Katie is going home to visit her folks in Minneapolis next week. I promised her no boozing and no hard drugs while she’s gone.
March 8, 1979
It is an amazing gift to have someone in your life you can actually communicate with. Katie was born a thousand miles away, but one way or another we’ve come to see the world in such similar ways. I’m not saying we don’t have disagreements, but usually when I disagree with someone, I know I’m right. With Katie, it’s not like that. She’s that smart.
And she’s so sweet to me now. Not neurotic. She brings out the best in me. When she smiles, I feel something light up deep within me. Can I use the word “love” here? We even talk about how we both love kids. I could imagine having children with this woman.
In a way, no matter whatever’s happened to me, I’ve always been alone. And I sense that Katie knows that feeling. It’s the solitude of the genuine individual. Sometimes she becomes very quiet. And I know that that quiet flows from a tremendous capacity for empathy. That she mourns the sadness of the world, of the ultimately impossible chasms between all of us.
She is a slim, delicate beauty. She is so wonderful to hold in my arms. I guess I love her because she is honest. I know that every gesture she makes means what it is supposed to mean. Who does that? No one.
We were talking about life and she said, “Life is not the big things. It is all the little things you don’t notice.” As I write this she is in the next room napping on the couch. I just put a blanket on her. I feel so protective of her and that’s good.
March 10, 1979
Someday I will look back at this day and I will realize that it was the best day of my life. I’m in love with Katie, I have money in my pocket, I’m writing the best stuff I’ve ever written, my whole future is in front of me. The sun is shining, the birds are singing outside my window and I’m sober. How great is that? She leaves tomorrow and I will miss her so much.
March 12, 1979
My new editor/publisher, Leon, copped tickets to a Broadway play because he’s already signed a book deal with the author, Tom Stoppard. I’m not really big on attending theater, but Leon promised we would get backstage and I’m always up for checking things out. Plus Tom Stoppard must be a cool guy.
The play was all right. About African politics. I wasn’t playing complete attention, because I was distracted by the actress playing the young wife.
Anyway, after the show Leon and I went backstage. Through all these doors and stairwells, to the green room where Stoppard was meeting his director. So we’re hanging out with Tom Stoppard, a nice man, a little distracted because I guess the New York previews weren’t going as well as the London shows went, and we’re talking about the book he’s going to write for Leon and then the actress playing the young wife, Elizabeth Joel, pops her head in, to say good night to Tom, she was going back to her apartment, had to rest her voice, etc. etc.
We all got introduced and the next thing I know I was shaking Ms. Joel’s hand and then the most amazing thing happened. She said, “You’re not the Richard Morris, are you?” I almost did one of those Marx Brothers routines and looked behind me to see who she was talking to.
Incredibly, this beautiful actress, Elizabeth Joel, has read my stories. And Elizabeth Joel loves my stories. She’s a writer herself. I told her I thought her acting was terrific and if her stories were halfway as good as her performance, then she should write a book, BLAH-BLAH-BLAH.
We agreed to call one another to discuss “our work.” All this actually happened. This is not a dream. I made a date with Elizabeth Joel. Broadway star. And the way she smiled at me, it’s going to be more than that, I can feel it.
We’re going to see each other tomorrow night after her performance. Called Katie in Minneapolis. Told her I was being good—no drinking, no drugging. Didn’t tell her about Elizabeth Joel.
March 22, 1979
Elizabeth and I have spent the last five days together. The most intense experience of my life. I’m not sure I can describe it here. I will have to write a story about it. We’re talking on the phone every night. This is the brilliant relationship I’ve always dreamed of. We are both fully realized artists and we have each other and so we don’t just fuck each other’s bodies, we fuck each other’s minds.
The book is selling really well now. Just got a check for at least three thousand dollars! Blake is negotiating options on two stories to be made into movies. And Leon makes sure I get to at least one party a week to meet people. He’s introduced me to the writing of Paul Bowles and gave me a signed edition of Norman Mailer’s Advertisements for Myself.
Elizabeth insists I come out to L.A. at some point and spend some time with her there. She’s going to buy a little place in Topanga Canyon. (She has a huge movie coming out.) She says I can write there. P.S. She loves Gravity’s Rainbow.
It’s all happening. Just not the way I expected it.
Katie returned from Minneapolis and I had to be honest with her. We said goodbye on the sidewalk outside her apartment. Tearful. Very fucked up, but inevitable. I’m going to miss her. The truth is she was never comfortable with my success and that was always going to be a problem. Also, to be honest, she was too sober for me. Different styles.
January 15, 2007
I could work harder at being a good person. I know this. There have even been times when I’ve pulled it off. And what happens? I disappoint. I fall short. Oh, yes, they all complain when I jab and spit, but when I don’t, there’s nothing to talk about, nothing to engage. My duty in my life is to exist as an unsolvable problem. Because I am an artist and that is the artist’s job. It’s not an easy job, but if the artist doesn’t do it, who will? To acquiesce to the conventional morality is to be a well-balanced, “nice” person. What is that but a form of cowardice? It takes courage to press on and fight the good fight. Say what has to be said, damn the torpedoes, damn the feelings of others, damn the impression you make, etc. The ultimate goal is to tell the truth. This is what I do. Personally, privately, publicly, all of it. And so I am alone. I know this is the price I must pay for being honest about my heart and my brain and my cock.
I am honest about what I want. I’m not going to make a convoluted, spineless run at your affection: “I’ll be nice to you if you’re nice to me.” What crap. Crap, crap, crap.
And so this kid Theo walks into my life. Lovely, vibrant, eager, ambitious, handsome, obnoxious, self-involved Theo. He made a decision to visit the lion in his den. Thought the lion would help him out. No, Theo. Lions don’t give aid, they watch the young and helpless pups with apparent disinterest. Then they eat them.
What did Theo think I was going to do? Make introductions to editors and publishers and all my buddies? But, Theo, it’s your fight. You break down the doors on your own, just as I did. No one did it for me. I’m not doing it for you.
I see it in your eyes. The rapacious hunger for what belongs to me, for my achievement. But, Theo, you can’t just walk up to me and take it. It’s mine.
You buttered me up. Flattered me. You memorized all my books. Perhaps to imitate me. And perhaps you will succeed with your imitation, perhaps you will be lauded for your imitation. Receive a grant or two. Maybe an award! A critic will marvel at your insightful and slick style. (Because the critics can only recognize the derrière-garde.)
But, Theo, it’s not just about being a “good writer.” That will get you nowhere. You must go much deeper. You must scapel your flesh, dig out your own bones, sharpen them on the stones of disappointment, strop them on anger until they’re keen as quills, then dip them in your own pain-thickened blood. Then you can go to work. Awkwardly and publicly. With no guarantees. And that’s how one makes one’s way, “young scholar.”
You will have to get angry, stay angry, at society, at the world, at the rich and the poor, the politicians and the academy, and me, for years, to find your way. This is what you need and what your work needs. And still, it may not come. Without anger, you cannot be a great artist
.
January 18, 2007
Been a warm winter, turned very cold in recent days. I keep the fire roaring in the fireplace. Those boring old journals make for great kindling.
Very dry, they blaze with crackling enthusiasm. It may take the rest of the winter to burn them all.
I like these days. Serene. Getting reading done. Much writing.
A few months ago, I was so alone, so abandoned. No friends. No family I could love. Even my editor wouldn’t return my calls. My girlfriend had left me. Now I have a second wind. Sarah’s back, nourishing me with her vigor and soft skin. Leon and I have a new understanding. The doctor says my heart is almost back to normal. Even good old Dad is stable. He promises me he’s got at least ten more years!
The house is warm. The wine is good. I sit by the window watching the chickadees out by the feeder. Here comes the squirrel to steal the sunflower seeds. The phone rings. Stops. Rings again. I know it’s you, Theo. And I’m not picking up.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Eric Bogosian is the author of the novels Wasted Beauty and Mall; and the plays Talk Radio (a Pulitzer finalist), subUrbia and Griller and the Obie Award-winning solo performances Drinking in America, Pounding Nails in the Floor with My Forehead and Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll. He is the recipient of the Berlin Film Festival Silver Bear Award, a Drama Desk Award, and two NEA fellowships. He has appeared in more than a dozen feature films and television shows. Bogosian lives in New York City.
Perforated Heart Page 27