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  pays substantially more.

  * * * *

  February 21, 1978

  29

  Spent my first working day on the job and it was a breeze. It could

  get difficult in the future maybe, but I don’t see how. It is abundantly

  clear that nobody ever died from overwork in the employ of the State

  of Oregon.

  * * * *

  February 22, 1978

  I have decided after day two that this new job stinks. But I don’t

  hate it as much as I hated my previous jobs. Last night I got back to

  work on the book again.

  Finally. Deep into the drug freak out segment. Seemed sort of dull

  this time around so I’m punching it up with some colorful new

  hallucinations.

  Now it’s much more readable.

  I’m having a great time.

  Went down to the ocean this evening. Looking out over the water

  was hard because it was so goddamned beautiful it damn near broke

  my heart. The sun went down in a big orange blaze, swallowed up by

  the deep blue drink. I stayed long enough on the absolutely deserted

  beach to take a leak and then left. It was really gorgeous. The sunset,

  I mean.

  I think I might like this beach town. Everything seems to be going

  good. Have even found a halfway decent laundromat.

  * * * *

  February 25, 1978

  Finished my first week on the job here yesterday. It wasn’t too bad.

  I don’t think I’ll have any problems. Definitely the best part about my

  job, however, is my desk partner, Megan Bauer.

  Oh, my heavens. She’s this tall, shapely blond they hired the same

  day as they hired me. Yikes. She is exquisitely beautiful, in my

  opinion. Long hair, blue eyes, an absolutely perfect body, slender,

  graceful, and smart as a whip.

  Friday night after work we drove over to the viewpoint that

  overlooks the North Jetty. We got stoned and talked. Megan likes to

  talk and loves to laugh. I was just cracking her up. We are going to

  get along very well together, I can tell.

  30

  As it happens, Megan’s done this job before, in West Eugene. She

  knows the ins and outs of assistance work and shares them all with

  me.

  She’s extremely funny and reads even more than I do. Very

  intellectual for a beautiful blond. Exceptionally unusual. You can’t

  fake the kind of literary knowledge Megan has.

  Too bad she’s married.

  Rain fell all through the night. I skipped dinner after I got stoned

  with Megan and went to bed early. Had a long, tiring week. Did not

  write hardly at all.

  Before retiring, I read some comic books and my Jerry Rubin book

  We Are Everywhere. Also verified that Eldridge Cleaver quote I had

  been wondering about. He’s the one who coined the slogan "If you’re

  not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem." Cleaver’s a

  genius, in my opinion.

  Soul On Ice I fucking love.

  Today I get back to work on my book in earnest.

  Woke up this morning about 9:00. Stayed in bed, thinking about

  Polly. Wondering why I still want her after all the shit that’s

  happened. I’m glad I moved here for a vast number of reasons, not

  the least of which is to show how easy it is to pick up and go. When

  we are young we can do anything.

  If I could, I would forget about Polly and find another woman to

  love. But it’s not like I haven’t tried. Checked out numerous

  potential replacements while I lived in Portland.

  Sorry to say, the scene was incredibly dismal. By and large, the

  educated unmarried women in my bracket fall into two categories –

  the desperate and the ultra-desperate. Rooming with Chesley was a

  gigantic eye-opener. He’s conducting an all out search for the perfect

  wife. His usual gung-ho approach. It’s pathetic and I have pointed

  this out to him many times. Still, he persists. He says that by

  constantly hunting he’s sure to find someone. I am more reticent by

  far.

  I told him that by going about it the way he is going about it he is

  sure to find someone lousy. More than once I said why not just

  31

  concentrate on your career and let the romance thing take care of

  itself?

  Chesley replied that such a strategy was not "pro-active" enough to

  suit him. Apparently, I am the only one who can see that his efforts

  are doomed to miserable failure.

  Meanwhile, living with him, I was also continually exposed to an

  endless parade of marriage-minded, baby-craving women. He

  dragged all sorts of them through our house at 3024 SE 25th Street.

  Goddamn, what a fucking mob! We hosted two major house parties

  and a variety of smaller affairs. Chesley made contacts, answered

  personal ads, signed up for dating services, and went on dates (blind

  and otherwise) by the score. He joined the Y, the tennis club, and

  even started going to temple again. The boy left no stone unturned.

  Chesley’s dates invariably had single female friends, best

  girlfriends, unattached work friends, and sundry available women of

  all stripes lurking around As Chesley’s roommate, I was constantly

  sized for my dating and/or marriage potential. The goddamn fucking

  phone rang day and night.

  Women, women, women! Do they not realize how painfully

  obvious they are? Eeoowww! Our place was like the Pendleton

  fucking Round Up. If just one of those dames had shown a touch of

  class, I might have been intrigued.

  Alas, none did.

  In truth, I grew very tired of fending off their crude advances.

  Seemingly none were interested in books, politics, art, or issues in

  general. They only had one thing on their minds: Marriage. After a

  while I started derisively calling his dates "Nesters."

  Chesley said it was a terrible expression and then started to use it

  himself.

  "Got me a date with a Nester tonight," Chesley would say. "She

  has very big bazooms."

  Later: I’ve delved into the new Chapter 23 quite deeply. I really

  want to finish it up today so I can keep moving along.

  Finally, I have time to write. My service as Chesley’s social

  secretary is herewith terminated. I kinda feel bad about leaving him

  32

  in the lurch. Ever since Karen Hall dumped him two years ago, he’s

  shown abysmal judgment about women.

  I mean horribly bad. He seemed to like having me around to

  bounce opinions off of. I’ve gone out of my way not to be critical, but

  left to his own devices, I’m afraid Chesley’s likely to commit a huge

  blunder. For some unfathomable reason he is mainly attracted to this

  sick-minded slattern type of chick who only wants to marry him for

  his money.

  What Chesley really needs is another Karen Hall but such

  extraordinary women are truly rare. What a fool he was to screw that

  romance up.

  Ah well. I should talk. My blunders are likewise legendary.

  However, should Chesley should luck out and find a woman as classy

  as Karen again I am pretty sure he won’t treat her like shit this time

  around.


  * * * *

  February 26, 1978

  Just finished the new Chapter 23 and Jeeziz Keerist is it ever good!

  It’s perfect. Had me in stitches. I’ve read it through twice now and I

  really love it. How is that for humility? Writers are so fucking vain, I

  gotta admit. Writing amuses me no end.

  You should read it, though. It’s so weird. Five high voltage pages

  of totally wacky stuff. Not like anything I have ever read before. I

  can’t take anything seriously, you know. My method is not to reveal

  all, just the worst and stupidest stuff. Solitude is excellent for literary

  production.

  All I do is work, eat, sleep, and write. I love it.

  Ran out of money today. Spent my last pocket change on a pack of

  cigarettes. What a stupid fucking habit. This has to be my last pack.

  I’m nearly out of marijuana, too. Bummer.

  On the hand, not a single shot of booze have I had since last

  Thursday. Of course, I know exactly what I need to abstain from

  continual self abuse via dope, booze, and cigarettes. The essential

  missing element: Feminine companionship.

  33

  At last, I am up to page 65. I am also very tired for some reason.

  Perhaps because it is 2:30 in the morning and I have been working for

  nineteen hours straight.

  I shall dream about my VW bus as my eyelids close in the sweet

  repose of sleep. Like hell I will.

  * * * *

  February 27, 1978

  Wrote another note to Polly Ellsworth this evening. More like a

  change of address than anything else. I called Chesley and he said I

  had no mail except an overdraft notice from the bank.

  So she has not written. This missive may catch her off guard. I

  wonder if she can read my own desperation between the lines.

  Oh, I am a fucking basket case!

  Chesley will move from our house on 25th Street tomorrow. He

  says he is just going to mail in the key to the landlord. I will do the

  same. Mrs. Bonome never did anything except raise the rent and

  ignore our requests for repairs. Fuck her. I’m sick and tired of

  kissing the ass of landlords.

  What I need is a place of my own. Maybe something down here

  would be a good idea. A little property at the coast might make a nice

  investment.

  We will see how things work out.

  The job is okay. Megan is dynamite. Have mercy. She wore this

  rather tight fitting white blouse today that showed off her upper body

  to exceptionally good advantage, I must say. Her husband Mark took

  her to lunch this afternoon and I met him for the first time. It was

  really strange. He bears an uncanny physical resemblance to Polly’s

  old boyfriend Blane.

  Short and stocky, with a heavy dark beard.

  It was so weird. Mark is practically identical to Blane from what I

  can gather, right down to the odd mannerisms and the heavy drinking.

  Put them together and you might say they were peas in pod. I think

  maybe it’s a type.

  I get paid this week. Yippee! I really need the money. My abrupt

  departure from Cyanide City cost me a pretty penny.

  34

  From now on though, I should be able to start socking some money

  away. I am so sick of being broke.

  I feel good. So far, things are going well, as well as can be

  expected. Barring some unforeseen disaster, I may be on a roll.

  Eventually the ruthless implacable universe will grind me to dust but

  for the moment I’m okay.

  * * * *

  February 28, 1978

  Last day of the month. I get paid at work tomorrow and I must

  dispatch $100 to Portland immediately. That should cover my debts

  there. Nothing is ever easy.

  I plan to write some letters tonight. First I will write to Mick. He

  is so far away in Africa. Then I may write to ... hmmm.

  Actually, there is no one else to write to.

  Asked for my original typescript of The Dark City back. I want it

  soon, so I laid it on thick.

  * * * *

  March 3, 1978

  A long, long week on the welfare line. Megan and me were

  incredibly busy all week, with people coming and going. More than

  once I really had to hustle my ass. But I think I’ll do fine here, I

  really do. Work doesn’t look too strenuous. Maybe I’ll do it for a

  year or so before I go on to something else. Mainly what I want is for

  my day job not to interfere with my literary aspirations.

  Not very long ago I used to listen closely when people put me down

  or ridiculed my ideas. Most of the time, I went along with them. I

  had no self-confidence and was raised by people who gave their

  children next to zero in the way of praise.

  I am putting all that behind me. Other people know nothing more

  than I do. I am beginning to realize the basic point they all want to

  put across is that they are smart and you are stupid. At last I have

  discovered that if they have more success than I do, it is usually

  because they have more built-in advantages, not more ability. From

  now on, I say to hell with the snipers, some of whom pretend to be my

  friends.

  35

  There’s this Mark Twain quote that covers it all:

  "Avoid people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people

  always do that. But the really great make you feel like you too, can

  become great."

  My co-worker Megan isn’t like that, thank heavens. She’s one

  smart cookie, that’s what she is. When Megan found out I was a

  writer, she was very encouraging. She is also beautiful as hell and

  loves to laugh.

  Finished Chap. 26 on the rewrite finally. Sent letters to Mick and

  John Thomas. Also sent a letter to Seattle asking for my original copy

  back from Annie. I need it for study and historical purposes. There is

  stuff in it I don’t have in my current copy.

  In three months I have completed nearly 75 pages of fresh

  manuscript. I believe the new stuff is a vast improvement over the old

  and will only require light revision in the next draft.

  I fucking love to write. But I would also love to be an artist like

  Charles R. Unfortunately, I could never draw good enough. Polly

  Ellsworth was also very gifted with her artwork and could easily have

  been a professional, in my opinion.

  The only problem there was that she was far too hardheaded to see

  any value in art.

  It’s too bad because there are hardly any women professional

  cartoonists. I think the field is wide open for a good one.

  As far as writing goes, the best part for me is seeing a project

  through to completion. That’s the most important litmus test at my

  level. Can I crank the pages out or can’t I?

  Do it, don’t dream it.

  Sometimes the total commitment thing is a real drag and I just want

  to quit. But I know I will finish, and the prospect makes me feel

  kinda giddy.

  Maybe I’ll even get lucky with a publisher.

  Story Titles – Sensation Stories, Obsessive Love, Domestic

  Partners, Swoon, Pure Sleaze, Slam Dance, A Military History of the

  Japanese Empire Since 1905, The Girl And The Boy,
The Manly Arts,

  36

  The Word "Ixnay" And Its Potential Permutations, The Buns of

  August, This Dark Dream, Hovercraft.

  This journal is a sweet sad love song. I’m writing for you, my

  darling, whomever you are and wherever you may be. I dream of

  lying beside you on soft, summer nights, caressing your silken body

  before we fall asleep.

  * * * *

  March 4, 1978

  At long last a communication from Ms. Ellsworth arrived today. I

  find it hard to respond unemotionally so I will try out some sentences

  to see how they look.

  Probably this is what I should have expected. Her words sound like

  the words of a drab, self-centered smartass leading a drab, self-

  centered life.

  Polly comes across as one of those women who trade life for

  existence and security over love. She wants to be unpleasant and so

  she is, like that horrible bitchy Yvonne dame Chesley dated up in

  Portland last year.

  I personally believe in Ms. Ellsworth and think she’s great, but who

  the fuck listens to me? Too many of these young women have no

  confidence in themselves or their abilities. It is a cold, depressing

  world they inhabit. To be honest. she sounds even worse off than I

  am.

  No red hot love. Instead, a plateful of cold leftovers.

  I can close the book on this one, I’m afraid. Send the record back

  to the file room. But there is also much in what she said that surprised

  me. Get this:

  Polly confessed to having done a recon mission on our house after

  Thanksgiving last year. Dammit! I knew it!

  She cruised by our place on SE 25th Street late one night after the

  holiday, she said. Couldn’t bring herself to come in and say hello. At

  the time, her sister Peggy was living seven blocks away from us on SE

  32nd Street.

  Polly didn’t stop to see me, she says, because I scare the "Asshole

  Motherfucking Piece of Shit Hell" out of her.

  37

  An exact quote.

  Really? I think I can pretty much guess why Polly couldn’t bring

  herself to knock on the door. She knows just as well as I do what

  would have happened.

  If she had stopped, she probably would not have emerged until

  about four days later, with us as a never-again-to-be-split-asunder