought I was a goner but staved off disaster by grabbing the ancient railing at the last moment. I could have broken my neck. My heart was pounding. I sat down on the stairs, the muffled roar of the party seeping through the iron door. Time to go home. Go home, go to bed. Give it up. Give it up.
On the street, I found an ancient mossy wall and peed with tremendous relief. As I drenched the cracked foundation stone, I thought, isn’t it amazing what can make you feel good? Urination. Then I remembered all the infested nooks and crannies. What if a rat saw my flaccid dick and thought, “Meat!” Rats can jump. A rat could jump up and tear my dick off. This made me think of a life without a dick. Which made me think of returning to John’s place to try to find Vera. Or ’Gitte. Or any woman who could save me.
I was defeated by inertia. The smothering August humidity closed in on me, hugged me hard and licked me. It was as if the breath of every soul in the city had been trapped under the sky, building with pressure minute by minute. I had to get back to my apartment as soon as possible. The air would be cooler there. Things would be calmer. This all made sense to me.
Finding one mysterious, magical brass token in my pocket, I rode the hurtling, roaring vibration through the wild subterranean light homeward and did not get singled out and mugged on the way. The ’shroom trip had faded slightly. I regained the ability to think two thoughts in succession.
I woke in my bed, dreaming of knights and kings. Somewhere an early bird was singing. I vomited and blacked out.
June 14, 2006
Received an invitation to visit Israel. All expenses paid. Simply for an in-person interview in Tel Aviv and some kind of “conference” in Jerusalem (“Postwar Jewish Literature and the Modern Sentiment”). The guy who got in touch with me, Lev, was “blown away” by A Gentle Death. Knew it better than I do. Cited chapter and verse. Had made all kinds of connections between themes and characters that I’d never intended. Of course, he insisted that this book could only have been written by a Jew. The suffering, the insight, the tradition of wisdom, etc. etc.
The conversation on the phone was embarrassingly cordial. How could I not accept? Of course, Lev was an author himself. If I accepted the offer, I would have to be careful not to be caught alone with this guy too often. But let’s face it, I could use a refreshing vacation of praise. Get away from Leon and the blogs. And Elizabeth and the lawsuit. In addition, I would receive an honorarium of five thousand dollars. I called my father, thinking the news might ignite a spark of Jewish pride. He said, “You’re gonna get yourself blown up.”
June 15, 2006
The sales of my novel are accelerating. Word of mouth? I allow myself a moment or two of serenity.
When a book begins to sell, everyone wants to know you. It’s as if you give off some kind of pheromone of attraction. Women, men, show biz types…
Met with the famous actor C.G. today to discuss an adaptation of my short story “The Wounded.” When I first shook his hand, I was smitten by his tremendous projection of substance. A man of depth and wisdom and…beauty. His hazel eyes, his thick animated eyebrows, his lips as he formed words. Even his eyelashes were perfect. The man is beautiful, no wonder he is a star. And he’s used his power as a star to make movies that “say something” and get nominated for Oscars. Here was a man, a true man, I thought. I had an instant sense of familiarity with him. We could become close.
All such notions evaporated as we tucked into our meal. After discussing my story, the sum of his discourse was a) his girlfriend and how she wants to get married and have a baby with him and b) his other girlfriends who have amazing bodies, breasts, asses, legs, vaginas, anuses, toes, lips, tongues, etc. and c) what a headache it is to sell his fifteen-million-dollar estate so that he can buy the new twenty-two-million-dollar estate. When the waitress visited us, agog and flirty, C.G. flirted back, and when she floated off with our order, he launched into a discussion of her breasts, her ass, her navel, her lips, her hair, her ears and her barely hidden thong.
He did this because by doing so, he reminded me that all these were his for the taking. He can have any woman he wants, whenever he wants her. He makes millions of dollars. Lives in a magical gated estate. I can’t and I don’t and I don’t. He wanted me to understand, that, yes, he was coming to me as a supplicant because he “wanted” my story, that I am a “genius,” but I should be ever mindful of the fact that he was still boss.
Once we had eaten, perhaps because the food had satiated something deep within his second chakra, he finished unveiling his plans for my short story. As the obsequious waiter scraped crumbs from the tablecloth, C.G. said that not only did he want to star in the film, he wanted to direct it. Dramatic pause. He gazed into me with all the charisma at his command.
I wouldn’t mind receiving a small pile of cash for the option, so I said, “Great! Let’s do this! I’m excited!” and we shook hands. He grinned brilliantly. We amiably stood and said our adieus. And then he added, “Oh, one last thing. When I told Elizabeth that we’d be having lunch today, she said to say hi.” A twinkle in his eye let me know he’d fucked my girl. Or could if he wished.
I returned his smirk (“Just us guys!”) and said, “Tell Elizabeth hi back from me.” But his cell phone was already out and he was talking to someone else about something very important as the door of the Mercedes was slapped shut by the chauffeur. I walked to the Village and grabbed the A train on 4th Street. On my way there, I decided I didn’t need a new car so badly. “C. G.” would not be getting my story.
As I entered my place, the phone was ringing. Leon wanted to know how the lunch had gone. I said it had gone well. He said he would sniff around, call C.G.’s agent. I said, “Keep me posted.” Which is my way of saying, “Whatever.” Maybe Leon knew about Elizabeth and this guy. Did he get a kick out of my discomfort? The whole deal was sick. The only revenge is to take the money. Take the money, take the money, take the money. Without pain, how would we ever know we were alive?
June 20, 2006
On the El Al flight to Tel Aviv, the cabin attendant was a tall, sturdy, unsmiling, dark-haired Jewess. About an hour in, she began to warm up to me. I assumed it was because of the charm I’d been projecting every time she brought me a drink. I fantasized a liaison under a Mediterranean moon.
Alas, it was not my charisma she’d been responding to. As it turned out, another flight attendant had let her know that I’ve been interviewed on TV by Charlie Ro
se. My dour stewardess began to pump me for inside info on Charlie. Was he fascinating? Was he sexy? Was he as good-looking in person? I told her Charlie played a mean game of squash implying that a) I played squash and b) I played squash with Charlie Rose. Neither of which was true. Perhaps I should have told her that my appearances on Charlie Rose were brokered by a publicist? That Charlie has never said more than two words to me backstage? That I’m not even sure he’s ever read one of my books? That every question he threw at me was written by one of his producers, culled from a “pre-interview” on the phone? No. I would not tell her any of that. But when she found out that I’d never been to Israel before, she gave me her phone number in Tel Aviv. Mission accomplished even though I won’t call her.
August 15, 1977
They caught the “Son of Sam” a few days ago. Serial killers interest me. I wonder if I could become one. It must require a great deal of discipline.
I’m trying to figure out if I’m a good lover or not. Not really sure. I think I have a good body and I have a lot of energy. I think I’m a good fuck, but I’m not sure if I can tell when a woman has an orgasm.
I hid a small tape recorder in my pocket and made a recording of John while we hung out two nights ago. I’ve been transcribing it. He was revisiting the world of castration:
Farinelli! Farinelli! Farinelli! The most famous of the illustrious castrati. The power of adult lungs forced through the vocal chords of a boy. The castrati, from the Latin word castrare meaning to prune (how great is that), were the most popular performers of their time and Farinelli was the greatest of the castrati. He was world-famous. Then Farinelli gave up public appearances and sang only for the k-k-k-king. Isn’t it interesting that royalty love eunuchs? Eunuch-dom is so special. The hole in the doughnut, when you think about it! Did you know that the Ethiopians castrated seven thousand Italian soldiers during a campaign in 1896? They went home minus their balls and believe you me, it was fucking hard recruiting a second team to go back there! Although despite what people think, a man doesn’t need the jewels to get an erection. No sir. You are surprised, young scholar, but it is true! Little known fact. Many of the castrati were the greatest lovers of their time!
Emasculation, now there’s a horse of another color. Definitely can’t get an erection if you don’t have a dick. Peter Abelard, did I ever tell you about this guy? Loved Heloise. One of the great love affairs of history. Unfortunately, she was the daughter of a church father back when shit like that really counted. So Heloise’s pop had old Peter’s peter snipped off. One of those middle-of-the-night operations. The thugs probably crawled through the window. Held the randy monk down. I bet he was conscious when they did it. Knives were very sharp in those days. Carbon steel, a formula perfected by the Chinese. No, stainless steel wouldn’t be invented for a couple of centuries. But carbon steel was always much sharper than stainless. Definitely could do the job.
But Abelard didn’t let de-penalation get him down. Guy was a major brain. See that’s the thing, in the old days, people just kept on moving, no matter what happened to ’em. Till they croaked. They took it for granted that their bodies were going to get scarred and wear out. All the more reason to do what you can, while you can.
Abelard was a relativist, which pissed off the church. But he was always looking for truth. Questioned shit constantly. So they labeled him a heretic. Condemned his ass. Maybe he was focused on the truth because he had no dick to distract him. Like that German artist Schwarzkogler who chopped his own dick off as part of a performance art thing. You know “performance art” young scholar? Now that’s what I call making art. Because by doing that, this Kraut really did something special. Know what I mean? He made a real name for himself.
Because who ever does anything really different? Not many of us. Not many. Once in b-b-b-b-blue moon you run into a bigamist. Or a cannibal. Cannibalism, now there’s a statement. Serial killing and eating human flesh, that’s existentialism. T hat’s performance art.
Kill someone else’s body and you’re really living. Because the body is all there is. Lose your body, lose your self. Chop off a finger, you’re still there. Ch-ch-ch-ch-chop off a hand, an arm. You’re still there. But kill the body, destroy the body, and the “you” doesn’t stand a chance. Take the body, stick it in a furnace, burn it to ashes, and there’s no more “you.” Eat it. The old you is inside the new you.
Right? So here we are, hanging out in these bodies. The body is a vehicle, a spaceship. Need the body. No body, you’re out of the game. In the old days, there were ghosts. But no one believes that anymore. And so it’s not true. Truth is belief. Belief is truth.
Herophilus of Chalcedon, this guy from the old late Roman Empire days, used to dissect corpses. He thought the soul was hanging out in the fourth ventricle of the brain. He would actually get hold of criminals while they were still alive and cut ’em up, trying to root out the soul. Trying to find it, you know?
Now you take Wilder Penfield, there was an MD who would crack open your skull and stick electrodes in there just to see the results. He’d mess around while a patient was still awake. Claimed that mucking with the gray matter cured epilepsy. And it did, even if you ended up a cauliflower for the rest of your life. Wilder was a brilliant guy. And no one said “no” to him because he was a scientist. A man of learning.
Then you’ve got your Dr. Cotton. He’d pull out your teeth, tear out your tonsils, chop out your stomach, spleen, extract a couple of yards of intestine. Considered it a kind of self-improvement program. Figured if he took out enough stuff, he’d get to the bottom of things. Most of his patients died, but he was venerable in his day.
And then those wild and crazy guys, Drs. Freeman and Watts. The lobotomy men. Drill a hole in your head, stick a swizzle stick right down in there, swish around the buttery brain. Did you know that the human brain has the consistency of warm butter? Swish, swish, swish. All the bad stuff is swished away. Ask Rosemary Kennedy. She’s still drooling on a porch somewhere. While they were hacking into her cerebrum, they had her sing “God Bless America”—but after a while, she stopped singing. Like HAL 9000. Veggie-time. For-ever.
Mengele, Sievers, Krebsbach, Kiesewetter—Nazis, each one worse than the other. Loved messing with the living body. What makes it tick? How does it work? Of course it’s only human nature to be curious. Like a six-year-old kid with the watch he got for his birthday. Takes it out to the backyard, smashes it with a rock just to see what’s inside. How it works. Oh, gee, it doesn’t work anymore! But now I can see inside! So it was worth it. Right? It’s just human nature to want to see inside. That’s what no one wants to admit.
Those patriotic eugenics guys sterilized tens of thousands down South. Legally. Poor people. White trash. Niggers. Jews. No one really knows how many. No one cares. Because in those days scientists thought you inherited poverty through your genes. “Planned Fuckin’ Parenthood” Margaret Sanger wanted to make sure those poor girls didn’t have too many babies. That’s what all that birth control was about. Bad genes. This guy Davenport, big deal at Harvard, said if you crossbreed a black with a white you’d get inferior genetics. That’s Harvard my friend and not even fifty years ago.
Everyone wants to know! So they eat the apple. Adam! Faust! They want to know as much as God. More! But listen to me, young scholar, you cannot know more than God! Still, everyone wants that. Because we’re curious. Because we need to know.
I ran out of tape. I have to write a story about John.
June 21, 2006
I am in Tel Aviv. Jet lag. The place is chock-a-block with Jews in identical polyester short-sleeve shirts, no suits or ties. These aren’t lox-chomping, New York Times–reading, twenty-thousand-dollar-a-pop Bar Mitzvah Jews, but Israelis. Mostly of Eastern European descent, some Russians. But they’ve been hanging out here in the desert for a long time. Not like us. Not like us at all.
These Israeli Jews are beetle-browed, hunched over and fuming, permanently defensive, simmering. Middle Eastern in eve
ry way. The whole place is in a never-ending state of war—physical, mental. Everything is on the verge of total chaos. Anything could happen at any moment. Everyone on red alert, not only to the potential harm to themselves but to everyone they love, to the buildings that house them, to the buses, the coffee shops, discos, to the existence of the race itself.
I am completely unprepared for the weather. The sunshine is resolute. I thought the Mediterranean would cool things down, but instead the steel gray sea throws off heat like a gigantic boiling cauldron, cooking even the air above us. They’ve lodged me at a miniature hotel with feeble air-conditioning that doesn’t cool the room. If I try to crank it, an aroma of mildew permeates. I’m two blocks from the beach, such as it is—not a beach for swimming but for noshing and sunbathing.
I went out for a stroll along the shoreline. This is where the young folk hang out. They cluster at the food stalls drinking freshly squeezed orange juice, munching fried fish, their backs turned against the flat, scentless sea. Nearby the U.S. embassy bristles like a massive citadel, looming over the lounging Israelis, not as a protector but as an unwelcome visitor. More a bunker than an embassy. What is in there? Torture cells? Electronic equipment? Filing cabinets filled with the state secrets? No one knows.
I ambled southward along the shore and ended up in Jaffa, the Arab quarter of the metropolis. In the market merchants sat listless and depressed. There was nothing interesting for sale. It was all dust-covered, worn, tarnished. I followed the ancient sea walls and fortifications northward. Very beautiful but it was hard to believe that in those limp unimpressive waves Jonah got swallowed by the whale. I guess I’ll get the historical vibrations when I get to Jerusalem.
In an alley, I found a falafel place filled with dark men sitting at laminated café tables. I ordered a small salad, hummus, pita bread and a Coke. No one seemed to give a shit about the stranger in their midst. Olives and Coke. This is Israel. As I left, I bought a box of baklava that turned out to be sodden and stale. I crammed it into an overflowing trash receptacle. I considered buying a pack of cigarettes. Probably not good for the heart.
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