US BY GREYHOUND TRIP 1963 4 of 10
FRIDAY, MARCH 29. He gets off to work and I get some breakfast for myself after nosing a bit and finding a few of his type fellows, including the ubiquitous Dick Stark, and coming myself since obviously I'll get no help from Carl. Put things into wash, scrub them by hand and plop them into dryer. Call Gio and he says meet at 12, but buses are at 11 and 12, so I can't make 11, and plan to get to SF at 1. Rush about cleaning things up and put underwear through final dry cycle and get out at 11:35. Figure Sonoma goes through to Stanford road, but it ends in a cul-de-sac (cuddlesack?). Mayfair curls around hill. Look out on road and run down hill. The slope is grassy but muddy, and the stream at the bottom is unexpected and wide, and I twist my ankle en passant. Gasp a bit and rub it, fearing my trip wrecked if it's broken. Shoe completely covered with mud, and can feel the weight on my shoes. Have lousy luck: no traffic, no takers. I begin to fear I'll miss the bus. Finally accost this poor old man coming from a side street: "Going toward El Camino?" "Yeah, get in" "Got to make a bus at noon, is it too far to walk?" So he drives me to within five blocks of the underpass, and I trot along. Run down road under railroad tracks, and scare heck out of a Negro walking slowly, but whirled as I dashed past. I smiled and said, "Sorry" as he said, "Thought you were coming AT me." I dash about for station, ask lady, and double back to Greyhound at just 11:59. The bus is waiting and I get on, panting. Ride is strictly local, and El Camino is almost 42nd Street. To station at 1, and out to Market and 7th to meet Gio. Anxious at first, but when I settle down to enjoy passersby, it's OK. At 1:15 I decide Gio meant the station. Back to search, but no Gio. At 1:25 he's walking FROM station, so he HAD gotten the instructions fouled up. We grinned at each other and saw no visible change, so we said simultaneously "You look good." Into the car without lunch and back over the bridge to Berkeley, and Gio shows me where he'll be moving in a few days. Dr. Page is waiting for him, and Gio gives us a tour around the jam-packed computer center. Nothing really of note, except that 30 or 40 jobs get run under the student monitor shots, and every account of time is meticulously kept on the on-line AND off-line printers, and at the end of each job the punch tape is reproduced onto the end of the print tape. Page tried to floor him with questions, but Gio was equal to him with a minimum of head-scratching and stutter. His supervisory position seems to have done him some good in the nerve department. Page finally leaves, but two students are ready for Gio with questions, and the afternoon passes quickly. His roommate is unpleasant when talking loudly and Gio responds with equal unpleasantness by voicing an unheeded "Shut up, please," twice. I settle down with some rather sick Lewis Carroll in Gio's Modern Library edition. Gio's left a message to call Goodwin at OLD 1928, so I place the call, and Goodwin rather amazingly remembers my voice, particularly since he didn't recognize my FACE two years ago at Carnegie Hall. He's working part-time in programming and practicing and reciting and giving free accompaniment. He says he'll be over later, and they speak of going to Palo Alto the next day: my return, but where will I spend the night? Gio suggests I stay with Ronnie Lanstein, but that certainly won't work, since I dislike his crude boredom and his slovenliness. 5:30 comes and I call Carl (boosting Gio's phone bill, where would I be without institutional phones?) and say I won't be there for dinner, anyway. Carl sounds just as happy, since he's having a guest for dinner, and though Carl SAYS he doesn't like 2, but prefers 3, this can hardly be true (though afterward he's sorry because he can only fail to satisfy the partner, and he's sorry he's invited him to dinner---serves him right: he admits he's sick, but refuses to say WHAT it is, or that he CAN do something about it.) Goodwin shows up, and the coterie of questioners leave Gio alone, some of them pleasant, and Gio is so interested and sincere that one can hardly avoid thinking he's interested in them other than professionally. Goodwin and I chat, and he hasn't changed, still interested in the highly complex obscure pun, and still searching his mind for Latin words to express portmanteau thoughts which have no single word in English. He seems to completely pleased with himself when he comes up with a good pun, and laughs so embarrassedly, it's impossible not to go along with him: the over-cerebral pundit. Verena is coming along too, and we walk through light rain down walks and across lawns and through arbors and over bridges across mud-laden streams to the Faculty Club. They look, joking-thirsty, at the receptions-parties in the side rooms, and Gio signs the chit for himself and 3 guests. We load ourselves down, and the chop suey is good, and as usual I'm by far the last done. The dinner conversation is still far above par. Many of the jokes are insets, and they go into elaborate backgrounds for certain individuals. I can hardly keep my eyes off some of the black-trousered, red-vested college valets wandering around, and I again have the feeling Goodwin is much more surreptitiously stealing the same glances. Finally we're through and Goodwin pleases by volunteering to stay somewhere else and I can sleep at his place. Good, I'll stay. We check laden bulletin board and it appears that Berkeley has a long list of fine small recitals, a film program of unsurpassed excellence, and literally dozens of talks, clubs, lectures and film strips through the week. The pianist doesn't interest us, so we check the movie list and settle on Electra. Goodwin and Verena go off for their laundry and Gio and I go back to Berkeley where he proudly shows off some of his subroutines in the Monster Master Monitor. He tries to find a bug by remote control, and I write a bit and again we're off. The drive is pleasant, and Oakland has a lovely lake with exclusive restaurants and apartments around it, looking very much like New York. We just miss the short and almost miss the titles, but Electra is quite good, with the bulk of the praise due to the photography, which duplicates the excellence of the rock-hewn Welles's "Macbeth" in stark grandeur. The faces of the chorus were wonderful, and though few who saw it liked the chorus, I thought they added an air of authenticity---both of great facial character and of the presumed original Greek method of presentation. Somehow I expected the Sophocles Electra, and the Euripides seemed inferior because of the crazy cat and mouse game that Orestes played with Electra and the appearance of the old shepherd who gave his identity, much too similar to the shepherd part in Oedipus. Also the fear and sorrow shown by the children after they slew their mother seemed out of character. But even here the black and white (little gray) photography helped immensely. Talked quite unpleasantly with Lanstein afterwards, and I pulled myself away to read the bulletin board, hardly feeling like arguing with him. I stop for groceries for my breakfast at Goodwin's and said goodnight to Gio and went into frozen apartment, getting quickly to bed at 1.
SATURDAY, MARCH 30. Up at 8:30, wrap blanket around me to go downstairs and form a tent around the steam heater (Goodwin later told me he left heat on low and opened top window to allow air to circulate through his strange 2-room, 2-floor completely detached house (attached, yes, but only to a garage) in the middle of a lot where the beanpoles looked suspiciously like cemetery crosses). Warmed up enough to dress and have a great breakfast of grapefruit, eggs and bread and dry shredded wheat, and finish just as Gio came in with four rolls he popped into oven, then he began preparing coffee. Verena and Goodwin came in and all sit down to a breakfast of raw egg with rye krisp broken into the mess. They eat this slimy repast and the rolls, at least, are tasty. Into Gio's huge Buick station wagon and careen down highway to Menlo Park to pick up Jean, who shows off her clavichord, which will certainly fit into the car, and we five are down to meet Carl, whom I've called from Goodwin's to prepare for the onslaught. We talk and Carl, all charm and very slightly too cheerful, persuades Goodwin to play an expert Beethoven Bagatelle, and finally Carl sits to a fragment from the Bartok Mikrokosmos that he admits is non-showy and too far out for recitals. They discuss clavichords and pianos and Carl goes into the Sonata in the Italian Manner and messes it up twice, while a fairly audible "Shit" comes from him. The girls stare forgivingly off into space. Gio dozes off and, good for him, doesn't snore. They talk more, leave, and Carl talks on, then we're into car bound for Daly City and his lesson. I remark that many of the tracts look like strings of trailers or lengths of billboards; Carl suggests coffins. We get to Nadas's house and the fat, homely fellow shakes hands with me and rushes Carl into the back room. His little Chinese wife and his large dog entertain me, and I write [The huge bulldog, Wrinkles, paced heavily around the Nadas apartment while Carl had his lesson from Estaban, her eyes glowing greenly at me from reflected light from the front window, flopped down on the floor and, drawing a deep dry sigh, settled down.] [The basis of love is intimidation, says Carl.] [The dog actually SNORED a sigh in and blew his cheeks out on exhaling.] [The dog looked at me like some old queen who expected only minimal attention, then sat down quietly at my feet and yawned wetly.] [The damn dog FARTED.] a bit as Carl plays better (maybe by reason of distance), than I'd heard. Out about 3:30 and get back to Palo Alto to shop and Carl practices a bit and then we get busy with dinner and the steak is great, the salad too peppery, and the corn a bit tough. Carl cleans them and dumps them into dishwasher, and we get ready for evening trip to the "City." We talk a little on the way up, and the evening there is rather miserable [Of COURSE I feel sorry for myself, and much like a martyr. Who wouldn't? I want to spend a quiet weekend with Carl (preferably as lovers, but I'll be content with mere friendship and occasional acts of petting), and Carl's drive for sex, for love, for intimidation wrecks the plans. He says he feels like whoring, so Saturday night (ironically, my birthday) he makes a great deal out of the jeans I'm wearing. In the same way he managed to make me very happy in remarking about the state of my hair after the showers in the Olympic Club --- Carl is very good at this kind of managing --- of USING people --- instance: when he walked out of the house Sunday noon to see the mountains with John, leaving me behind to practice my "discipline" of writing, he walked back in, said "Every Sunday night they show a movie, and it's a fun thing because they boo the hero and cheer the villain, or the other way around --- we'll go tonight, OK?" and I said yes, feeling good toward him, and hating myself for doing so. Or, another instance, his coming in, after knocking, at noon to say "Up, yet? Let me open the window, you won't feel so bad when you get up with the fresh air. Breakfast will be ready in half an hour," and in fifteen minutes he brings in a glass of ice-cubed orange juice and smilingly asks what it is. Orange, I say, but he says, "What brand," and I venture Minute Maid because of the lack of tasty pulp and he smiles back "Snow-Crop" --- though later I nail him for not mixing it beforehand. Carl said he was happy to move from Denver because he had little to do and he found he was simply playing with people, using them, and he found he had no respect for them or himself, so he moved to a more challenging job where he wouldn't cruise so much and possibly appreciate the people more. But it looked as if he were willing to consider me merely as a troublesome appurtenance on his Saturday fling in SF. We had talked earlier in the day, on his trip to Daly City and his lesson with Nadas, on his like of people who intimidated him: "If you don't do this for me, you get no sex FROM me." He said his relationship with Mike was ideal, and that he loved him very much, because he expected things from Carl. He said this was conditional love, such as a father was supposed to place in the child. "Shape up or else I'll cease to love you," while mother's love was unconditional (though she might try to make you BELIEVE it was conditional and make you feel as if you'd hurt her if you didn't do as she wanted). We talked of God and Life after Death, which he didn't believe in --- he said he rarely thought about death. He said he believed he couldn't have a "normal" sexual homo relationship, and paused awkwardly after he said he feared this Marine Lieutenant might take him up on his offer to move to Palo Alto with Carl. Carl felt he couldn't live up to his wishes, and then the pause as I suspect we both felt "In the same way that Carl has begged Bob to move out to California and live with him" --- thus Carl might hope Bob never does it, it's only another play --- another attempt to control and keep people steady unto him with words rather than with actual affection. Carl said his feelings showed hostility toward those he went to bed with, since his whole technique was to get them to kiss and caress and enjoy things they hadn't meant to enjoy --- feel things they hadn't meant to feel. I suggested Carl was showing his hostility, then, by getting them to lower themselves, to debase themselves, to the level HE thought he was on --- he didn't reply to that tack. He of course implied he always wanted to take the initiative, in a strange way --- he would never do any MORE than they would do, and yet he must have led them toward what he wanted, or they would never have done it without being completely excited, completely wrapped up in the sex play with him.] [How can you change the name to protect the innocent in a case like Blue Fogg, where the name means everything? Change it to Red Lake? Blue Haze? Shadow Lawn?] [Remember story of auto accident, could only find cock in the other fellow's mouth.] [Carl is thus the leader, leading the other to what HE wants. So Carl would dislike anyone like me, who wants to take the initiative. If he goes down on me, as I recall, it's OK to go down on him, but when I try to slip down his chest very far, there's the barrier of his arms to keep me from going lower --- and there's no use, I think, in facing the issue. I'd resolved to be completely passive the next night, in the hope that my lack of activity until HE definitely made the first step, the picture (which I hope he retained and liked) of my hair making me look younger, of my good appearance in his jeans, all might create the illusion, for him in bed, that I was the 19-21-year-old straight trade that he looked so frantically for. In the car on the way up to SF he said he was glad I wasn't staying in town that night in order to take off on the Yosemite tour the next morning. As the night ended, I began to wish I had. Carl had always dressed in a peculiarly sexy way, sweaters to show off his impressive shoulders and neat taper to the waist and formless trousers to accentuate his hipless and assless quality and the slimness (skinniness) of his legs. But this evening he wore a sport jacket that was too boxy, and trousers much too tight. He showed a slight, unpleasant box, since I knew what treasure lay within, and the ass was tight to give the impression he had wanted so not to give: an aging queen, who felt that to attract she need only show more of herself. His walk, before long-legged and casual, became quick and short as I watched him cross the street, and he suddenly looked unpleasantly old. The fellows he went out chasing after might have realized this, because as he said when he would come back alone to the car, "They didn't do enough, they didn't react." This happened about six times --- go along the street, pass someone he considered nice, go around the block to catch up and pass them, scram out of the car after taking his glasses off and putting them into his pocket, then walk hurriedly off. In a few minutes he'd be back, smiling foolishly, put his glasses back on, hop into the car, then drive off again, making numerous U-turns, breathing heavily, of course from the walking, but giving the impression he was predatorily excited, simply sitting behind the wheel of his car contemplating who he would get for the evening. He said, "I hope you don't mind this," I said no, only after the first twenty times. His taste I could not see in many cases, except that he had the ability to distinguish between trade and hustlers. This was the judgment I could never make, and it got me into trouble more than once. It's easy to say Carl is just too cheap to bother with hustlers, since if he says love is intimidation, hustlers certainly intimidate more than trade (or maybe they don't, since hustlers do anything for money, but trade must be played up to in the right way, or they won't play). We ended up at Lo-John's, or something, where Carl's familiar face enabled me to cash a travelers check. Introduced to George, a tall, good-featured cheerful man whom I liked, but felt guilty about wanting, since he was a friend of Carl's, and did not qualify for sex under Carl's standards. Carl and I bring out the worst in our cruising qualities. Since I know Carl likes the spectacularly straight, he tries frantically to get a beauty, and his eagerness throws them off so he often gets inferior trade only because he feels he must get SOMEONE to "show" me. I feel I must avoid the Carl-like people I happen to like because Carl doesn't appreciate them and I (stupidly) try to cruise someone CARL would like --- and am probably just as glad I don't get them --- since I probably wouldn't enjoy them --- I don't since they're usually in the highest demand AND are usually found talking only to themselves. I have a beer, he had 7-Up in Lo-John's, and we leave quickly. He cruises more, and in one case, since a cute kid is obviously put off by two in the car, I get off at Foster's corner, unhappily near a police car, and he goes off to try his luck. I wander unhappily around the corner for a time, feeling uncomfortable in my costume of Levis, cowboy shirt, too short, with diamond buttons, and too large jacket with the coffee stain on the right cuff. I FEEL like trade. But Carl knows me too well, and as I crawl into the car when he returns (and he says "The kid was too shy.") he smiles at me and rubs my leg and we go off to another bar, where the young queens sit erectly with plucked eyebrows and scream at the bartender. We don't order and leave quickly, passing the hotel lobby and he cruises while I walk, half-cruising, back to car. He returns, tries one last U-turn, around block, park, walk, stare, back to car and start off, breathing audibly. Get to the swank neighborhood of the Rendezvous and find someone drunkenly urinating (or at least playing with his cock) in the lower vestibule. Upstairs and through the door to the immense room, three bars, and hundreds of gay kids. The crowd is quite nice, but everyone I look at is involved with someone else. I spot one who's nice and vaguely interested, Carl introduces me to Chuck, he comes to talk to Chuck, and Chuck introduces Ira around, Ira opens his mouth and the effect of clean collegiateness is ruined. We'd passed Tom on the corner, so I'm not surprised to see him in the bar. I pass and raise my 7-Up glass at him and smile and said "You finally got here." I stand various places around the bar and Carl introduces me to all his friends who aren't attractive. I shake hands, smile unlisteningly for a while, then slide off to another part of the forest. Trade, faggots, tight-jeaned belly-dancing queens with long straw-blond hair, devastating English-looking type with characterful face, intelligent eyes, nice body, huge thumbs, who's always talking to a Chuck-like fatso in tiny toilet-brush beard. I'd like to leave, but when Carl brushes past he's drinking scotch and I feel that war's been declared. I get talked at by Tom for minutes and finally break away as last call is declared. I've drunk my 7-Up ages ago and even the ice is melted and I'm left with two swallows of stale water in my glass. Drink one of them when I feel about to choke on smoke, and commiserate with myself that I couldn't find anyone because I had no place to take them and couldn't stay there because I had no way back and couldn't call Elder because the bar was too loud and someone other than he might answer if he WAS in the phonebook, and I didn't bring along Peck's list. A lousy cruising evening. Finally bar emptied out and Carl passed, preceded by a ghastly pocked fellow. I hoped it wasn't his, but going down the steps they talked, so it was. Chuck had asked before for a ride back and I said "Talk to the boss," and Carl said "We'll have to look for Chuck, I said I'd take him back." So that was four in the Karmann-Ghia. I remembered the other times I'd cruised with Carl, and the excuse I'd used of the immanent raid on the Brownstone to beg him to go home in LA, and the other time I pleaded simple tiredness to get the HELL home and away from his frantic search for the perfect man, who wouldn't be soft and who wouldn't tickle him, either as a woman would tickle, or as a woman would be tickled. I rehearsed the quiet damning silence in the car, as I said, "Let's say I'm tired" to his observation that I was glum-looking, and them coming out with the idea I thought he was sick. I fantasized sulking the way back, weaving myself into his affections in that absurd way, and a night of wild sex to ensue. Not to be. On the curb we were met by a Wendell who wanted a ride somewhere and the Ghia might have physically shrunk from the onslaught of the five bodies within her delicate low frame. I felt not at all like talking, and John's limp handshake and "Yes, I saw you in the bar," answer to Carl's introduction didn't help. I preceded the crowd back to the car, and in doing so got me the worst possible seat. I grabbed the curbside door as Carl opened it and stood in the street putting item by item off the back stoop --- a letter, two notebooks, a manila folder, Franny and Zooey, "A Friend is Someone Who Likes You", empty boxes, a roll of some material, a scroll of paper, books, and rags and odds and ends and maps he placed simply in the recess under the rear window. I waited patiently, looking at my hand on the seat back and hearing the chatter of the three behind me. Finally Carl pulled the top of the stoop up and snapped it to the top and there was almost a seat, except there was only six inches between the seat front and the back of the front seat. I crawled in and found I couldn't rest against the door or my knee would be pinched by the seat, so I had to cup the driver's seat in my knees. The other two crawled into the back, and Carl and John loudly got into the front seats. John was told to move up and Carl leaned back a fraction to get more room, but my knees had to stay. I was completely doubled up, my chin resting on my hands resting on my knees resting against the seat, my ass against the back of the seat, my left elbow against the wall, my right against Chuck, my head against the roof, and if I'd put my tongue out I'd probably lick Carl's left ear. Optimum volume fitting --- any sarcastic comments were crushed out of me by my position --- I could hardly breathe --- so I resolved on a bitter silence --- no other course. The car hobbled up and down the crazy roller coaster hills, and my heart stopped when the car stopped short of the crest of the hill. He stopped, jammed on the emergency, and we hung there, rubber wheels tearing against the road. When the car ahead moved, he accelerated as much as possible and released the brake, and the car slowly went forward. We passed a lightless Chrysler backing creaking down the hill by three frantic backward looking girls, at the car that meekly retreated before it down the hill. A bounce and I bumped my head, and the car's accelerating lessened as the hills got steepest. We oh'ed and ah'ed as we got to tops and saw slopes beneath, and the ground rushed up at the windows. I began to get sore, but Wendell started giving directions and at last he was out of the car. Chuck moved over and I slid clockwise in my seat to let Carl's seat fall back. I lined my back against the roof, moved first the right then the left leg across the slope of the back, kept my ass in the corner, laid my right calf on the seat, and propped my head, looking downward, on my hands. I tried stretching my neck to look up, but another bump-discovery of the top of my head, and I resolved to ride the rest of the way in this absurd position. They began to talk about the light and the sound and the clarity of the night, and I decided the only one I was punishing in this position was myself. The cramp in my left thigh came back a bit, and I said, "This can't go on." I curled about my navel and stuck my ass on the front center of the back seat. I jammed my left elbow onto the tiny side rest of the car, leaned my shoulder against the side wall, sat my head crooked upon my sloping shoulders, put right leg across hump, and into Chuck's property. He had to put both knees to the right of the right seat, but then he was shorter than I, and the seat was pushed forward. My left foot was on the transmission hump, and the left knee was a mountain between Carl and John. This was comfortable; I could see, and the only part of the anatomy that was out of true was the viscera, which began to protest by producing quantities of gas, which the smelly southern SF dump graciously covered for me for a time. Watched the roads go by, and the radio blasted away on Lehar's "Merry Widow." Chuck, either for comfort or for cruising, lined his leg with mine, and rested his left elbow on my right leg. It drew slowly closer to my waist as the trip continued. John amazingly wanted his hand on Carl's chair back, and in doing so embedded my knee into his inner elbow. It couldn't have been comfortable there, but it remained until I slid further and caused it to slide off. About halfway home (after Carl said, "Bob asleep?" and I said, simply, "No."), my left buttock became numb and I said, "Time to change again." I raised my torso practically into the back window, twisted counterclockwise through 75, and ended up again partly erect, head supported by hands, dour, legs sprawled. Chuck touched me not, they talked quietly. Finally Chuck got out, I lied that I'd been pleased to meet him, and I lay down in the back seat, legs uncomfortably doubled, knees in the air. I watched the play of light on Carl's face, and he terrified by saying, "That road was about to hypnotize me" when we left the freeway. His eyes were wide and his face set as he drove, and finally I could trace Palm Drive, Mayfield, and the extreme turn left onto Sonoma and into the driveway. I struggled out of the car, refused Carl's invitation to coffee and got to bed, sleeping almost immediately as the conversation in the other room was low and intermittent. Wake at 10 and lazed, hearing the water in the next room. Carl in at noon with his masterful attempts to placate, and we had a fairly decent, fairly chummy breakfast. John's pocked face, like mine, hadn't been rinsed, or was too dry, and his lower face was covered with tiny white flakes of skin, which contrasted strongly with the red of the old and new pimples. After things were put away, and Carl played, I walked through the living room walls to the garden, looked at the short green grass and over the brown fence to the blue sky, the green hills and the yellow Stanford campus buildings and Hoover Tower. The long-needled pine had grown candles of gray-brown new shoots, and the bamboo shot up tender green shoots from the rain-moist ground. The sun bright, the wind cold, I raised the leafed moist shutter from the sandbox and saw dirty ducks and old blocks, and crumpled twisted bamboo that sought the sun. In the back, on the side, stood miniature swings on which dolls might play, and a tiny teeter swing. I sat for minutes, backward, on the bucking bronco, and my weight stretched and shivered the rusting springs, making my least movement a gallop. One chair contained the pillows from all four, and rubbing my hand over the rubber thonged-frame reclining chair proved it was too dirty to sit upon. Sodden charcoal ashes littered the bottom of the brasserie, and the sun again came through the clouds with eye-narrowing brightness. Bark chips made soft turf under the horse, gravel in another place, then dirt, separated from the grass by flexibly curved wooden dividers. The wind cut through my white shirt, and the sun, reflected, warmed not. I went back in to find them in the kitchen. "We're going for a ride in the hills, want to come?" "Yes," I said, for the day was beautiful, "On second thought, no" for the Ghia was small, John the guest of honor (I demoted to the post of guest of dishonor) and I a third wheel. Anyway I would be uncomfortable, couldn't see, would stilt their talking, would hamper Carl's style, and might still prove (though the chance was slight) that John was stupid and ugly, and Carl would leave him and come back to me. Hardly a profitable, since highly improbable, line of thinking for me. Children climbed onto the wall and began walking the fence, and Carl remarked I had company, and I briefly wished them 18 and irresistible and irresisting. "You sure you won't come along?" "No, I think not," unwittingly saying the truth, yet it was taken the "right" way and they went off together, John saying he'd see me later, I hoping that Carl would get rid of him and not have him stay another night. But I'll leave tomorrow anyway; I sat for minutes, staring, feeling sorry for myself and drugged from sleeping in the airless room and the breakfast. Then got out this and was determined to write.] [The wind makes organ-sounds on the telephone wires.]
SUNDAY, MARCH 31. Wake at 10, and Carl in at 12, and breakfast till 1, and they drive while I write [Kid's voices outside --- doorbell rings and I get to door to hear, "He's the only one in his family." I open door and four peanuts stand before me, the smallest, with glasses, with his fingers stretching his mouth out. The biggest, with a plastic jar with an orange juice inside asks, "Do you want some slush?" The second kid says, fat, "It's only two cents." I say, "No, I don't think so." "Why not?" "I've already had my slush today." And smile and close door and they go away saying, "Why did he have it so EARLY?"] [Which brings me to Carl and his "houses." They always look the same, spacious, airily neat, unlived in. Though he has books, they're formally placed. Even his piano music scattered in one place seems theatrically placed. His kitchen is always modern and efficient, but it looks as if it's never cooked in, though the cupboards are moderately full. They're bachelor quarters, and the more they look like a house, the more incongruous they are. THIS place is made even more incongruous by a framed, broken-glassed quotation hanging in the kitchen, by Ernestine Schumann-Heink: "A roof to keep out rain / Four walls to keep out wind. / Floors to keep out cold / ---" This is what Carl has, ONLY --- "Yes, but home is more than that. It is the laugh of a baby, the song of a mother, the strength of a father. Warmth of loving hearts, light from happy eyes, kindness, loyalty, comradeship. Home is first school and first church for young ones. Where they learn what is right, what is good, and what is kind. Where they go for comfort when they are hurt or sick. Where joy is shared and sorrow is eased. Where fathers and mothers are respected and loved. Where children are wanted. Where the simplest food is good enough for kings because it is earned. Where money is not so important as loving-kindness. Where even the teakettle sings from happiness. That is home --- God bless it!" If the above was analyzed by Carl, he would probably have thrown it out. It makes me even more content with my two little rooms --- it could not possibly be used for a family, thus it seems hardly so empty and bare as the richly carpeted, well-lit and draped rooms, eight of them, and two baths, that Carl has.] ["When you aren't sure, then you're alive" Potting Shed. Comment by John: "When you've solved all your problems, you might as well die." Me?] [Water glistened in cups of leaves like mica flakes.] [People are not magnetic needles, to point one way when the iron is placed at one point. In any case, the iron is not AT one point, but each atom of iron attracts each atom of the needle in a different direction, and the final "point" is only the summation of many. Our weight is not solely due to the earth, but to the moon, the sun, each star, and the scale on which we weigh ourselves. Just as people are not "black" or "white" like the heroes or villains in old-time films, characteristics (selfishness, homosexuality, love) of people are not caused by ONE thing alone. What caused my homosexuality? 1) I was not strong, and played with girls and dolls and cutouts when I should have been playing with boys. 2) I loved self --- and things LIKE self. Early developed a penis-worship through too early teaching of masturbation and through long looks at Captain Marvel, and Junior, and the others of that sort. 3) I felt I had no father, thus could only identify with the female element of the world. 4) First attractions to people were to uncles older than I; I admired them. 5) Being, actually or in imagination, unattractive, I felt little toward girls. Even in the 6th grade, 10 years old, I stared at Paul Maudru. Remember when I thought Gypsy Rose Lee should have had a penis? When I knew so little about anatomy that I'd fantasize a nude Captain Marvel without testicles, and only quite a bit later thought of adding hair? My gayness goes so far back. I feel I don't love my mother. Because she had me early and I never had her breast? Because there was seldom kissing between us after I passed the age of six? Because she was harsh with me --- gave me no money unless I earned, made me stay in with chores when I was small, essentially put a dress on me by doing housework --- crawling through the dining room table legs to dust while listening to "Let's Pretend" and "Land of the Lost." Am I selfish because I never had money, or because my mother and father were selfish, penny pinching (turn off the lights) and greedy? Do I fear love because my parents had none? Because gay people have none? Because in the few times I said "I love you" I was pushed away (James Dean)? Remember the nervous breakdown with Sister Mary Raymond --- what grade was that? Fourth or fifth --- 8 or 9 years old. I always liked books and reading --- is that why I'm weak?] much and listen to "Child's Christmas in Wales" by Dylan Thomas and write then with a Thomist lilt. They come back by 5, and Carl plays a bit. I'm in the kitchen and hear a familiar trill and out to find the page is ready to turn. I turn it, and Carl smiles up at me and says, "How did you know where to turn the page?" Then he guesses about the trill and John remarks about Carl having to explain everything. Carl lies on floor to read, and John falls asleep crouched sideways on the sofa and Carl snores intermittently. They wake and suddenly John has decided he must go. This shocks Carl and they talk quietly and desperately in the kitchen. I hear "I'll take you." Pause. "Let me drive you to the bus." Pause, and door closes. Carl wanders in, sits on sofa, groans, gets up and revs car up. He's back in a few minutes, crushed and alone. I read a bit on the ILLIAC suite and he plays a bit, and at 8:30 I see he has nothing to eat in the house. I can't suggest anyplace, and I can feel Carl's exasperation growing. We get to tiny place and have delicious roast beef sandwich and he suggests David and Lisa. I say no because I'm depressed (after getting chewed out by him for trying to make light of his problems by remarking "I'm glad I don't cruise so much" and he takes it way wrong), and I feel I'll be more depressed by it. He says then that he'll leave me, since he's determined to do something this evening. I ask if it's depressing, and he says no, and I allow myself to be talked into it. We walk in coldness to movie and find it starts in a half-hour. Go back to bookstore we passed and we both almost die at the sheer quality of kid that frequents the place. I'll have to get the name of it from Carl. We easily spend a half hour and back to theater to see an exceptional crew leaving. "David and Lisa" is very good, the boy equal to the girl equal to the lighting equal to the directing equal to excellent. Out and home and shower and Carl putters around waiting for me as I patter around debating to join him. Finally I steel myself and "Shall I come in or sleep in here tonight?" "C'mon in." I sigh with half relief, half despair and go in. We snuggle the briefest possible time and we're off to sleep.
MONDAY, APRIL 1. Up and shower and pack quickly and Carl drives me to cleaners. Get into San Francisco and get ticket changed from Sacramento direct to Merced. The gal at the window suggests I get to Modesto at 2, and catch the 2:10 bus to Merced there. I write a bit and get onto Modesto bus, and the traffic slows the bus to 45 minutes simply getting to Oakland. Change is immediate at Modesto, and as the bus flies down highway (stopping every ten minutes), I see the peaks of the Sierras, snowy, through the haze on the left. The old fellow on the aisle is eyeing me and keeps talking about the mountains and Merced. I take him at word and ask if he's going to Yosemite, hoping for some sort of accommodation. No. Off at Merced, finally able to take my eyes off the kid in the terry sweater which is raised with his deep peaceful breathing as he rests with his crotch hidden under his Elements of Astronomy book. I ask at window for public transportation to Yosemite and the fellow jerks thumb "Yeah, I just sent the other guy, one block, leaves at 3:30." Time was 3:29. I dash across street, across parking lot to Yosemite Transportation Service, which charges what I think is an exorbitant $9 round trip until I find that it's about a 90-mile trip to Yosemite Lodge, wherein I'll have no trouble, he says, getting a room. Onto bus and I immediately think of asking the other guy, unpleasant but avowedly reservationless, to share a room---disturbing to pay $5 for a single and know there's a double for $6. But as the trip goes off and he dozes and picks his nose and reads through great scenery [The fields were painted white with forget-me-nots, clustered in the low places, around the water, like snow, last to melt, hidden in hollows from the sun.] [As we climb slowly higher, yellow mixes more and more, and even a cold-blue flower is seen, deepest in hollows, mirrored in the ever-blue of water in the lowest spots. The ground undulates slightly, like the tops of clouds, and the wind blows the grass lighter or darker green. Orange-yellow daisies in clumps, and the rocks, split to the sun, are impossibly red and yellow, though possibly with mosses. One had to determine that red roses grew not on the rocks.] [Then the women behind say the colors are "lichen," all volcanic(?) Blue was lupine.] [Rocks were wet with recent rain, the reds dark and burnt. Nature simply WILD in color and form. Green vs. red; blue vs. green; white and black and gray. Manzanita---red-violet and gray-green. And then, as bus gets higher, in the shadows in the hollows under trees: snow. Just before "The Summit" at 2962'. River beds, bubbling, were meadowed with green.] I figure he's a second to the tall lanky type across from me, quiet, intelligent looking, and somehow foreign. I contemplate our conversation in French. We stop at a lodge and it begins to snow lightly. He and I get out to walk about and I say "It's nice." His English tones come back precisely: "Yes, it is---I like this snow; I haven't seen it in four years." We talked on and before we boarded bus I discussed possibility of sharing room, and he brought up presence of dormitories. Fine. Back on bus and it's snowing in earnest, but as we swing around into an intermediate valley, it's clear and the redbud is violently lavender. The newly wet ground is brilliant, and as we enter the portal, the view of Bridal Veil Falls above the Merced River and the Cathedral Spires are vastly impressive. On the other side of the ledge it's cloudy and I can see only the hazy demarcation between light gray and light brown which marks the incredible upthrust of El Capitan. The trip to the lodge during the increasing darkness is wild as I bounce from window to window, and Alan sits sometimes next to me, sometimes not. Scenery is very grand, and the valley floor has the coziness connected with carpets of brown needles and walls of straight trunks, and roofs of far canopies of pine. The lobby of the lodge looks fiercely expensive with its glass and angled wood and warm lights and flagstone patio. I ask driver and he says it's the OTHER that's expensive, so I go in and find the dormitory is only $2.50. Marvels. I sign for two nights and move around to get a map and inquire about trails and find they're all closed. We'll see about THAT. Check on tours and on when the bus is out and when dinner is and when the film is. I've about finished and Alan is ready to begin checking through. Shows who's used to moving. The other fellow is ready too, and the aging bellboy grabs both bags and goes the long way around to the dorm. It's not bad, cubicles of a bed and a chest and hooks on the wall, separated by three-foot wide walls. These stretch down a hallway, beyond which is a door shutting off the showers and beyond that the john. I find that the chest should be shared, but the other fellow says he doesn't need it. I unpack and hang up suit and get out scarf and gloves and beret, needed again since Newark and Grand Canyon. Bundle up and out to see Alan coming in, so I call to him that I'll wait and we'll eat together. I get out and gape up at Yosemite Falls, blowing wind and gathering white at the edges. Alan comes out and about this time gives me his name. We get to cafeteria and I take rack of lamb, and it's very good, but with soup and salad and dessert the meal comes to $2.75, hardly expected in a cafeteria. But the food is good and we finish, talking agreeably, but with the vague rehearsedness characteristic of people who have told the same story so many times that it slips glibly, without thought, off the tongue into half-listening ears, in time for the short poetic film about Yosemite, which exhorts us to "taste" the park by means of trails and rides, all of which seem to be closed. Finish and we go to shop. When I ask Alan to leave, he refuses, and I wander out on my own to look at the falls. Out onto meadow, and the moon, though half-lumined, lights the snow, crunching underfoot, brightly. I venture across road and into woods, but the going gets thick. Back to the bridal path and follow it back to camp 4, where the trail toward Yosemite Falls is darkly heralded by a sign readable by moonglow, even under the trees. Start up the path, but it's dark under the trees, the moon (who's direction I haven't discerned) threatens to go out behind a hill, and the snow is lessened, so the demarcation between path and non-path is not so clear. Twice I wander off, return to path. I'd wanted to get above tree-line, for a moonlit view of the valley, but trees continue and finally I climb up rock embankment and gape immediately across. The snowy gullies stand out bright, but the hum of civilization curls up from the valley like erratic heat waves, and the spell is not so profound as I'd hoped. Back down and after going a bit the other way on the Bridle Path, I find a sign saying 0.? Miles to the lower falls. This sounds good. Walk under gloomy trees and get to parking lot and sign which says "Trail Closed." I proceed. The snow is suddenly deeper, and the trail descends into the ground, seemingly, while the snow level rises, until I'm walking amazed in a canyon of snow with twelve-foot walls. Through the valley of white a roar increases and there's the lower falls. Out on a bridge and the path over the cascades is matched by a broader, more insubstantial one of ice and snow, to a depth of about five feet. Watched as water tumbled down, then back through icy halls to the dorm. Fellow was sleeping. I washed face, said to Alan he missed a good trek. He was writing as I got into bed, and almost immediately fell asleep, determined to get up at dawn. He said I should wake him and he'd decide if he wanted to come with me. I mentally set my alarm at 5:30 (it was 9:30 then, and 8 hours was perfect). Woke with a start at 11:10 as man (guard? vice?) came through with flashlight. Woke for a moment at 4:30, and got out of bed at 5:30.
TUESDAY, APRIL 2. Alan didn't want to come out and play with me, so I quickly retraced trail to where I had gone up last night and quickly climbed higher. The sun, rising, lit the mountain tops like candles, and the fire, spreading lower, set off snow-slides [Start before dawn, Half Dome glows, tops of highest peaks golden. Hungry but food only at 7 and it's 6. Climb quickly to jump-off of night before. Snow-covered trees. Sun comes down mountain as I go up. Short reports, avalanches? Shovels and rakes and feetprint in snow, none this AM. Avalanches for one hour on high rock on cliffs. Like water, louder than looks, predictable, powdery, hard-crusted snow or water streams from them. Snow blown from trees --- melting instantly to water droplets. Sun comes over Half Dome. Leave 7:15, climb higher. Manzanita, leaves carnation colored, bark a wine around dry brown, snow-covered. Lookout point with rail. To water-rocks, trail goes down, forms rock-ice grottoes. Sign DID say the unusual was to be expected. Snow lying deep in the shadows (2-3") packed by ice falling from trees above. Mica flakes still fall --- since I walk toward sun in thicket, trees present their snow-white sides to me. Streams cross, sometimes take paths. Certainly not mentioned snowfalls in the book and makes for damp writing, and I click my toes like a toy soldier to get rid of the snow in shoes before it melts and makes feet wetter and colder than they are. Neck bent to write, and snow drops down, showers the coat. Pass bear earlier; bricks surprise by being high. Catch glimpse and roar of Yosemite Falls, still in shade --- promises good slides --- hear rumbles even when unseen. The sky was cut by the white of a jet, and beneath the chord a bright-topped wonder tossed its spume to the sky. The trees echoed the shudder when slides cascaded down Yosemite. Again the amazement --- what looked like a bit of snow produced a loud, yea, thunderous boom as it hit the incredible drift at the base of the falls. The new-raked damp sand, shockingly, steamed in the morning sun. Trees cast triangular snow shadows away from the sun, not quite true, since they bend away from the side that HAD the sun; and it extends out beyond the real shadow where the sun hasn't melted it yet. As the sun gets hotter, gobs of snow fall from trees, targeting passersby and their notebooks. You have to see coats on TOP of a rock before you realize you'd better store coats UNDER a rock. When at the end of a trail, poke thoroughly with a long stout stick. The snow, at a 45 degree angle, like a shed built over the path and sloping down into the manzanita, might not really be as deep as it looks. Go down about three inches into the soft powdery snow and push a bit more to break through a fairly solid crust and the stick falls about eight inches more. I'm afraid to push further --- if there's another crust I might lose my stick, and I have other paths to try. The one along the face of the cliff to the falls begins to look impossible, and I wish for high boots, so only a little item of snow won't stop me. But I've already taken my shoe off once to brush the caked snow from my stocking before it melts and makes feet wet. Turn back, and see what MIGHT be the continuity of the trail as a switchback, a height of about ten feet from where I am. The turn is entirely obliterated by a sweep of snow which must be as much as ten feet deep at some points. I help myself up the slope by means of trees and threateningly slippery rocks and reach the highest rock, which should be parallel with the next path, but to my dismay the other side of the rock dips a bit, and completely buried bushes stretch out from the rock to the sheer wall. I suspect that, buried beyond the bush, was a path, but I was certainly not equipped to negotiate it. I stared longer at Upper Yosemite, watched the miniature landslides that resulted in an incredibly sonorous sound rumbling out from the wall a few second after the impact.] Pass workmen on way to bottom, and older fellow says, "You must have come up early" in old-timer admiration. Down at 10 and eat a perfectly delicious breakfast (juice, fried eggs, toast, cream of wheat and milk) and get to 11 pm afternoon tour of park. [The ski bus leaves for the slopes at 8:45 am, then why are people wandering around in ski pants at 10 and 11? Could it by the remotest possibility be that they know it's a flattering attire, and remain in them all day? Afterwards at the ski slopes my face is fairly red because it appears the tall, well-built fellow who lives in ski clothes might be Robert Faure, who is the main photo on the board of instructors of the ski school. Can't say I don't pick the good ones. Seems strange that the girls almost attempt to look like the fellows, but it's a losing battle since the men clump about so masculinely in their heavy boots and appear to enjoy butching it up. Tour driver: "Spanish moss is an aerophyte, but it gradually chokes the tree to death." "Those are summer homes. Summer for me, and summer for women." "If you left church and a bear chased you, would you run into church or climb a tree? Into church? With a bear behind?" Allan Fricker (meet Jimmy Schmucker) said "I've never gotten into any trouble leaving things unlocked." Pause. "Well my car WAS stolen twice." I got a great feeling of freedom, while rushing, gas-jet propelled, to the john, brought on mainly by the piney, damp, woodsy smell associated with parks (Maine, Metropolitan, etc). Relationships seem so intellectual --- as with Alan Fricker. We chat, once or twice we laugh loudly, but there seems to be no meeting of the PERSON. I ask questions, he answers; he asks questions, I answer. Possibly we're too very much the same, and we realize we're only using one another. We seem still strangers. We know a lot about each other, but somehow nothing personal. How different from the gay acquaintance, where in two hours, preferably after a tussle in bed, the breast is unburdened completely. Possibly we're both capable of being the remote intellectual, and since neither of us makes a move to be other than this --- so we remain. It would probably be no different even if we WERE roommates, and not simply "2 of 3" in a dorm. He's PROBABLY a very nice person, but it seems he's only a facade that I talk with --- and I'm SURE he feels the same about me. Is this the typical blaseness of the too-long-on-the-road traveler? If so, I can see why Grant and others of Laird's sending seemed polite, distant, and ever so faintly bored. Mayhap this is how ANYONE would become on a trip? "Oh, isn't that LOVELY?" as the horrible tan and cream lady from Australia said interminably. Thank goodness I left her behind at Yosemite.] [Answers to questions from children I'll never have. "Daddy, what's love?"? Love is one of the exalted states of being --- like faith, and other ecstasies. When you're in this state of being, you think very kindly of the person you love, and you want little time to go by that you don't see them or talk with them. When you're really in love, hardly an hour goes by when you don't think of them. The idea that when you love you want to be with the other person constantly is a fantasy. If you marry, and love your wife, you won't mind going to work, though you won't see her, because you know YOUR work is helping HER. If you're with anyone ALL of the time, you grow tired and bored with them. It's like being on vacation. Few people like vacations of over a month --- at that time, no matter how pleasant, the feeling of pleasance wears off. Contrast is the spice of life, and if you see only one person, the spice is gone from life. Since this love need not take every existing second of your time, it seems reasonable that you can love more than one person (in different ways, to be sure, but even the same KIND of love can have many objects. I needn't repeat that you can love God, and your mother, and father and wife and children and country, and possibly even a special teacher or boss or co-worker or servant. It is even possible, though society frowns upon it, to have two loves of the same kind --- not only differing that one might be intellectual, another physical, but even the two physicals can be quite different. One may be a quiet, listless, comfortable physical love; the other a loud, sensuous, vibrant physical love. It may be the tender, comforting love of a father to a son, teaching, explaining, showing, loving. Or it may be the dependent comfortable love of a son to a father, confiding, questioning, beseeching, loving). The joy of children, my child, is good for moments only, like those moments of talking with you. Other times with you are a horror, as you fake crying to get what you want, ask endless stupid questions, repeat the same nonsense phrase a dozen times, or bang your duck against your playpen for fifteen minutes at a time; or cry at night or fuss with your food, or simply squirm for something different, like on a bus, when nothing different is possible, yet you don't understand reason. Only in MOMENTS is love possible.] Again the Cathedral Spires capture the eye, completely filling the windows outside the bus, even though the windows circle to cut into the roof. Up through the valley and the river far below, and stop at Inspiration Point for mental cocktail of fresh air and incredible vista of rock, verdancy and nature. Through the Wawona tunnel and continue to climb, rolling around curves over sweeping panoramas, gasping at the beauty of snow-covered pines, meticulously decked out from trunk to needlepoint, standing muffled in clumps above the white winding-sheet ground. The sun was bright at points, and the glare made me happy the day was generally dim---like the brilliance of a transfiguration, the human eye cannot stand too much natural glory. Get to Badger Pass and the skiers schluss and sitz down the slopes. Sit on the front corner of the snowmobile, and the trip starts great when the tracks dip into a four-foot wide and deep stream bed, and the vehicle smoothly demonstrates its capabilities. The motor roar is loud, but the exhilaration mounts as the air rushes by and the tracks bite into the already marked snow. Once later he detoured over a new area, and the tracks were more interesting to traverse than the sea-featureless snow. Every so often he'd bite into the side, and the wind from below blew snow-mist over the fender and up my trouser-legs. Chilling. We lurched and bobbled up the hill, stopping for views of far-distant Sierras, looking at pines and incense cedars and other flora. The Chinese girls hung on and smiled faintly through the cold, and the young couple (who later shocked by showing photos of their six children---"Well, God bless you" elicited from the Kiwi woman) got my share of pleased looks, his graying curls notwithstanding. Three of the four lifts were not working, and one unused ski slope, only to the unpracticed eye, looks the same as another. At the occupied slope the huge rock which regulates tension on the ski lift is only slightly above the blown-level snow, and we get hailed at the top by a tattered-jeaned Yosemite guide who pushes another onto the mobile with "Take him down to tower five; he's never skied this slope before and can't make it from here." The cute kid climbed aboard and we trundled down the slope, watching the emotionless skiers being pulled past us up the hill. We got to an extremely steep section and the track ended at the crest. The driver nosed into the end and the treads bit two feet closer to the edge, which dropped beneath us. The man behind me tried to voice his sentiments, but began to laugh, and the next few minutes were punctuated with puffs of laughter and bursts of half-understood English words. He almost lapsed into hysterics. The kid hopped off the back and got to the tower. His Levis were so tight they came half up his boots, and when he sank into the snow above the boots, it was clear they caught much of the snow. He waved and began to walk down the hill, I guess finding the risk still too great. He quickly sank to his knees, and his feet spread further apart to walk easier, and this accentuated the thickness of his great thighs as compared to the trimness of his waist and buttocks, the blue fabric stretched tightly over all. The next step he was over his knees, 3/4 to the crotch. The sight of him descending, skis slung over shoulder, the other arm out for balance, the short jacket rising to show pink above his beltless jeans---no wonder skiing has so many enthusiastic followers. We backed up the mobile after he disappeared below the crest, and took off down a hardly less steep side road. We got to the bottom breathless and smiling and cold, and stomped into the lodge for lunch. I had only soup and a banana, and watched the figures through the frosty windows. The ride down seemed so short as to be hardly worth it, but the numerous windmill falls indicated the slope was not simple. Back into the bus and ride around to the Sequoia Gigantea grove. The trees look strangely abbreviated because the trunk is so huge so far above the ground, but there's very little foliage. Also it may be that the perspective laws take over, and the tops are so distant they seem unnaturally small. Again the stark colors---white snow, red-orange sequoia trunks, green needles, blue sky, black tannic acid burns on the bark. The small limousine takes part of the people through Wawona from the Grizzled Giant, and others as bus waits for the circle. Alan and I get in second and walk through tree, and I contemplate standing inside while car goes through, but don't. We walk back to bus, enjoying cool air, woodpecker sounds in trees, and sun-warming snow. Ride back is long and rather tedious and I nod along the way. Stop at Bridal Veil Falls, which is very small (Ribbon is almost non-existent), and back to valley about 6. Alan wants to see Mirror Lake, so we're out and walking for two miles to wind-dappled surface. The view is nice and we walk past Indian caves under huge rocks and get back about 7:30. Eat dinner and back to dorm where I fuss and Alan writes and we end up late for the firefall, seen dimly through trees. The fall is quite short, and only in two spurts. They probably threw about ten pounds of embers off the cliff, and they were dwarfed by scale and distance. Back to dorm and I buy cards and begin to write in lodge. But a slobby beatnik sits down and plays what Carl was learning, but later messes up things terribly, and I leave in disgust. Back to shower and to bed at 10. Don't wake until 7 am.
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 3. Pack and shave and out to breakfast, again excellent with sun-drenched trees and clean air giving view and appetite. Check out for $5 for two days and get suitcase from behind desk and onto bus. Mentally say farewell to the beautiful valley, and am entranced by the cascading river as the bus curves alongside. Beautiful rocks and rapids and trees and rock roadblocks and water flowing yellow-green quietly in pools and snow-white down rocks. Bounced back and forth from window to window as the road winds up and down mountains in lovely combinations of light and shade and water and rock and tree. Into Merced at 10:40, just in time to catch the 10:30 to Fresno. The day is hazy, sadly, and in some places the high-snowed Sierras are not visible from the highway. Past the espaliered orchards, plot after plot, and into Fresno just before noon. Ask for public transportation to Sequoia and Kings Canyon, but told there is none until May 26. No busses out, no tours IN the park. He gives me instruction for hitchhiking but they announce express to LA at 12:40, and so I decide to skip Sequoia (saw them both as redwoods in Marin County and as Gigantea in Yosemite), and Kings Canyon (since there are no lodges open there, and anyway Yosemite was greater than Kings), and go on to LA. ALMOST go to Las Vegas, but I MUST get to LA to transfer my mail, otherwise I wouldn't have returned. Also decide to cut out trying for Bryce and Zion, on the basis of there being NOTHING, as stated, in King's Canyon. Anyway time IS running short. What I would have MISSED if I'd been able to skip LA!! The haze closes in, and the ride to Bakersfield is a bore. Stop there for a fifteen-minute salad for lunch and back on bus next to terribly smoking Mexican, handsome, but certainly worried about something, since he smokes a dozen on a three-hour ride. Look forward to the fabled "Grapevine" but they've since blasted through the hills completely to form an eight-lane divided highway which is essentially an up and a down. Bus slows to a draggy crawl, and the trip is simply long. The LA city line is way out in nowhere, and for the next two hours we start and stop in LA. Finally to the station at 5:30, and the bums along Mission Row are a sorry greeting. Phone the PO to find they close at 5, then try Walt Swan, whose line is busy, a good sign, and Ted Dietlin, who doesn't answer. Try Walt again and get him. We talk a bit and he knows Bill only slightly and thank goodness has nothing planned for the evening. He says he'll meet me at 6:45 on corner, and I get into terminal to root tie out of suitcase and pile other things into it, write three cards to Mom, Paul, and Bill, and out to corner. Discover it's 6th and Los Angeles, not 6th and Main, and fret when he's a bit late, hoping my directions didn't lose him completely. But he drives up and I hop into car. He seems quiet and somehow angry and unenthusiastic. I feel he's doing it only as a duty, and I hope I don't bother him too much. We drive and talk, though there are silences---he seems preoccupied. On and off freeway and begin climbing a hill. Up and up and Bill said he had a view, but when we get up on the hill the ENTIRE HOUSE was built on beams out from the hill. No part of the house touched the ground, and the only entry was over a driveway which was attached to the ground only at the edge of the street. I felt a definite twinge as he eased his car onto the ramp. We got out and he opened the doors. The apartment was huge, and the living room ended in glass doors to a balcony running the length of the house, and beyond the balcony and the gaping space lay what looked like 3/4 of Los Angeles. As he talked the view was much less encompassing, since Hollywood and Glendale were hidden by hills beyond the center of town, the side window looked out to another vista, and Disneyland was beyond the corner of the house. The view extended from the Palos Verdes estates to Mt. Wilson and almost all between. The center of town was directly beneath us, and more immediately below, the next streets and houses were Mexican which made the location supposedly undesirable. They'd built the house four months before it was rented, and then for $95 per month. I could hardly believe it. All four rooms and two baths were good sized, and Walt had furnished it (they'd put in wall-to-wall and drapes) very neatly, simply and modernly. He put on some stereo tapes and made us vodka martinis and we went out on the balcony to look at the City. I was much impressed and ogled and gurgled about its greatness. Walt appeared to warm up a bit, and smiled more often and became more talkative. We talked of the city and my trip and the apartment and the freeways and lights below us. He scoffed at my ideas of following my Holiday guide and suggested Roger Young's Auditorium as a good place: Wednesday special: sauerbraten. I said OK, and said I'd take him. He appeared greatly surprised and asked why. I said I wanted to---he put himself out for me. He accepted this and later told me he had 21 in his pocket, had meant to get to the bank but hadn't, and thus had no money on him at all. I used this to illustrate the fact that something ALWAYS turns up which is very pleasant at the last expected time. We had another drink and then drove about half-hour to a barnlike place from outside, and I felt a sweater and slacks too formal, then inside to carpets and wood and low lights and plush banquettes and formal waiters and I felt too informal, but when the cute waitress came over and greeted Walt warmly and they laughed and talked before ordering more drinks and the special of the day, I discovered it was a perfectly pleasant place. The food was excellent and we could eat as much as we wanted, and the bill came to some ridiculously low price like $6 for the both of us WITH drinks. Back to the apartment about 9 and Walt said he was always up at 6:30, so I was glad I was tired enough to want to go to bed early. Into living room and he made a Russian Cow or something with Kahlua, very tasty, and he put on quiet music and sat on the floor near the sofa. I felt very pleased with him and happy and perfectly content with the surroundings. I sat on the sofa and he once patted me on the knee. It was getting later and I felt somehow he might never make any move. I reached over and rubbed his neck, then up to his short black crewcut and I exclaimed about the softness and silkiness of his hair. He sat up on the sofa and we touched hands, then came quietly together in the softest possible kiss. We repeated, hearts thumping, and repeated, and we both seemed to feel quiet and in awe. Walt said something about tenderness and I agreed, and we continued to be tender. This extremely pleasant state of affairs lasted even though we both had raging erections. Touches got more intimate and finally we collapsed in each other's arms on the sofa, kissing lightly and breathing heavily, and decided we'd really better get to bed. Bed felt a little strange, and the sudden touch of so much flesh began as being nonsensual, yet after a few more incomparable kisses the mood returned and soon we were groaning lightly in delectable sensuality. Unfortunately tenderness can't result in coming, and I later went down as the tenderness became an end in itself. He very efficiently switched back to the sensual, and we alternated looking down at each other's bodies. We both liked to look. I on my knees began to come, an extremely difficult position for me, and he rubbed long and industriously, even rubbing a bit raw in one spot. I came furiously, then used my come to lubricate his head, and slowly he came too. We both dripped, he more than I, and he directed me to the towel in his bathroom and it got a workout on us both, except where his capacious naval retained a well of liquid. We ended with a final series of pleasant kisses and separated for sleep. What wonders such chance encounters can bring.
THURSDAY, APRIL 4. Up at the alarm at 6:30 (except for a phone call at 4:30, wrong number), and he handed me off again; this time I became quite sore. I tried him, but he said he had to urinate and couldn't come. I didn't believe him, but it was getting late, so we got up and showered and read the paper and left the apartment at 7:30. We'd checked the maps and bus lines and I decided to get out to Forest Lawn, then Fantasia. Waited at the bus stop with the cutest set of Mexican kids. Their slightly accented use of English helped to make them charming, but one little girl was simply pretty. Tiny green drop earrings were in her ears, though she was maybe 8. Her eyes were large, black and laughing, and her lips were ruddy. Her face was smooth and polished and shiny, unlike the rather typical heavy Mexican muddiness and flatness that Mexican girls seem to have. Her hair grew much too closely to her face, especially around the temples, but this was helped by her hair being brushed back precisely from her face, making the added effect of stretching and molding the skin to her skull. All the children wore the school uniform of St. Francis of Assisi, and all of them were clean and bright looking. Even this early the sun began to feel warm and I was glad I left my sweater behind. The bus came finally and I rode in to the center of town. Out at the post office, but perversely there was no mail for me. They were only open till noon on Saturday, and since I thought to leave Sunday, I filled out the change of address card, making the next all the way to Chicago. Walk down through lousy central city, through Pershing Square to the Grey Line Office, to find that the tour went only in the PM. Fume and look again over tours for an alternate, but there is none, so I decide to write this morning and returns to Pershing Square to do so [A strange, rather effeminate old man with straggly growths of filmy white hair walks past in a dirty gray suit, and from the fingers of his left hand dangle organic-looking, finger-thick continuances, red and shiny, looking like some shiny red fungus growth. From the thumb the growth curls around itself, and wobbles slightly as he hobbles past. Men shamble past, hairily unshaven and leaning on a cane, shouting "I'm no crackpot, I'm not a screwball, I'm an inVESTigator, for scientific FACT." And he ranted as he poked his way down the sidewalk. Pershing Square certainly has some admirably erect blue jeans strolling past. PS would be very pleasant without the continuous RANTING coming from various quarters at various times. What strange need to converse lures these people in the park to shout back and forth to each other? Though the obvious way to make them move on is to ignore them, the crowd spits back "Move on." "What are you talking about? How do you know; have you ever BEEN in Hell?" and "Why don't you shave?" One old fellow talks of being the biggest Romeo in New Orleans, but it may be with the boys, since he likes to pat bellies of fellows he lectures (with the metal sign "Jesus saves, are you saved" around his neck), and he says to fellow "Spread apart your legs," and then shouts, "Look at the gates of hell open wide, let any idiot put their head in there. Go on and slick it up with your tongue and ram it up there." My neck actually got SORE turning to look at beauties walking behind me, fellow in torso blue shirt, cute cowboy in tapered shirt of denim, about a dozen steadies parading up and down.] [Interlude: roar of fire engines outside, people looking out to street to find Negro pacing on top of the Biltmore, his white shirt and black head conspicuous against the blue sky, the Biltmore flag waving over, the window-washer unconcernedly cleaning beneath. Into Pershing Square for the sound of shattering glass. Two fellows in fire truck, yellow helmeted, dashed over, looked, dashed back, fumbled with a black box and raced back over. A secondary crowd gathered there and remarks and glances were divided between the two scenes. Photos taken, comments passed, traffic stopped, pedestrians rerouted around the 14th floor drama. PS full of idle watchers, one a woman dressed all in white except for shoes, escorted by an overcoated man in the sunny 75 sun with a guitar; and she held up a tiny plastic-covered black-bound book with gold lettering in one hand, and the other, palm upstretched, to balance the picture of her vertical immolation to the black self-sacrifice. When the wind changed, and the pop music from the speakers stopped, I could hear the stock phrases, something like "Bind the strong man, Lord, let him live ---" then as he backed away, "Oh, thank you, Lord, and Oh, my God, deliver us," in incessant litany. New twist? Suicide threatening keeps people away by "My blood will be on YOUR hands if you come near me; you'll FORCE me to jump" --- but threatener is a coward, and won't jump, and when cop comes close, he steps away from edge, but, final blow, cop is a sadist, and PUSHES him off. To add a note of drama (and noise) a helicopter continuously circled the roof --- was it forbidden to land? Would it run out of fuel? And, back to the tour office, with acknowledged sightseers getting their share --- the second hand of the great numberless clock above the Pacific Mutual Bank reflected in the sun, shone precisely twice a minute. Cruising, however, continued as usual, and the rants from PS simply had a new subject --- others they'd seen; how he'd lost his job, his wife, and his mind. And a drunk was predicting the outcome --- "He'll fall and break his back." At the last, before the bus came, it appeared he was pacing back and forth, as if to antagonize the policemen waiting with the nets 14 floors below. The busses were full of that dry hot heat that smothered conversation and stifled thought. Passengers felt a bit like penitents --- here they were at last and they had nothing to do for the next few hours except be quietly led around.] About 11:30 I eat lunch and move into the office to write. The suicide attempt (the paper later said he was lured away from the edge by a sheaf of $20 bills, was grabbed and jailed for psychiatric observation) took time, and I got on the 1:40 shuttle bus to the large central terminal. The busses were hot, and I felt listless and felt even more so when they said they were going to the Farmers Market. It was a nice long drive out and I quenched my thirst with water and a 63 strawberry shortcake. The Farmer's Market was a bit of a disappointment [The Farmer's Market was the typical California melange, with a bit of Texas size thrown in. It was a combination Merry-Go-Round restaurant, Coney Island junk vendor, resort gift shop, Woolworth's (much of that), and Park Avenue Market --- but with not nearly the detail of any of them --- with pets, birds, religious statuary, diamonds, colored feather dusters, and some beautiful boys, as ever. Four flustered faggots though, when out of the clear blue came the Mynah's wolf whistle, and they broke their wrists and looked at each other and camped. Had a good strawberry lousy shortcake with average whipped cream for 63. Odd sum. Priced some magic Nut Carmel Corn for Bill, $1 a lb here, $2.69 sent to New York --- it hardly seemed worth it. They also had Sutherland tickets, for $12 and $9.50 --- that's just a BIT much?] [Tam O'Shanter Inn nicely drawn sign.] [Old King Cole (Supermarket) looks like a faggot with red lips and long blond locks.], and we continued out to Forest Lawn. The largest iron gates in the world (sic) were opened for the bus, and row after row of markers passed as we got to the mausoleum at 3:55. Everyone sat down except me to see the stained glass window. I inspected the dimly-lit reproductions of Michaelangelo's works and wandered into side alcoves to see the tiers of tombs, each with a small (cremation), medium (end of tomb), or large (side of tomb) or huge (whole wall, freestanding sarcophagi, or statuary group, or even entire separate chapel) plaques giving the name and the dates. Knew few of the large names, though WC Fields, died in 1953, had a small nicely centered end-tomb. Small brass sconces fronted many of the tombs, in pairs usually, some with small sprays of flowers. These passages seemed small and crypt-like, but the others upstairs were higher, airier, more free, and in some cases the stained glass threw bands of color onto the marble tomb facades. Snatches of Wagner started stealing into the room and at one of the semi-climaxes a sonorous voice came in with a history of Forest Lawn, the painting, the room, the mausoleum, the window, the Hall of Fame, Dr. Eastan, and the decline and fall of the Roman Empire. Then he began to tell the story "that everyone knows, but it can't be told too often." When he got to Christ's speaking parts his voice dropped even lower, and a slight hint of echo chamber dropped in. Finally the curtains opened (after about 15 minutes of him), and a rather colorful rendition of da Vinci's masterpiece appeared "in natural light, which can be controlled by shutters to give the effect of sunset." So what's wrong with dimness? Don't know how faithful it was, but they implied it differed from original since "original had been touched and retouched so many times it was hardly his work," and "copied from his original SKETCHES for the mural." Anyway, it's nicely done, though the face of Christ is NOT finished, which means it's lighter and naturally holds the light longer, a good touch. John is a bit too faggoty, and one couldn't help but wonder about this "best-loved" disciple of Christ. The story rumbled on and finally the curtains closed and an exit sign flashed on and off. Up a stairway to other reproductions and more corridors and statuary and graves and halls and chapels and galleries. A huge mausoleum, and it would certainly make a fabulous set for a movie with its all-marble floors, wide doorways, sculptured ceilings, and innumerable hallways, banked with biers. Signs entreated quiet, but I saw no one there who wasn't a tourist. Bus then went past the Court of David for a leafed David, though good-sized, and the inner court where owners entered by a gold key (through pearly gates, I'll bet), and a small church, and still these rows of undistinguished graves, all with the same bronze plaque. By this time it was five, and all entered the huge amphitheater where was kept Styka's huge Crucifixion. I stood framed by the pillars, leaning on a sign in the center rear of the auditorium, and still my glass frames could not encompass both ends of the immense four-part red-velvet curtain that hung before us. Again the lights dimmed and Wagner popped out of the speakers, and the same voice told about the history of THIS picture. The curtains opened slowly and the painting centered on Mary, and even was quite conventionally sized, really, except it was topped by an immense set of clouds, based with a huge mass of rocks, and the sides were simply constructions with ant-people crawling all over them. They played "Our Father" and the curtains closed and again the exit light flashed. Out to the terrace to look over the city and back to the museum where a little boy asked an embarrassed daddy why "All the girls have no clothes on." The museum had some jewelry and coins and reproductions of the reproductions they have of David, complete to every detail, including the fig leaf and the corny frown. Back to the bus, buying nothing, and tell the driver I'll be over at the precipice till the last people come. Discover the uniformity of LA [The great pity about Los Angeles is that it has no unity. Not equally hilly, not equally wooded or treed, no uniformity of streets, no beauty of unity --- Venice has canals and architecture, Rome has the magnificent Roman pines and cypresses, Paris has the unity of magnificence in age. But Los Angeles, viewed from any hill, might be ANY part of Los Angeles. Each section is characterless, each part of a whole which is characterless in a multiplicative way. New York is unified in sheer height, and San Francisco magnificent in its hill vs. water vistas and panoramas. Los Angeles is uniform only in its lack of uniformity; hardly uniformity. If you are seven blocks from five sections of Los Angeles, you can characterize Los Angeles --- but other cities can be typified in two or three. This I think is a failing of LA.] and still am enthralled by the sun hitting just the sides and tops of all the buildings in view. Back to the bus and a long ride into town, and he lets me off at Hill and I walk over to Main. Cross 6th just as DON'T WALK sign started blinking, and cross Main on the following green. Step onto Main and a motorcycle officer says, "Wait a minute." Caught; I try to argue out of it. "Doesn't the flashing don't walk mean you can if you can make it, and only when it's standing it means stop?" No. Stranger in town? No. Not going to be here? Mail it in. So I stick the ticket in my pocket and run for the bus that isn't number 2. I'd called Walt earlier and when I got to the end of the zone I called him again and he came down to Hill to take me up the hill. I had a vodka martini and he bourbon and soda, and on the basis of this and innate skill he came up with a lettuce and tomato salad, baked potatoes, green beans with vegetable soup, and EXCELLENT steaks. His talents know no bounds. Candles lit the table and Los Angeles lit the rest of the room. I'd gotten home at 7, so we were finished about 9. We talked and he smoked and we stood on the balcony and hugged, then came in and started playing on the floor, very pleasant this way and I was willing to let it continue and he was already regretting when I would leave. He kept talking about him liking it in Los Angeles and my liking New York---wouldn't that just be the way it would work out. Sex is something which very seldom happened differently (except in rather disgusting cases) (things may differ in GETTING INTO sex, but once both parties are IN it, it tends to be much the same.) It was extremely pleasant to the participants, but for no visible reason. An onlooker would have been bored. Even a prize-fight commentator would find little to say. Motions are slow and deliberate, words are few, and changes of pace are slight and imperceptible. But we enjoyed it immensely. Clothes came off gradually, and positions got involved, and the stranger the position in which the sensuality was maintained, the more pleasant and complete the sensuality seemed. We sat, quarter facing and linked torsos and legs, and rampant cocks knocked in the middle. We stroked and I got sore elbows and we rolled around on the rug in the dimness. We got into bed and the rolling continued. I was still quite sore and didn't want to come, so I went down on him. He was difficult to bring off, but the situation was good and I enjoyed the mouth, then hand, then mouth, then hand and mouth again. He's like me in straining and possibly going down before coming up for the final blow. I enjoyed his coming and we lay together, then slept, possibly as early as 10:30 or 11. We were both exhausted.