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emptied. Probably dead. I used to drink 15 hours a day but it was mostly
beer and wine. I ought to be dead. I will be dead. Not bad, thinking about
that. I've had a weird and wooly existence, much of it awful, total
drudgery. But I think it was the way I rammed myself through the shit that
made the difference. Looking back now, I think I exhibited a certain amount
of cool and class no matter what was happening. I remember how the FBI guys
got pissed driving me along in that car. "HEY, THIS GUY'S PRETTY COOL!" one
of them yelled angrily. I hadn't asked what I had been picked up for or
where we were going. It just didn't matter to me. Just another slice out of
the senselessness of life. "NOW WAIT," I told them. "I'm scared." That
seemed to make them feel better. To me, they were like creatures from outer
space. We couldn't relate to each other. But it was strange. I felt nothing.
Well, it wasn't exactly strange to me, I mean it was strange in the ordinary
sense. I just saw hands and feet and heads. They had their minds made up
about something, it was up to them. I wasn't looking for justice and logic.
I never have. Maybe that's why I never wrote any social protest stuff. To
me, the whole structure would never make sense no matter what they did with
it. you really can't make something good out of something that isn't there.
Those guys wanted me to show fear, they were used to that. I was just
disgusted.
Now here I am going to a computer class. But it's all for the better,
to play with words, my only toy. Just musing there tonight. The classical
music on the radio is not too good. I think I'll shut down and go sit with
the wife and cats for a while. Never push, never force the word. Hell,
there's no contest and certainly very little competition. Very little.
10/14/91 12:47 PM
Of course, there are some strange types at the racetrack. There's one
fellow who's out there almost every day. He never seems to win a race. After
each race he screams in dismay about the horse that won. "IT'S A PIECE OF
SHIT!" he will scream. And then go on shouting about how the horse never
should have won. A good 5 minutes worth. Often the horse will read 5 to 2
and 3 to 1, 7 to 2. Now a horse like that must show something or the odds
would be much higher. But to this gentleman it just doesn't make sense. And
don't let him lose a photo finish. He really comes on with it then. "FUCK
THE GOD IN THE FACE! HE CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!" I have no idea why he isn't
barred from the track.
I asked another fellow once, "Listen, how does this guy make it?" I'd
seen him talking to him at times.
"He borrows money," he told me.
"But doesn't he run out of lenders?"
"He finds new ones. You know his favorite expression?"
"No."
"When does the bank open in the morning?"
I guess he just wants to be at the racetrack, somehow, just to be
there. It means something to him even if he continues to lose. It's a place
to be. A mad dream. But it's boring there. A groggy place. Everybody
thinking that they alone know the angle. Dumb lost egos. I'm one of those.
Only it's a hobby for me. I think. I hope. But there is something there, if
only in a short time frame, very short, a flash, like when my horse is in
the run and then it does it. I see it happening. There is a high, a lift.
Life becomes almost sensible when the horses do your bidding. But the spaces
in between are very flat. People standing about. Most of them losers. They
begin to look dry as dust. They are sucked dry. Yet, you know, when I force
myself to stay home I begin to feel very listless, sick, useless. It's
strange. The nights are always all right, I type at night. But the days have
to gotten rid of. I'm sick too in a way. I am not facing reality. But who
the hell wants to?
It reminds me of when I stayed in this Philadelhia bar from 5 a.m.
until 2 a.m. It seemed the only place I could be. Often I didn't even
remember going to my room and coming back. I seemed always on that bar
stool. I was evading the realities, I didn't like them.
Maybe for this fellow the racetrack was like the bar was for me?
All right, you tell me something useful. Be a lawyer? A doctor? A
congressman? That's crap too. They think it isn't crap but it is. They are
locked into a system and they can't get out. And almost everybody is not
very good at what hey do. It doesn't matter, they are in the safe cocoon.
It got kind of funny out there one day. I'm speaking of the racetrack
again.
The Crazy Screamer was there as usual. But there was another fellow,
you could see that there was something wrong with his eyes. They looked
angry. He was standing near the Screamer and listening. Then he listened to
the Screamer's predictions for the next race. The Screamer was good that
way. And evidently Angry Eyes was betting the Screamer's tips.
The day wore on. I was coming out of the men's room and then I saw and
heard it. Angry Eyes was yelling at the Screamer, "God-damn you, shut up!
I'm going to kill you!" The Screamer turned his back and walked off saying,
"Please... Please..." in a very weary and disgusted manner. Angry Eyes
followed him: "YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"
Security arrived and intercepted Angry Eyes and led him off. Evidently
death at the racetrack was not to be condoned.
Poor Screamer. He was quiet the remainder of the day. But he stayed the
full card. Gambling, of course can eat you alive.
I had a girlfriend once who said, "You're really in bad shape, you go
to both Alcoholics Anonymous and Gamblers Anonymous at the same time." But
she really didn't mind either of those things unless they interfered with
bed exercises. Then she hated them.
I remember a friend of mine who was a total gambler. He told me once,
"I don't care if I win or lose, I just want to gamble."
I'm not that way, I've been on Starvation Row too many times. Not
having any money at all has the slightest tinge of Romanticism when you are
very young.
Anyway, the Screamer was out there again the next day. Same thing: he
railed against the results of each race. Think of this. It's a very hard
thing to do. I mean, even if you know nothing, you can just take a number,
any number, say 3. You can bet 3 for 2 or 3 days and you are bound to
finally get a winner. But not this fellow. He is a marvel. He knows all
about horses, fractional times, track variants, pace, class, etc. but he
still manages only to pick losers. Think of it. Then forget it or it will
drive you crazy.
I picked up $275 today. I started playing the horses late, when I was
35. I've been at them for 36 years and I figure they still owe me $5,000.
Should the gods allow me 8 or 9 more ears I die even.
Now that's a goal worth shooting for, don't you think?
Huh?
10/15/91 12:55 AM
Burned out. A couple night of drinking this week. Got to admit I don't
recover as fast as I used to. Best thing about being tired is that you don't
come out (in the writing) with any wild and dizzy proclamations. Not that
that is bad unless it becomes habitual. The first thing writing should do is
save your own ass. If it does this, then it will be automatically juicy,
entertaining.
Writer I know is phoning people telling them that he types 5 hours a
night. I imagine that we are supposed to marvel at this. Of course, do I
have to tell you? What matters is what he is typing. I wonder if he counts
his telephone time as part of this 5 hours of typing?
I can type from one to 4 hours but the 4th hour, somehow, tapers away
into almost nothing. Knew a guy once who told me, "We fucked all night."
It's not the same fellow who types 5 hours a night. But they've meet each
other. Maybe they ought to take turns, switch off. The guy who typed 5 hours
get to fuck all night and the guy who fucked all night gets to type 5 hours.
Or maybe they can fuck each other while somebody else types. Not me, please.
Have the woman do it. If there is one...
Hmmm.. you know, I am feeling somewhat goofy tonight. I keep thinking
of Maxim Gorky. Why? I don't know. Somehow it seems as if Gorky never really
existed. Some writers you can believe were there. Like Turgenev or D.H.
Lawrence. Hemingway appears to me to half-and-half. He was really there but
he wasn't. But Gorky? He did write some strong thigs. Before the Revolution.
Then after the Revolution his writing began to pale. He didn't have much to
bitch about. It's like the anti- war protesters, they need a war in order to
thrive. There are some who make good living protesting against war. And when
there isn't a was they don't know what to do. Like during the Gulf War there
was group of writers, poets, they had planned a huge anti-war protest, they
were ready with thei poems and speeches. Suddenly the war was over. And the
protest was scheduled for a week later. But they didn't call it off. They
went ahead with it anyway. Because they wanted to be on stage. They needed
it. It was something like an Indian doing a Rain Dance. I myself am anti-
war. I was anti-war long ago when it wasn't even a popular, decent and
intellectual thing. But I am suspect of the courage and motivations of many
of the professional anti-war protesters. From Gorky to this, what? Let the
mind roll, who cares?
Another good day at the track. Don't worry, I'm not winning all the
money. I usually bet $10 or $20 to win or when it really looks good to me,
I'll go $40.
The racetracks further confuse the people. They have 2 fellows on tv
before each race and they talk about who they think will win. They show a
net loss on each meet. As do all the public handicapppers, tout sheets and
race betting services. Even computers can't figure the nags matter how much
info is fed into them. Any time you pay somebody to tell you what to do you
are going to be a loser. And this includes your psychiatrist, your
psychologist, your broker, your workshop teacher and your etc.
There is nothing that teaches you more than regrouping after failure
and moving on. Yet most people are stricken with fear. They fear failure so
much that they fail. They are too conditioned, too used to being told what
to do. It begins with the family, runs through school and goes into the
business world.
You see here, I have a couple of good days at the track and suddenly I
know everything.
There is a door open into the night and I am sitting here freezing but
I won't get up and close the door because these words are running away with
me and I like that too much to stop. But damn it, I will. I'll get up and
close the door and take a piss.
There, I did it. Both of those things. I even put on a sweater. Old
writer pust on sweater, sits down, leers into computer screen and writes
about life. How holy can we get? And Christ, did you ever wonder how much
piss a man pisses in a lifetime? How much he eats, shits? Tons. Horrible.
It's best we die and get out of here, we are poisoning everything with what
we expel. Damn the dancing girls, they do it too.
No horses tomorrow. Tuesday is an off day.
I think I'll go downstairs and sit with my wife, look at some dumb tv.
I'm either at the track or at this machine. Maybe she's glad of it. Hope so.
Well, here I go. I'm a good guy, you know? Down the stairs. It must be
strange living with me. It's strange to me.
Good night.
10/20/91 12:18 AM
This is one of those nights where there is nothing. Imagine being
always like this. Scooped-out. Listless. No light. No dance. Not even any
disgust.
This way, one doesn't even have the good sense to commit suicide. The
thought doesn't occur.
Get up. Scratch yourself. Drink some water.
I feel like a mongrel dog in July, only it's October.
Still, I've had a good year. Masses of pages sit it the bookcase behind
me. Written since Jan. 18. It's like a madman was turned loose. No sane man
would write that many pages. It's a sickness.
This year has also been good because I've held back on visitors, more
than ever before. I was tricked once though. Some man wrote me from London,
said he had taught in Soweto. And when he had read his students some
Bukowski many of them had shown a real interest. Black African kids. I liked
that. I always like happening from a distance. Later on this man wrote me
that he worked for the Guardian and that he'd like to come by and interview
me. He asked for my phone number, via mail, and I gave it to him. He phoned
me. Sounded all right. We set a date and time and he was on his way. The
night and time arrived and there he was. Linda and I set him up with wine
and he began. The interview seemed all right, only a little off- hand, odd.
He would ask a question, I would answer it and he would begin talking about
some experience he had had, relating more or less to the question and the
answer I had given. The wine kept pouring and the interview was over. We
drank on and he talked about Africa, etc. His accent began changing,
alterning, getting, I think, grosser. And he seemed to be getting more and
more stupid. He was metamorphosing right in front of us. He got onto sex and
stayed there. He liked black girls. I said that we didn't know many, but
that Linda had a friend who was a Mexican girl. That did it. He had to meet
this Mexican girl. It was a must. We said, well, we didn't know. He kept on
and on. We were drinking good wine but his mind acted as if it had been
blasted by whiskey. Soon it just got down to "Mexican... Mexican... where is
this Mexican girl?" he had dissolved completely. He was just a sloppy
senseless barroom drunk. I told that the night was over. I had to make the
track the next day. We moved him toward the door. "Mexican, Mexican...," he
said.
"You will send us a copy of the interview, yes?" I asked.
"Of course, of course," he said. "Mexican..."
We closed the door and he was gone.
Then we had to drink to rid him from our minds.
That was months ago. No article ever arrived. He had nothing to do with
the Guardian. I don't know if he really phoned from London. He was probably
phoning from Long Beach. People use the ruse of interview to get in the
door. And since there is usually no payment for an interview, anybody can up
and knock on the door with a tape recorder and a list of questions. A fellow
with a German accent came by one night with his recorder. He made claim to
belonging to some German publication that had circulation of millions. He
stayed for hours. His questions seemed dumb but I opened up, tried to make
it lively and good. He must have gotten 3 hours worth of tape. We drank and
drank and drank. Soon his head was falling forward. We drank him under the
table and were ready to go further. Really have a ball. His head bent
forward on his chest. Little driblets ran out of the corners of his mouth. I
shook him. "Hey! Hey! Wake up!" He came around and looked at me. "I have got
to tell you something," he said, "I am no interviewer, I just wanted to come
and see you."
There have been times when I was a sucker for photographers too. They
claim connections, send samples of their work. They come by with their
screens and their backgrounds and their flashes and their assistants. You
never hear from them again either. I mean, they never send back any
photographs. Not any. They are the greatest liars. "I'll send you a complete
set." On man said, "I am going to send you one that will be full size."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "I'm going to send you a 6 by 4 foot photo."
That was a couple of years ago.
I've always said, a writer's job is to write. If I get burned by these
fakes and sons-of-bitches, it's my fault. I'm done with them all. Let them
toady up to Elizabeth Taylor.
10/22/91 4:46 PM
The dangerous life. Had to get up at 8 a.m. to feed the cats because
the Westec Security man was coming by at 8:30 a.m. to begin the installation
of a more sophisticated warning system. (Am I the one who used to sleep on
top of garbage cans?)
Westec Security arrived at exactly 8:30 a.m. A good sign. I took him
around the house pointing out windows, doors, etc. Good, good. We would wire
them, we would install glass- breaking detectors, low beams, cross beams,
fire sprinklers, etc. Linda came down and asked some questions. She is
better at that than I.
I had one thought: "How long will this take?"
"Three days," he said.
"Jesus Christ," I said. (Two of those days the racetrack would be
closed.)
So we fumbled around and left him in there, told him we'd be back soon.
We had a $100 gift certificate at I. Magnin's somebody had given us for our
wedding anniversary. Also, I had a royalty check to deposit. So, off to the
bank. I signed the check.
"I really like your signature," the girl said.
Another girl walked over and looked at the signature.
"His signature keeps changing," said Linda.
"I have to keep signing my name in books," I said.
"He's a writer," Linda said.
"Really? What do you write?" one of the girls asked.
"Tell her," I said to Linda.
"He writes poems, short stories and novels," she said.
"And a screenplay," I said. "Barfly."
"Oh," smiled one of the girls, "I saw it."
"Did you like it?"
"Yes," she smiled.
"Thank you," I said.
Then we turned and walked off.
"I heard one of the girls say as we walked in, "I know who that is,"
said Linda.
See? We were famous. We got into the car and drove over to the shopping
center to get something to eat near I. Magnin's.
We got a table, had turkey sandwiches, apple juice and cappuccinos.
From the table we could see a goodly portion of the mall. The place was
virtually empty. Business was bad. Well, we had a hundred dollar coupon to
blow. We'd help the economy.
I was the only man there. Just women sat at the tables, alone, or in
twos. The men were elsewhere. I didn't mind. I felt safe with the ladies. I
was resting. My wounds were healing. I could stand a little shade. Damned if
I could leap off of cliffs forever. Maybe after a respite I could dive over
the edge again. Maybe.
We finished eating and went over to I. Magnin's.
I needed shirts. I looked at thirts. Couldn't find a damned one. They
looked like they had been designed by half- wit. I passed. Linda needed a
purse. She found one, marked down 50%. It was $395. It just didn't look like
$395. More like $49.50. She passed. There were 2 chairs with elephant heads
on the backs. Nice. But they were thousands. There was a glass bird, nice,
$75 but Linda said we had no plae to put it. Same with the fish with blue
stripes. I was getting tired. Looking at things made me tired. Department
stores wore me down and stamped on me. There was nothing in them. Tons and
tons of crap. If it were free, I wouldn't take it. Don't they ever sell
anything likeable?
We decided maybe another day. We went to a bookstore. I needed a book
on my computer. I needed to know more. Found a book. Went to the clerk. He
tabbed it up. I paid with a card. "Thank you," he said, "would you be good
enough to sign this?" He handed me my lastest book. There, I was famous.
Noticed twice in the same day. Twice was enough. Three times or more and you
were in trouble. The gods were making it just right for me. I asked his
name, wrote it in, scribbled something, my name and a drawing.
We stopped at the computer store on the way in. I needed paper for the
laser printer. They didn't have any. I showed my fist to the clerk. Made me
think of the old days. He recommended a place. We found it on the way in. We
found everything there, cut-rate. I got enough laser pape to last two years
and likewise mailing envelopes, pens, paper clips. Now, all I had to do was
write.
We drove on in. The security man had left. The tile man had come and
gone. He left a note, "I will be back by 4 p.m." We knew the tile man
wouldn't be bak at 4 p.m. He was crazy. Bad childhood. Very confused. But
good with tiles.
I packed the stuff upstairs. I was ready. I was famous. I was a writer.
I sat down and opened the computer. I opened it to STUPID GAMES. Then I
started playing Tao. I was getting better and better at it. I seldom lost to
the computer. It was easier than beating the horses but somehow not as
fulfilling. Well, I'd be back Wednesday. Playing the horses tightened up my
screws. It was part of the scheme. It worked. And I had 5,000 sheets of
laser paper to fill.
10/31/91 12:27 AM
Terrible day at the racetrack, not so much in money lost, I may even
have won a bob, but the feeling out there was horrible. Nothing was
stirring. It was as if I was doing time and you know, I don't have much time
left. The same faces, the same 18 percent take. Sometimes I feel as if we
are all trapped in a movie. We know our lines, where to walk, how to act,
only there is no camera. Yet, we can't break out of the movie. And it's a
bad one. I know each of the mutuel clerks all too well. We sometimes have
small conversation as I bet. It's my wish to find a noncommital clerk, one
who will simply puch out my tickets and say nothing. But, they all get
social, finally. They are bored. And they are on guard too: many of the
horseplayers are somewhat deranged. There are often confrontations with the
clerks, loud buzzers sound and security comes running. By talking to us, the
clerks can feel us out. They feel safer that way. They prefer the friendly
bettor.
The horseplayers are easier for me. The regulars know that I am some
kind of nut and don't wish to speak to them. I am always working on a new
system, often changing the systems in midstream. I am always trying to fit
numbers around actuality, trying to code the madness into a simple number or
a group of numbers. I want to understand life, happenings in life, I read an
article wherein it was stated that for some long period of time now, in
chess, a king, a bishop and a rook were believed to be equal to a king and
two knight. A Los Alamos machine with 65,536 processors was put to work on
the program. The computer solved the problem in 5 hours after considering
100 billion moves by working backwards from the winning position. It was
found that the king, the rook and the bishop could defeat the king and two
knights in 224 moves. This is utterly fascinating to me. It certainly beats
the ponderous, tiddlywinks game of betting the horses.
I believe that I worked too long in my life as a common laborer. I
worked as such until I was 50 years old. Those bastards got me used to going
somewhere every day and staying somewhere for many hours and then returning.
I feel guilty just lolling about. So, I find myself at the track, bored and,
at the same time, going crazy. I reserve the nights for the computer or for
drinking or for both. Some of my readers think I love horses, that the
action excites me, that I am a gung-ho gambler, a real macho big time boy. I
get books in the mail about horses and horse racing and stories about the
track and etc. I don't give a damn about that stuff. I go to the track
almost reluctantly. I am too idiotic to figure out any other place to go.
Where, where during the day? The Hanging Gardens? A motion picture? Hell,
help me, I can't sit around with the ladies and most men my age are dead and
if they aren't dead they should be because they surely seem to be.
I've tried staying away from the track but thein I get very nervous and
depressed and that night there are absolutely no juices to lend the
computer. I guess getting my ass out of here forces me to look at Humanity
and when you look at Humanity you've GOT to react. It's all too much, a
continuous horror show. Yeah, I'm bored out there, I'm terrorized out there
but I'm also, so far, some kind of student. A student of hell.
Who knows? Some day soon I might be bedridden. I'll lay there and paint
on sheets of paper tacked to the wall. I'll paint them with a long brush and
probably even like it.
But right now, it's the faces of the horseplayers, cardboard faces,
horrible, evil, blank, greedy, dying faces, day papers, watching the changes
on the toteboard as they are being ground away to lett and less, as I stand
there with them, as I am one with them. We are sick, the suckerfish of hope.
Our poor clothing, our old cars. We move toward the mirage, our lives wasted
like everyboy else's.
11/3/91 12:48 AM
Stayed home from the track today, have had a sore throat and a pain at
the top of my head, a tittle toward the right side of it. When you get to be
71 you can never tell when your head is going to explode through the
windshield. I still go after a good drunk now and then and smoke far too
many cigarettes. The body get pissed off at me for doing this, but the mind
must be fed too. And the spirit. Drinking feeds my mind and my spirit.
Anyhow, I stayed in from the track, slept until 12:20 p.m.
Easy day. Got in the spa like a big timer. The sun was out and the
water bubbled and whirled, hot. I soothed out. Why not? Get an edge. Try to
feel better. The whole world is a sack of shit ripping open. I can't save
it. But I've gotten many letters from people who claim that my writing has
saved their asses. But I didn't write it for that, I wrote it to save my own
ass. I was always outside, never fit. I found that out in the schoolyards.
And another thing I learned was that I learned very slowly. The other guys
knew everything, I didn't know a fucking thing. Everything was bathed in a
white and dizzying light. I was a fool. And yet, even when I was a fool I
knew that I wasn't a complete fool. I had some little corner of me that I
was protecting , there was something there. No matter. Here I was in a spa
and my life was closing down. I didn't mind, I had seen the circus. Still,
there are always more things to write until they throw me into the darkness
or into whatever it is. That's the good thing about the word, it just keeps
trotting on, looking for things, forming sentences, having a ball. I was
full of words and they still came out in a good form. I was lucky. In the
spa. Bad throat, pain in head, I was luck. Old writer in spa, musing. Nice,
nice. But hell is always there, waiting to unfurl.
My old yellow cat came up and looked at me in the water. We looked at
each other. We each knew everything and nothing. Then he walked off.
The day went on. Linda and I had lunch somewhere, don't remember where.
Food not so good, packed with Saturday people. They were alive but they
weren't alive. Sitting at the tables and booths, eating and talking. Wait,
Jesus, that reminds me. Had lunch the other day before going to the track.
Sat at the counter, it was completely empty. I had gotten my order and was
eating. Man walked in and took the seat RIGHT NEXT TO MINE. Threre were 20
or 25 other seats. He took the one next to me. I'm just not that fond of
people. The further I am from them the better I feel. And he put in his
order and started talking into the waitress. About professional football. I
watch it sometimes myself, but to talk about it in a cafe? They went on and
on, dribbles about this and that. On and on. Favorite player. Who should
win, etc. Then somebody at a booth joined in. I suppose I wouldn't have
minded it all so much if I hadn't been rubbing elbows with that bastard next
to me. A good sort, sure. He liked football. Safe. American. Sitting next to
me. Forget it.
So yes, we had lunch, Linda and I, got back and it went restfully
toward the night, then just after dark Linda noticed something. She was good
at that sort of thing. I saw her coming back through the yard and she said,
"Old Charley fell, the fire department is there."
Old Charley is the 96-year-old guy who lives in the big house next door
to us. His wife died last week. They were married 46 years.
I walked out front and there was the fire truck. There was a fellow
standing there. "I'm Charley's neighbor. Is the alive?"
"Yes," he said.
It was evident that they were waiting for the ambulance. The fire truck
had gotten there first. Linda and I waited. The ambulance came. It was odd.
Two little guys got out, they seemed quite small. They stood side by side.
Three fire engine guys surrounded them. One of them started talking to the
little guys. They stood there and nodded. Then that was over. They walked
around and got the stretcher. They carried it up the long stairway to the
house.
They were in there a very long time. Then out they came. Old Charley
was strapped onto the stretcher. As they got ready to load him into the
amulance we stepped forward. "Hold on, Charley," I said. "We'll be waiting
for you to come back," Linda said.
"Who are you?" Charley asked.
"We're your neighbors," Linda answered.
Then he was loaded in and gone. A red car followed with 2 relatives in
it.
My neighbor walked over from across the street. We shook hands. We'd
been a couple of drunks together. We told him about Charley. And we were all
miffed that the relatives left alone so much. But there wasn't much we could
do.
"You oughta see my waterfall," said my neighbor.
"All right," I said, "let's see it."
We walked over there, through his wife, past his kind and out the back
door and into the backyard past his pool and sure enough there in the back
was a HUGE waterfall. It went all the way up a cliff in the back and some of
the water seemed to be coming out of a tree trunk. It was massive. And built
of huge and beautiful stones of different color. The water roared down
flooded by lights. It was had to believe. There was a worker back there
still working on the waterfall. There was more to be done on it.
I shook hands with the worker.
"He's read all your books," my neighbor said.
"No shit," I said.
The worker smiled at me.
The we walked back into the house. My neighbor asked me, "How about a
glass of wine?"
I told him, "No, thanks." Then explained the sore throat and the pain
at the top of my head.
Linda and I walked back across the street and back to our place.
And, basically, that was about the day and the night.
11/22/91 12:26 AM
Well, my 71st year has been a hell of a productive year. I have
probably written more words this year than in any year of my life. And
though a writer is a poor judge of his own work, I still tend to believe
that the writing is about as good as ever -- I mean, as good as I have done
in my peak times. This computer that I started using on Jan. 18 has had much
to do with it. It's simply easier to get the word down, it transfers more
quickly from the brain (or wherever this comes from) to the fingers and from
the fingers to the screen where it is immediately visible -- crisp and
clear. It's not a matter of speed per se, it's a matter of flow, a river of
words and if the words are good then let them run with ease. No more
carbons, no more retyping. I used to neeed one night to do the work and then
the next night to correct the errors and sloppines of the night before.
Misspellings, screw-ups in tenses, etc. can now all be corrected on the
orginal copy without a complete retype or write-ins or cross-outs. Nobody
likes to read haphazard copy, not even the writer. I know all this must
sound prissy and over-careful but it isn't, all it does is allow whatever
force or luck you might have engendered to come out clearly. It's all for
the best, really, and if this is how you lose your soul, I am all for it.
There have been some bad moments. I remember one night after typing a
good 4 hours or so, I felt I had had some astonishing luck when -- I hit
something or other -- there was a flash of blue light and the many pages of
writing vanished. I tried everything to get them back. They were simply
gone. Yes, I had it set on "Save-all," it still didn't matter. This had
happened at other times but not with so many pages. Let me tell you, it is
one hell of a hell of a horrible feeling when the pages vanish. Come think
of it now, I have lost 3 or 4 pages at other times on my novel. A whole
chapter. What I did then was simply rewrite the whole damn thing. When you
do this, you lose something, little highlights that don't return but you
gain something too because as you rewrite you skip some parts that didn't
quite please you and you add some parts that are better. So? Well, it's a
long night then. The birds are up. The wife and the cats think you've gone
mad.
I consulted some computer experts about the "blue flash" but none of
them could tell me anything. I've found out that most computer experts
aren't very expert. Confounding things happen that just aren't in the book.
Now that I know more about computers I think I know one thing that might
have brought the work back from the "blue flash"...
The worst night was when I sat down to the computer and it went
completely crazy, sending out bombs, weird loud sounds, moments of darkness,
deathly blackness, I worked and worked and worked but could do nothing. Then
I noticed what looked like liquid that had hardened on the screen and around
the slot near the "brain," the slot where you inserted the disks. One of my
cats had sprayed the machine. I had to take it down to the computer shop.
The mechanic was out and a salesman removed a portion of the "brain," a
yellow liquid splashed on his white shirt and he screamed "cat spray!" Poor
guy. Poor guy. Anyhow, I left the computer. Nothing in the warranty covered
cat spray. They had to take practically all the guts out of the "brain." It
ook them 8 days to fix it. During that time I went back to my typewriter. It
was like trying to break rock with my hands. I had to learn to type all over
again. I had to get good and drunk to get the flow. And again, it was one
night to write it and another night to straighten it out. But I was glad the
typer was there. We had been toghether over 5 decades and had some great
times. When I got the computer back it was with some sadness that I returned
the old typer to its place in the corner. But I went back to the computer
and the words flew like crazy birds. And there were no longer any blue
flashes and pages that vanished. Things were even better. That cat spraying
the machine fixed everything up. Only now, when I leave the computer I cover
it with a large each towel and close the door.
Yes, it's been my most productive year. Wine gets better if it's
properly aged.
I'm not in contest with anybody, have no thoughts about immortality,
don't give a damn about it. It's the ACTION while you're alive. The gate
springing open in the sunlight, the horses plunging through the light, all
the jocks, brave little devils in their bright silks, going for it, doing
it. The glory is in the motion and the dare. Death be damned. It's today and
today and today. Yes.
12/9/91 1:18 AM
The tide ebbs. I sit and stare at a paper clip for 5 minutes.
Yesterday, coming in on the freeway, it was evening going into darkness.
There was a light fog. Christmas was coming like a harpoon. Suddenly I
noticed that I was driving almost alone. Then in the road I saw a large
bumper attached to a piece of grill. I avoided it in time, then looked to my
right. There was a pile-up of cars, 4 or 5 cars but there was silence, no
movement, nobody around, no fire, no smoke, no headlights. I was going too
fast to see if there were people in the cars. Then, at once, evening became
night. Sometimes there is no warning. Things occur in seconds. Everything
changes. You're alive. You're dead. And things move on.
We are paper thin. We exist on luck amid the percentages, temporarily.
And that's the best part and the worse part, the temporal factor. And
there's nothing you can do about it. You can sit on top of a mountain and
meditate for decades and it's not going to alter. You can alter yourself
into acceptability but maybe that's wrong too. Maybe we think too much. Feel
more, think less.
All the cars in that pile-up seemed to be gray. Odd.
I like the way philosophers break down the concepts and theories which
have preceded them. It's been going on for centuries. No, that's not the
way, they say. This is the way. It goes on and on and seems very sensible,
this onwardness. The main problem for the philosophers is that they must
humanize their language, make it more accessible, then the thoughts light up
better, are more intersting still. I think that they are learning this.
Simplicity is the key.
In writing you must slide along. The words can be crippled and choppy
but if they slide along then a certain delight lights up everything. Careful
writing is deathly writing. I think Sherwood Anderson was one of the best at
playing with words as if they were rocks, or bits of food to be eaten. He
PAINTED his words on paper. And they were so simple that you felt rushes of
light, doors openin, walls glistening. You could see rugs and shoes and
fingers. He had the words. Delightful. Yet, they were like bullets too. They
could take you right out. Sherwood Anderson knew something, he had the
instinct. Hemingway tried too hard. You could feel the had work in his
writing. They were hard blocks stuck together. And Anderson could laugh
while he was telling you something serious. Hemingway could never laugh.
Anybody who writes standing up at 6 a.m. in the morning has no sense of
humor. He wants to defeat something.
Tired tonight. Damn, I don't get enough sleep. I would love to sleep
until noon but with the first post at 12:30, add the drive and getting your
figures ready, I have to leave here about 11 a.m., before the mailman gets
here. And I'm seldom asleep until 2 a.m. or so. Get up a couple of times to
piss. One of the cats awakens me at 6 a.m. on the dot, morning after
morning, he's got to go out. Then too, the lonelyhearts like to phone before
10 a.m. I don't answer, the machine takes the message. I mean, my sleep is
broken. But if this is all I have to bitch about then I'm in grand shape.
No horses for the next 2 days. I won't be up until noon tomorrow and
I'l feel like a powerhouse, ten years younger. Hell, that's to laugh -- ten
years younger would make me 61, you call that a break? Let me cry, let me
cry.
It's 1 a.m. Why don't I stop now and get some sleep?
1/18/92 11:59 PM
Well, I move back and forth between the novel and the poem and the
racetrack and I'm still alive. There isn't much going on at the track, I'm
just struck with humanity and there I am. Then there's the freeway, to get
there and back. The freeway always reminds you of what most people are. It's
a competitive society. They want you to lose so they can win. It's inbred
and much of it comes out on the freeway. The slow drivers want to block you,
the fast drivers want to get around you. I hold it at 70 so I pass and am
passed. The fast drivers I don't mind. I get out of their way and let them
go. It's the slow ones who are the irritant, those who do 55 in the fast
lane. And sometimes you can get boxed in. And you see enough of the head and
the neck of the driver ahead of you to take a reading. The reading is that
this person is asleep at the sould and at the same time embittered, gross,
cruel and stupid.
I hear a voice now saying to me, "You are stupid to think like that.
You are stupid one."
There are always those who will defend the subnormals in society
because they don't realize it is that they too are subnormal. We have a
subnormal society and that's why they act as they do and do to each other
what they do. But that's their business and I don't mind it except that I
have to live with them.
I recall once having dinner with a group of people. At a nearby table
there was another group of people. They talked loudly and kept laughing. But
their laughter was utterly false, forced. It went on and on.
Finally, I said to the people at our table, "It's pretty bad, isn't
it?"
One of the people at our table turned to me, put on a sweet smile and
said, "I like it when people are happy."
I didn't respon. But I felt a dark black hole welling in my gut. Well,
hell.
You get a reading on people on the freeways. You get a reading on
people at dinner tables. You get a reading on people on tv. You get a
reading on people in the supermarket, etc., etc. It's the same reading. What
can you do? Duck and hold on. Pour another drink. I like it when people are
happy too. I just haven't seen very many.
So, I got to the track today and took my seat. There was a guy wearing
a red cap backwards. One of those caps that the tracks give away. Giveaway
Day. He had his Racing Form and a harmonica. He picked up the harmonica and
blew. He didn't know how to play it. He just blew. And it wasn't Schoenber's
12 to scale either. It was a 2 or 3 tone scale. He ran out of wind and
picked up his Racing Form.
In front of me sat the same 3 guys who were there all week. A guy about
60 who always wore brown clothes and brown hat. Next to him was a crooked
neck and round shoulders. Next to him was an oriental about 45 who kept
smoking cigarettes. Before each race they discussed which horse they were
going to bet. These were amazing bettors, much like the Crazy Screamer I
told you about before. I'll tell you why. I have sat behind them for two
weeks now. And none of them has yet picked a winner. And they bet the short
odds too, I mean between 2 to 1 and 7 or 8 to 1. That's maybe 45 races times
3 selections. That's amazing statistic. Think about it. Say if each of them
just picked a number like 1 or 2 or 3 and stayed with it they would
automatically pick a winner. But by jumping around they somehow managed,
using all their brain power and know-how, to keep on missing. Why do they
keep coming to the racetrack? Aren't they ashamed of their ineptness? No,
there is always the next race. Someday they will hit. Big.
You must understand then, when I come from the track and off of the
freeway, why this computer looks so good to me? A clean screen to lay words
on. My wife and my 9 cats seem like the geniuses of the world. They are.
2/8/92 1:16 AM
What do the writers do when they aren't writing? Me, I go to the
racetrack. Or in the early days, I starved or worked at gut-wrenching jobs.
I stay away from writers now -- or people who call themselves writers.
But from 1970 until about 1975 when I just decided to sit in one place and
write or die, writers came by, all of them poets. POETS. And I discovered a
curious thing: none of them had any visible means of support. If they had
books out they didn't sell. And if they gave poetry readings, few attended,
say from 4 to 14 other POETS. But they all lived in fairly nice apartments
and seemed to have plenty of time to sit on my couch and drink my beer. I
had gotten the reputation in town of being the wild one, of having parties
where untold things gappened and crazy women danced and broke things, or I
threew people off my porch or there were police raids or etc. and etc. Much
of this was true. But I also had to get the word down for my publisher and
for the magazines to get the rent and the booze money, and this meant
writing prose. But these... poets... only wrote poetry... I thought it was
thind and pretentious stuff... but they went on with it, dressed themselves
in a fairly nice manner, seened well-fed, and they had all this couch-
sitting time and time to talk -- about their poetry and themselves. I often
asked, "Listen, tell me, how do you make it?" They just sat there and smiled
at me and drank my beer and waited for some of my crazy women to arrive,
hoping that they might somehow get some of it -- sex, admiration, adventure
or what the hell.
It was getting clear in my mind then that I would have to get rid of
these soft toadies. And gradually, I found out their secret, one by one.
Most often in the background, well hidden, was the MOTHER. The mother took
care of these geniuses, got the rent and the food and the cloghing.
I remembered once, on a rare sojourn from my place, I was sitting in
this POET's apartment. It was quite dull, nothing to drink. He sat speaking
of how unfair it was that he wasn't more widely recognized. The editors,
everybody was conspiring against him. He pointed his finger at me: "You too,
you told Martin not to publish me!" It wasn't true. Then he went to bitching
and babbling about other things. Then the phone rang. He picked it up and
spoke guardedly and quietly. He hung up and turned to me.
"It's my mother, she's coming over. You have to leave!"
"It's all right, I'd like to meet your mother."
"No! No! She's horrible! You have to leave! Now! Hurry!"
beer and wine. I ought to be dead. I will be dead. Not bad, thinking about
that. I've had a weird and wooly existence, much of it awful, total
drudgery. But I think it was the way I rammed myself through the shit that
made the difference. Looking back now, I think I exhibited a certain amount
of cool and class no matter what was happening. I remember how the FBI guys
got pissed driving me along in that car. "HEY, THIS GUY'S PRETTY COOL!" one
of them yelled angrily. I hadn't asked what I had been picked up for or
where we were going. It just didn't matter to me. Just another slice out of
the senselessness of life. "NOW WAIT," I told them. "I'm scared." That
seemed to make them feel better. To me, they were like creatures from outer
space. We couldn't relate to each other. But it was strange. I felt nothing.
Well, it wasn't exactly strange to me, I mean it was strange in the ordinary
sense. I just saw hands and feet and heads. They had their minds made up
about something, it was up to them. I wasn't looking for justice and logic.
I never have. Maybe that's why I never wrote any social protest stuff. To
me, the whole structure would never make sense no matter what they did with
it. you really can't make something good out of something that isn't there.
Those guys wanted me to show fear, they were used to that. I was just
disgusted.
Now here I am going to a computer class. But it's all for the better,
to play with words, my only toy. Just musing there tonight. The classical
music on the radio is not too good. I think I'll shut down and go sit with
the wife and cats for a while. Never push, never force the word. Hell,
there's no contest and certainly very little competition. Very little.
10/14/91 12:47 PM
Of course, there are some strange types at the racetrack. There's one
fellow who's out there almost every day. He never seems to win a race. After
each race he screams in dismay about the horse that won. "IT'S A PIECE OF
SHIT!" he will scream. And then go on shouting about how the horse never
should have won. A good 5 minutes worth. Often the horse will read 5 to 2
and 3 to 1, 7 to 2. Now a horse like that must show something or the odds
would be much higher. But to this gentleman it just doesn't make sense. And
don't let him lose a photo finish. He really comes on with it then. "FUCK
THE GOD IN THE FACE! HE CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!" I have no idea why he isn't
barred from the track.
I asked another fellow once, "Listen, how does this guy make it?" I'd
seen him talking to him at times.
"He borrows money," he told me.
"But doesn't he run out of lenders?"
"He finds new ones. You know his favorite expression?"
"No."
"When does the bank open in the morning?"
I guess he just wants to be at the racetrack, somehow, just to be
there. It means something to him even if he continues to lose. It's a place
to be. A mad dream. But it's boring there. A groggy place. Everybody
thinking that they alone know the angle. Dumb lost egos. I'm one of those.
Only it's a hobby for me. I think. I hope. But there is something there, if
only in a short time frame, very short, a flash, like when my horse is in
the run and then it does it. I see it happening. There is a high, a lift.
Life becomes almost sensible when the horses do your bidding. But the spaces
in between are very flat. People standing about. Most of them losers. They
begin to look dry as dust. They are sucked dry. Yet, you know, when I force
myself to stay home I begin to feel very listless, sick, useless. It's
strange. The nights are always all right, I type at night. But the days have
to gotten rid of. I'm sick too in a way. I am not facing reality. But who
the hell wants to?
It reminds me of when I stayed in this Philadelhia bar from 5 a.m.
until 2 a.m. It seemed the only place I could be. Often I didn't even
remember going to my room and coming back. I seemed always on that bar
stool. I was evading the realities, I didn't like them.
Maybe for this fellow the racetrack was like the bar was for me?
All right, you tell me something useful. Be a lawyer? A doctor? A
congressman? That's crap too. They think it isn't crap but it is. They are
locked into a system and they can't get out. And almost everybody is not
very good at what hey do. It doesn't matter, they are in the safe cocoon.
It got kind of funny out there one day. I'm speaking of the racetrack
again.
The Crazy Screamer was there as usual. But there was another fellow,
you could see that there was something wrong with his eyes. They looked
angry. He was standing near the Screamer and listening. Then he listened to
the Screamer's predictions for the next race. The Screamer was good that
way. And evidently Angry Eyes was betting the Screamer's tips.
The day wore on. I was coming out of the men's room and then I saw and
heard it. Angry Eyes was yelling at the Screamer, "God-damn you, shut up!
I'm going to kill you!" The Screamer turned his back and walked off saying,
"Please... Please..." in a very weary and disgusted manner. Angry Eyes
followed him: "YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"
Security arrived and intercepted Angry Eyes and led him off. Evidently
death at the racetrack was not to be condoned.
Poor Screamer. He was quiet the remainder of the day. But he stayed the
full card. Gambling, of course can eat you alive.
I had a girlfriend once who said, "You're really in bad shape, you go
to both Alcoholics Anonymous and Gamblers Anonymous at the same time." But
she really didn't mind either of those things unless they interfered with
bed exercises. Then she hated them.
I remember a friend of mine who was a total gambler. He told me once,
"I don't care if I win or lose, I just want to gamble."
I'm not that way, I've been on Starvation Row too many times. Not
having any money at all has the slightest tinge of Romanticism when you are
very young.
Anyway, the Screamer was out there again the next day. Same thing: he
railed against the results of each race. Think of this. It's a very hard
thing to do. I mean, even if you know nothing, you can just take a number,
any number, say 3. You can bet 3 for 2 or 3 days and you are bound to
finally get a winner. But not this fellow. He is a marvel. He knows all
about horses, fractional times, track variants, pace, class, etc. but he
still manages only to pick losers. Think of it. Then forget it or it will
drive you crazy.
I picked up $275 today. I started playing the horses late, when I was
35. I've been at them for 36 years and I figure they still owe me $5,000.
Should the gods allow me 8 or 9 more ears I die even.
Now that's a goal worth shooting for, don't you think?
Huh?
10/15/91 12:55 AM
Burned out. A couple night of drinking this week. Got to admit I don't
recover as fast as I used to. Best thing about being tired is that you don't
come out (in the writing) with any wild and dizzy proclamations. Not that
that is bad unless it becomes habitual. The first thing writing should do is
save your own ass. If it does this, then it will be automatically juicy,
entertaining.
Writer I know is phoning people telling them that he types 5 hours a
night. I imagine that we are supposed to marvel at this. Of course, do I
have to tell you? What matters is what he is typing. I wonder if he counts
his telephone time as part of this 5 hours of typing?
I can type from one to 4 hours but the 4th hour, somehow, tapers away
into almost nothing. Knew a guy once who told me, "We fucked all night."
It's not the same fellow who types 5 hours a night. But they've meet each
other. Maybe they ought to take turns, switch off. The guy who typed 5 hours
get to fuck all night and the guy who fucked all night gets to type 5 hours.
Or maybe they can fuck each other while somebody else types. Not me, please.
Have the woman do it. If there is one...
Hmmm.. you know, I am feeling somewhat goofy tonight. I keep thinking
of Maxim Gorky. Why? I don't know. Somehow it seems as if Gorky never really
existed. Some writers you can believe were there. Like Turgenev or D.H.
Lawrence. Hemingway appears to me to half-and-half. He was really there but
he wasn't. But Gorky? He did write some strong thigs. Before the Revolution.
Then after the Revolution his writing began to pale. He didn't have much to
bitch about. It's like the anti- war protesters, they need a war in order to
thrive. There are some who make good living protesting against war. And when
there isn't a was they don't know what to do. Like during the Gulf War there
was group of writers, poets, they had planned a huge anti-war protest, they
were ready with thei poems and speeches. Suddenly the war was over. And the
protest was scheduled for a week later. But they didn't call it off. They
went ahead with it anyway. Because they wanted to be on stage. They needed
it. It was something like an Indian doing a Rain Dance. I myself am anti-
war. I was anti-war long ago when it wasn't even a popular, decent and
intellectual thing. But I am suspect of the courage and motivations of many
of the professional anti-war protesters. From Gorky to this, what? Let the
mind roll, who cares?
Another good day at the track. Don't worry, I'm not winning all the
money. I usually bet $10 or $20 to win or when it really looks good to me,
I'll go $40.
The racetracks further confuse the people. They have 2 fellows on tv
before each race and they talk about who they think will win. They show a
net loss on each meet. As do all the public handicapppers, tout sheets and
race betting services. Even computers can't figure the nags matter how much
info is fed into them. Any time you pay somebody to tell you what to do you
are going to be a loser. And this includes your psychiatrist, your
psychologist, your broker, your workshop teacher and your etc.
There is nothing that teaches you more than regrouping after failure
and moving on. Yet most people are stricken with fear. They fear failure so
much that they fail. They are too conditioned, too used to being told what
to do. It begins with the family, runs through school and goes into the
business world.
You see here, I have a couple of good days at the track and suddenly I
know everything.
There is a door open into the night and I am sitting here freezing but
I won't get up and close the door because these words are running away with
me and I like that too much to stop. But damn it, I will. I'll get up and
close the door and take a piss.
There, I did it. Both of those things. I even put on a sweater. Old
writer pust on sweater, sits down, leers into computer screen and writes
about life. How holy can we get? And Christ, did you ever wonder how much
piss a man pisses in a lifetime? How much he eats, shits? Tons. Horrible.
It's best we die and get out of here, we are poisoning everything with what
we expel. Damn the dancing girls, they do it too.
No horses tomorrow. Tuesday is an off day.
I think I'll go downstairs and sit with my wife, look at some dumb tv.
I'm either at the track or at this machine. Maybe she's glad of it. Hope so.
Well, here I go. I'm a good guy, you know? Down the stairs. It must be
strange living with me. It's strange to me.
Good night.
10/20/91 12:18 AM
This is one of those nights where there is nothing. Imagine being
always like this. Scooped-out. Listless. No light. No dance. Not even any
disgust.
This way, one doesn't even have the good sense to commit suicide. The
thought doesn't occur.
Get up. Scratch yourself. Drink some water.
I feel like a mongrel dog in July, only it's October.
Still, I've had a good year. Masses of pages sit it the bookcase behind
me. Written since Jan. 18. It's like a madman was turned loose. No sane man
would write that many pages. It's a sickness.
This year has also been good because I've held back on visitors, more
than ever before. I was tricked once though. Some man wrote me from London,
said he had taught in Soweto. And when he had read his students some
Bukowski many of them had shown a real interest. Black African kids. I liked
that. I always like happening from a distance. Later on this man wrote me
that he worked for the Guardian and that he'd like to come by and interview
me. He asked for my phone number, via mail, and I gave it to him. He phoned
me. Sounded all right. We set a date and time and he was on his way. The
night and time arrived and there he was. Linda and I set him up with wine
and he began. The interview seemed all right, only a little off- hand, odd.
He would ask a question, I would answer it and he would begin talking about
some experience he had had, relating more or less to the question and the
answer I had given. The wine kept pouring and the interview was over. We
drank on and he talked about Africa, etc. His accent began changing,
alterning, getting, I think, grosser. And he seemed to be getting more and
more stupid. He was metamorphosing right in front of us. He got onto sex and
stayed there. He liked black girls. I said that we didn't know many, but
that Linda had a friend who was a Mexican girl. That did it. He had to meet
this Mexican girl. It was a must. We said, well, we didn't know. He kept on
and on. We were drinking good wine but his mind acted as if it had been
blasted by whiskey. Soon it just got down to "Mexican... Mexican... where is
this Mexican girl?" he had dissolved completely. He was just a sloppy
senseless barroom drunk. I told that the night was over. I had to make the
track the next day. We moved him toward the door. "Mexican, Mexican...," he
said.
"You will send us a copy of the interview, yes?" I asked.
"Of course, of course," he said. "Mexican..."
We closed the door and he was gone.
Then we had to drink to rid him from our minds.
That was months ago. No article ever arrived. He had nothing to do with
the Guardian. I don't know if he really phoned from London. He was probably
phoning from Long Beach. People use the ruse of interview to get in the
door. And since there is usually no payment for an interview, anybody can up
and knock on the door with a tape recorder and a list of questions. A fellow
with a German accent came by one night with his recorder. He made claim to
belonging to some German publication that had circulation of millions. He
stayed for hours. His questions seemed dumb but I opened up, tried to make
it lively and good. He must have gotten 3 hours worth of tape. We drank and
drank and drank. Soon his head was falling forward. We drank him under the
table and were ready to go further. Really have a ball. His head bent
forward on his chest. Little driblets ran out of the corners of his mouth. I
shook him. "Hey! Hey! Wake up!" He came around and looked at me. "I have got
to tell you something," he said, "I am no interviewer, I just wanted to come
and see you."
There have been times when I was a sucker for photographers too. They
claim connections, send samples of their work. They come by with their
screens and their backgrounds and their flashes and their assistants. You
never hear from them again either. I mean, they never send back any
photographs. Not any. They are the greatest liars. "I'll send you a complete
set." On man said, "I am going to send you one that will be full size."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "I'm going to send you a 6 by 4 foot photo."
That was a couple of years ago.
I've always said, a writer's job is to write. If I get burned by these
fakes and sons-of-bitches, it's my fault. I'm done with them all. Let them
toady up to Elizabeth Taylor.
10/22/91 4:46 PM
The dangerous life. Had to get up at 8 a.m. to feed the cats because
the Westec Security man was coming by at 8:30 a.m. to begin the installation
of a more sophisticated warning system. (Am I the one who used to sleep on
top of garbage cans?)
Westec Security arrived at exactly 8:30 a.m. A good sign. I took him
around the house pointing out windows, doors, etc. Good, good. We would wire
them, we would install glass- breaking detectors, low beams, cross beams,
fire sprinklers, etc. Linda came down and asked some questions. She is
better at that than I.
I had one thought: "How long will this take?"
"Three days," he said.
"Jesus Christ," I said. (Two of those days the racetrack would be
closed.)
So we fumbled around and left him in there, told him we'd be back soon.
We had a $100 gift certificate at I. Magnin's somebody had given us for our
wedding anniversary. Also, I had a royalty check to deposit. So, off to the
bank. I signed the check.
"I really like your signature," the girl said.
Another girl walked over and looked at the signature.
"His signature keeps changing," said Linda.
"I have to keep signing my name in books," I said.
"He's a writer," Linda said.
"Really? What do you write?" one of the girls asked.
"Tell her," I said to Linda.
"He writes poems, short stories and novels," she said.
"And a screenplay," I said. "Barfly."
"Oh," smiled one of the girls, "I saw it."
"Did you like it?"
"Yes," she smiled.
"Thank you," I said.
Then we turned and walked off.
"I heard one of the girls say as we walked in, "I know who that is,"
said Linda.
See? We were famous. We got into the car and drove over to the shopping
center to get something to eat near I. Magnin's.
We got a table, had turkey sandwiches, apple juice and cappuccinos.
From the table we could see a goodly portion of the mall. The place was
virtually empty. Business was bad. Well, we had a hundred dollar coupon to
blow. We'd help the economy.
I was the only man there. Just women sat at the tables, alone, or in
twos. The men were elsewhere. I didn't mind. I felt safe with the ladies. I
was resting. My wounds were healing. I could stand a little shade. Damned if
I could leap off of cliffs forever. Maybe after a respite I could dive over
the edge again. Maybe.
We finished eating and went over to I. Magnin's.
I needed shirts. I looked at thirts. Couldn't find a damned one. They
looked like they had been designed by half- wit. I passed. Linda needed a
purse. She found one, marked down 50%. It was $395. It just didn't look like
$395. More like $49.50. She passed. There were 2 chairs with elephant heads
on the backs. Nice. But they were thousands. There was a glass bird, nice,
$75 but Linda said we had no plae to put it. Same with the fish with blue
stripes. I was getting tired. Looking at things made me tired. Department
stores wore me down and stamped on me. There was nothing in them. Tons and
tons of crap. If it were free, I wouldn't take it. Don't they ever sell
anything likeable?
We decided maybe another day. We went to a bookstore. I needed a book
on my computer. I needed to know more. Found a book. Went to the clerk. He
tabbed it up. I paid with a card. "Thank you," he said, "would you be good
enough to sign this?" He handed me my lastest book. There, I was famous.
Noticed twice in the same day. Twice was enough. Three times or more and you
were in trouble. The gods were making it just right for me. I asked his
name, wrote it in, scribbled something, my name and a drawing.
We stopped at the computer store on the way in. I needed paper for the
laser printer. They didn't have any. I showed my fist to the clerk. Made me
think of the old days. He recommended a place. We found it on the way in. We
found everything there, cut-rate. I got enough laser pape to last two years
and likewise mailing envelopes, pens, paper clips. Now, all I had to do was
write.
We drove on in. The security man had left. The tile man had come and
gone. He left a note, "I will be back by 4 p.m." We knew the tile man
wouldn't be bak at 4 p.m. He was crazy. Bad childhood. Very confused. But
good with tiles.
I packed the stuff upstairs. I was ready. I was famous. I was a writer.
I sat down and opened the computer. I opened it to STUPID GAMES. Then I
started playing Tao. I was getting better and better at it. I seldom lost to
the computer. It was easier than beating the horses but somehow not as
fulfilling. Well, I'd be back Wednesday. Playing the horses tightened up my
screws. It was part of the scheme. It worked. And I had 5,000 sheets of
laser paper to fill.
10/31/91 12:27 AM
Terrible day at the racetrack, not so much in money lost, I may even
have won a bob, but the feeling out there was horrible. Nothing was
stirring. It was as if I was doing time and you know, I don't have much time
left. The same faces, the same 18 percent take. Sometimes I feel as if we
are all trapped in a movie. We know our lines, where to walk, how to act,
only there is no camera. Yet, we can't break out of the movie. And it's a
bad one. I know each of the mutuel clerks all too well. We sometimes have
small conversation as I bet. It's my wish to find a noncommital clerk, one
who will simply puch out my tickets and say nothing. But, they all get
social, finally. They are bored. And they are on guard too: many of the
horseplayers are somewhat deranged. There are often confrontations with the
clerks, loud buzzers sound and security comes running. By talking to us, the
clerks can feel us out. They feel safer that way. They prefer the friendly
bettor.
The horseplayers are easier for me. The regulars know that I am some
kind of nut and don't wish to speak to them. I am always working on a new
system, often changing the systems in midstream. I am always trying to fit
numbers around actuality, trying to code the madness into a simple number or
a group of numbers. I want to understand life, happenings in life, I read an
article wherein it was stated that for some long period of time now, in
chess, a king, a bishop and a rook were believed to be equal to a king and
two knight. A Los Alamos machine with 65,536 processors was put to work on
the program. The computer solved the problem in 5 hours after considering
100 billion moves by working backwards from the winning position. It was
found that the king, the rook and the bishop could defeat the king and two
knights in 224 moves. This is utterly fascinating to me. It certainly beats
the ponderous, tiddlywinks game of betting the horses.
I believe that I worked too long in my life as a common laborer. I
worked as such until I was 50 years old. Those bastards got me used to going
somewhere every day and staying somewhere for many hours and then returning.
I feel guilty just lolling about. So, I find myself at the track, bored and,
at the same time, going crazy. I reserve the nights for the computer or for
drinking or for both. Some of my readers think I love horses, that the
action excites me, that I am a gung-ho gambler, a real macho big time boy. I
get books in the mail about horses and horse racing and stories about the
track and etc. I don't give a damn about that stuff. I go to the track
almost reluctantly. I am too idiotic to figure out any other place to go.
Where, where during the day? The Hanging Gardens? A motion picture? Hell,
help me, I can't sit around with the ladies and most men my age are dead and
if they aren't dead they should be because they surely seem to be.
I've tried staying away from the track but thein I get very nervous and
depressed and that night there are absolutely no juices to lend the
computer. I guess getting my ass out of here forces me to look at Humanity
and when you look at Humanity you've GOT to react. It's all too much, a
continuous horror show. Yeah, I'm bored out there, I'm terrorized out there
but I'm also, so far, some kind of student. A student of hell.
Who knows? Some day soon I might be bedridden. I'll lay there and paint
on sheets of paper tacked to the wall. I'll paint them with a long brush and
probably even like it.
But right now, it's the faces of the horseplayers, cardboard faces,
horrible, evil, blank, greedy, dying faces, day papers, watching the changes
on the toteboard as they are being ground away to lett and less, as I stand
there with them, as I am one with them. We are sick, the suckerfish of hope.
Our poor clothing, our old cars. We move toward the mirage, our lives wasted
like everyboy else's.
11/3/91 12:48 AM
Stayed home from the track today, have had a sore throat and a pain at
the top of my head, a tittle toward the right side of it. When you get to be
71 you can never tell when your head is going to explode through the
windshield. I still go after a good drunk now and then and smoke far too
many cigarettes. The body get pissed off at me for doing this, but the mind
must be fed too. And the spirit. Drinking feeds my mind and my spirit.
Anyhow, I stayed in from the track, slept until 12:20 p.m.
Easy day. Got in the spa like a big timer. The sun was out and the
water bubbled and whirled, hot. I soothed out. Why not? Get an edge. Try to
feel better. The whole world is a sack of shit ripping open. I can't save
it. But I've gotten many letters from people who claim that my writing has
saved their asses. But I didn't write it for that, I wrote it to save my own
ass. I was always outside, never fit. I found that out in the schoolyards.
And another thing I learned was that I learned very slowly. The other guys
knew everything, I didn't know a fucking thing. Everything was bathed in a
white and dizzying light. I was a fool. And yet, even when I was a fool I
knew that I wasn't a complete fool. I had some little corner of me that I
was protecting , there was something there. No matter. Here I was in a spa
and my life was closing down. I didn't mind, I had seen the circus. Still,
there are always more things to write until they throw me into the darkness
or into whatever it is. That's the good thing about the word, it just keeps
trotting on, looking for things, forming sentences, having a ball. I was
full of words and they still came out in a good form. I was lucky. In the
spa. Bad throat, pain in head, I was luck. Old writer in spa, musing. Nice,
nice. But hell is always there, waiting to unfurl.
My old yellow cat came up and looked at me in the water. We looked at
each other. We each knew everything and nothing. Then he walked off.
The day went on. Linda and I had lunch somewhere, don't remember where.
Food not so good, packed with Saturday people. They were alive but they
weren't alive. Sitting at the tables and booths, eating and talking. Wait,
Jesus, that reminds me. Had lunch the other day before going to the track.
Sat at the counter, it was completely empty. I had gotten my order and was
eating. Man walked in and took the seat RIGHT NEXT TO MINE. Threre were 20
or 25 other seats. He took the one next to me. I'm just not that fond of
people. The further I am from them the better I feel. And he put in his
order and started talking into the waitress. About professional football. I
watch it sometimes myself, but to talk about it in a cafe? They went on and
on, dribbles about this and that. On and on. Favorite player. Who should
win, etc. Then somebody at a booth joined in. I suppose I wouldn't have
minded it all so much if I hadn't been rubbing elbows with that bastard next
to me. A good sort, sure. He liked football. Safe. American. Sitting next to
me. Forget it.
So yes, we had lunch, Linda and I, got back and it went restfully
toward the night, then just after dark Linda noticed something. She was good
at that sort of thing. I saw her coming back through the yard and she said,
"Old Charley fell, the fire department is there."
Old Charley is the 96-year-old guy who lives in the big house next door
to us. His wife died last week. They were married 46 years.
I walked out front and there was the fire truck. There was a fellow
standing there. "I'm Charley's neighbor. Is the alive?"
"Yes," he said.
It was evident that they were waiting for the ambulance. The fire truck
had gotten there first. Linda and I waited. The ambulance came. It was odd.
Two little guys got out, they seemed quite small. They stood side by side.
Three fire engine guys surrounded them. One of them started talking to the
little guys. They stood there and nodded. Then that was over. They walked
around and got the stretcher. They carried it up the long stairway to the
house.
They were in there a very long time. Then out they came. Old Charley
was strapped onto the stretcher. As they got ready to load him into the
amulance we stepped forward. "Hold on, Charley," I said. "We'll be waiting
for you to come back," Linda said.
"Who are you?" Charley asked.
"We're your neighbors," Linda answered.
Then he was loaded in and gone. A red car followed with 2 relatives in
it.
My neighbor walked over from across the street. We shook hands. We'd
been a couple of drunks together. We told him about Charley. And we were all
miffed that the relatives left alone so much. But there wasn't much we could
do.
"You oughta see my waterfall," said my neighbor.
"All right," I said, "let's see it."
We walked over there, through his wife, past his kind and out the back
door and into the backyard past his pool and sure enough there in the back
was a HUGE waterfall. It went all the way up a cliff in the back and some of
the water seemed to be coming out of a tree trunk. It was massive. And built
of huge and beautiful stones of different color. The water roared down
flooded by lights. It was had to believe. There was a worker back there
still working on the waterfall. There was more to be done on it.
I shook hands with the worker.
"He's read all your books," my neighbor said.
"No shit," I said.
The worker smiled at me.
The we walked back into the house. My neighbor asked me, "How about a
glass of wine?"
I told him, "No, thanks." Then explained the sore throat and the pain
at the top of my head.
Linda and I walked back across the street and back to our place.
And, basically, that was about the day and the night.
11/22/91 12:26 AM
Well, my 71st year has been a hell of a productive year. I have
probably written more words this year than in any year of my life. And
though a writer is a poor judge of his own work, I still tend to believe
that the writing is about as good as ever -- I mean, as good as I have done
in my peak times. This computer that I started using on Jan. 18 has had much
to do with it. It's simply easier to get the word down, it transfers more
quickly from the brain (or wherever this comes from) to the fingers and from
the fingers to the screen where it is immediately visible -- crisp and
clear. It's not a matter of speed per se, it's a matter of flow, a river of
words and if the words are good then let them run with ease. No more
carbons, no more retyping. I used to neeed one night to do the work and then
the next night to correct the errors and sloppines of the night before.
Misspellings, screw-ups in tenses, etc. can now all be corrected on the
orginal copy without a complete retype or write-ins or cross-outs. Nobody
likes to read haphazard copy, not even the writer. I know all this must
sound prissy and over-careful but it isn't, all it does is allow whatever
force or luck you might have engendered to come out clearly. It's all for
the best, really, and if this is how you lose your soul, I am all for it.
There have been some bad moments. I remember one night after typing a
good 4 hours or so, I felt I had had some astonishing luck when -- I hit
something or other -- there was a flash of blue light and the many pages of
writing vanished. I tried everything to get them back. They were simply
gone. Yes, I had it set on "Save-all," it still didn't matter. This had
happened at other times but not with so many pages. Let me tell you, it is
one hell of a hell of a horrible feeling when the pages vanish. Come think
of it now, I have lost 3 or 4 pages at other times on my novel. A whole
chapter. What I did then was simply rewrite the whole damn thing. When you
do this, you lose something, little highlights that don't return but you
gain something too because as you rewrite you skip some parts that didn't
quite please you and you add some parts that are better. So? Well, it's a
long night then. The birds are up. The wife and the cats think you've gone
mad.
I consulted some computer experts about the "blue flash" but none of
them could tell me anything. I've found out that most computer experts
aren't very expert. Confounding things happen that just aren't in the book.
Now that I know more about computers I think I know one thing that might
have brought the work back from the "blue flash"...
The worst night was when I sat down to the computer and it went
completely crazy, sending out bombs, weird loud sounds, moments of darkness,
deathly blackness, I worked and worked and worked but could do nothing. Then
I noticed what looked like liquid that had hardened on the screen and around
the slot near the "brain," the slot where you inserted the disks. One of my
cats had sprayed the machine. I had to take it down to the computer shop.
The mechanic was out and a salesman removed a portion of the "brain," a
yellow liquid splashed on his white shirt and he screamed "cat spray!" Poor
guy. Poor guy. Anyhow, I left the computer. Nothing in the warranty covered
cat spray. They had to take practically all the guts out of the "brain." It
ook them 8 days to fix it. During that time I went back to my typewriter. It
was like trying to break rock with my hands. I had to learn to type all over
again. I had to get good and drunk to get the flow. And again, it was one
night to write it and another night to straighten it out. But I was glad the
typer was there. We had been toghether over 5 decades and had some great
times. When I got the computer back it was with some sadness that I returned
the old typer to its place in the corner. But I went back to the computer
and the words flew like crazy birds. And there were no longer any blue
flashes and pages that vanished. Things were even better. That cat spraying
the machine fixed everything up. Only now, when I leave the computer I cover
it with a large each towel and close the door.
Yes, it's been my most productive year. Wine gets better if it's
properly aged.
I'm not in contest with anybody, have no thoughts about immortality,
don't give a damn about it. It's the ACTION while you're alive. The gate
springing open in the sunlight, the horses plunging through the light, all
the jocks, brave little devils in their bright silks, going for it, doing
it. The glory is in the motion and the dare. Death be damned. It's today and
today and today. Yes.
12/9/91 1:18 AM
The tide ebbs. I sit and stare at a paper clip for 5 minutes.
Yesterday, coming in on the freeway, it was evening going into darkness.
There was a light fog. Christmas was coming like a harpoon. Suddenly I
noticed that I was driving almost alone. Then in the road I saw a large
bumper attached to a piece of grill. I avoided it in time, then looked to my
right. There was a pile-up of cars, 4 or 5 cars but there was silence, no
movement, nobody around, no fire, no smoke, no headlights. I was going too
fast to see if there were people in the cars. Then, at once, evening became
night. Sometimes there is no warning. Things occur in seconds. Everything
changes. You're alive. You're dead. And things move on.
We are paper thin. We exist on luck amid the percentages, temporarily.
And that's the best part and the worse part, the temporal factor. And
there's nothing you can do about it. You can sit on top of a mountain and
meditate for decades and it's not going to alter. You can alter yourself
into acceptability but maybe that's wrong too. Maybe we think too much. Feel
more, think less.
All the cars in that pile-up seemed to be gray. Odd.
I like the way philosophers break down the concepts and theories which
have preceded them. It's been going on for centuries. No, that's not the
way, they say. This is the way. It goes on and on and seems very sensible,
this onwardness. The main problem for the philosophers is that they must
humanize their language, make it more accessible, then the thoughts light up
better, are more intersting still. I think that they are learning this.
Simplicity is the key.
In writing you must slide along. The words can be crippled and choppy
but if they slide along then a certain delight lights up everything. Careful
writing is deathly writing. I think Sherwood Anderson was one of the best at
playing with words as if they were rocks, or bits of food to be eaten. He
PAINTED his words on paper. And they were so simple that you felt rushes of
light, doors openin, walls glistening. You could see rugs and shoes and
fingers. He had the words. Delightful. Yet, they were like bullets too. They
could take you right out. Sherwood Anderson knew something, he had the
instinct. Hemingway tried too hard. You could feel the had work in his
writing. They were hard blocks stuck together. And Anderson could laugh
while he was telling you something serious. Hemingway could never laugh.
Anybody who writes standing up at 6 a.m. in the morning has no sense of
humor. He wants to defeat something.
Tired tonight. Damn, I don't get enough sleep. I would love to sleep
until noon but with the first post at 12:30, add the drive and getting your
figures ready, I have to leave here about 11 a.m., before the mailman gets
here. And I'm seldom asleep until 2 a.m. or so. Get up a couple of times to
piss. One of the cats awakens me at 6 a.m. on the dot, morning after
morning, he's got to go out. Then too, the lonelyhearts like to phone before
10 a.m. I don't answer, the machine takes the message. I mean, my sleep is
broken. But if this is all I have to bitch about then I'm in grand shape.
No horses for the next 2 days. I won't be up until noon tomorrow and
I'l feel like a powerhouse, ten years younger. Hell, that's to laugh -- ten
years younger would make me 61, you call that a break? Let me cry, let me
cry.
It's 1 a.m. Why don't I stop now and get some sleep?
1/18/92 11:59 PM
Well, I move back and forth between the novel and the poem and the
racetrack and I'm still alive. There isn't much going on at the track, I'm
just struck with humanity and there I am. Then there's the freeway, to get
there and back. The freeway always reminds you of what most people are. It's
a competitive society. They want you to lose so they can win. It's inbred
and much of it comes out on the freeway. The slow drivers want to block you,
the fast drivers want to get around you. I hold it at 70 so I pass and am
passed. The fast drivers I don't mind. I get out of their way and let them
go. It's the slow ones who are the irritant, those who do 55 in the fast
lane. And sometimes you can get boxed in. And you see enough of the head and
the neck of the driver ahead of you to take a reading. The reading is that
this person is asleep at the sould and at the same time embittered, gross,
cruel and stupid.
I hear a voice now saying to me, "You are stupid to think like that.
You are stupid one."
There are always those who will defend the subnormals in society
because they don't realize it is that they too are subnormal. We have a
subnormal society and that's why they act as they do and do to each other
what they do. But that's their business and I don't mind it except that I
have to live with them.
I recall once having dinner with a group of people. At a nearby table
there was another group of people. They talked loudly and kept laughing. But
their laughter was utterly false, forced. It went on and on.
Finally, I said to the people at our table, "It's pretty bad, isn't
it?"
One of the people at our table turned to me, put on a sweet smile and
said, "I like it when people are happy."
I didn't respon. But I felt a dark black hole welling in my gut. Well,
hell.
You get a reading on people on the freeways. You get a reading on
people at dinner tables. You get a reading on people on tv. You get a
reading on people in the supermarket, etc., etc. It's the same reading. What
can you do? Duck and hold on. Pour another drink. I like it when people are
happy too. I just haven't seen very many.
So, I got to the track today and took my seat. There was a guy wearing
a red cap backwards. One of those caps that the tracks give away. Giveaway
Day. He had his Racing Form and a harmonica. He picked up the harmonica and
blew. He didn't know how to play it. He just blew. And it wasn't Schoenber's
12 to scale either. It was a 2 or 3 tone scale. He ran out of wind and
picked up his Racing Form.
In front of me sat the same 3 guys who were there all week. A guy about
60 who always wore brown clothes and brown hat. Next to him was a crooked
neck and round shoulders. Next to him was an oriental about 45 who kept
smoking cigarettes. Before each race they discussed which horse they were
going to bet. These were amazing bettors, much like the Crazy Screamer I
told you about before. I'll tell you why. I have sat behind them for two
weeks now. And none of them has yet picked a winner. And they bet the short
odds too, I mean between 2 to 1 and 7 or 8 to 1. That's maybe 45 races times
3 selections. That's amazing statistic. Think about it. Say if each of them
just picked a number like 1 or 2 or 3 and stayed with it they would
automatically pick a winner. But by jumping around they somehow managed,
using all their brain power and know-how, to keep on missing. Why do they
keep coming to the racetrack? Aren't they ashamed of their ineptness? No,
there is always the next race. Someday they will hit. Big.
You must understand then, when I come from the track and off of the
freeway, why this computer looks so good to me? A clean screen to lay words
on. My wife and my 9 cats seem like the geniuses of the world. They are.
2/8/92 1:16 AM
What do the writers do when they aren't writing? Me, I go to the
racetrack. Or in the early days, I starved or worked at gut-wrenching jobs.
I stay away from writers now -- or people who call themselves writers.
But from 1970 until about 1975 when I just decided to sit in one place and
write or die, writers came by, all of them poets. POETS. And I discovered a
curious thing: none of them had any visible means of support. If they had
books out they didn't sell. And if they gave poetry readings, few attended,
say from 4 to 14 other POETS. But they all lived in fairly nice apartments
and seemed to have plenty of time to sit on my couch and drink my beer. I
had gotten the reputation in town of being the wild one, of having parties
where untold things gappened and crazy women danced and broke things, or I
threew people off my porch or there were police raids or etc. and etc. Much
of this was true. But I also had to get the word down for my publisher and
for the magazines to get the rent and the booze money, and this meant
writing prose. But these... poets... only wrote poetry... I thought it was
thind and pretentious stuff... but they went on with it, dressed themselves
in a fairly nice manner, seened well-fed, and they had all this couch-
sitting time and time to talk -- about their poetry and themselves. I often
asked, "Listen, tell me, how do you make it?" They just sat there and smiled
at me and drank my beer and waited for some of my crazy women to arrive,
hoping that they might somehow get some of it -- sex, admiration, adventure
or what the hell.
It was getting clear in my mind then that I would have to get rid of
these soft toadies. And gradually, I found out their secret, one by one.
Most often in the background, well hidden, was the MOTHER. The mother took
care of these geniuses, got the rent and the food and the cloghing.
I remembered once, on a rare sojourn from my place, I was sitting in
this POET's apartment. It was quite dull, nothing to drink. He sat speaking
of how unfair it was that he wasn't more widely recognized. The editors,
everybody was conspiring against him. He pointed his finger at me: "You too,
you told Martin not to publish me!" It wasn't true. Then he went to bitching
and babbling about other things. Then the phone rang. He picked it up and
spoke guardedly and quietly. He hung up and turned to me.
"It's my mother, she's coming over. You have to leave!"
"It's all right, I'd like to meet your mother."
"No! No! She's horrible! You have to leave! Now! Hurry!"