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1969 2 of 7


THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 13. But with the way the day works out, I don't type anything today, and I don't type anything tomorrow, either, so that by the time I'm typing THIS on SATURDAY, I've got to do 38 pages to get back on schedule, not unthinkable, but difficult, to be sure. When I called Peter, he didn't want to act as a chaperone "I don't want to cut Shakespeare to see Shakespeare," and I call Joe and Joan, but they don't want to do it, and don't know who would, so I call Avi, and he says it's no sweat. The alarm wakes me at 9:15, and I shave and shower and meditate and exercise, not in that order, and it's a bit late when I get to the subway at 11, but the train is right there, so I'm into the school well before 11:45. Ask for Avi's office, there is none, so I go to the English office, but he's not there. Friend of his says I should wait in the auditorium, and I do, listening to the teachers frantically trying to keep everyone quiet: the people gathered in the back for the show, the students studying in the middle, and the play being rehearsed on the stage. I look with outside eyes and seem to see that only a small amount of rational EXPLANATION to the students would show them they're making things miserable for THEMSELVES, but then I have been a teacher (and where's Don Conte's prediction that I would be?), and it's easy for me to sit with them for two or three hours, but to do it for two or three years is a couple of orders of magnitude different. There's a tall Polish fellow who exchanges peers with me, who's lovely, and a couple others, but mainly they're an unattractive lot. Avi handles things slowly and poorly, and I assemble a tiny piece of my group about me, and they look up to me rather nicely, and I hear remarks like "He's a good guy," and "Oh, talent from outside," and it makes me feel good. The subway ride is a jumbled riot, and the walk to the theatre stops traffic for blocks. The movie is well done, Tybalt and Romeo taking Peters in the looks class, and the colors and sets are lovely. Walk home, buying ribs and "Portnoy's Complaint," and eat and get down to "When She Was Good." Avi calls to ask me to dinner, then Marty calls with two tickets to "Don Quixote." Larry Anger and Bob Oldakowski and Azak and Joe aren't home, so I call Peter and he agrees to pick up the tickets and let me eat, though he hasn't eaten, and I call Avi back to get a depressed voice saying he'd wished I hadn't, and I exploded at him, telling him if that's what he WANTED, I couldn't read his mind, and why didn't he TELL me?? I mumble to Peter and Joe, too, and they agree. The ballet is just as bad, well, truthfully a little better, than I remember it to be, and I'm home to finish "When She Was Good" over another huge pot of popcorn. That junk better not be hazardous to the health. YUM. Bed at 2.


FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 14. Again up at 11, and Joan calls to say she'll be over at 2, and somehow that wrecks the entire day. I don't get down to typing, I do call about the international driver's license after she gets here, but I meditate and don't even exercise because I want to wash my hair, and I do, and she gets here, and that's it. Daisy had offered me her tickets to "Frau ohne Shatten," and Joe agreed to go with me, and I get them in the mail, and so I have to pay her the $13 for them. Then I'm searching for a good guide to Spain, but a Guide Bleu which is 1961 is $9.95, and there's no Michelin for Spain in English, so I stop at Casa de Portugal, and get down to Dr. Norris at 3:30 for my contact lense appointment. He gives me the heart-rending story of how difficult it is for him to make a living, and won't I please get glasses from him, and go through a rather thorough exam, finding that my left glass prescription is too strong, and my right glass prescription is too weak---at least, I now need glasses. Make a second appointment for Monday, and get down to Takashimaya to find they don't have my wine glasses or cups, and to Spain to pick all sorts of folders up, and try Doubleday and Scribner's, and finally find the Mobil guides to Portugal and Spain, and back home about 6:30, after stopping at Chock Full of Nuts for some sort of lunch to stop my querulous stomach. Settle down to "Portnoy's Complaint," and before I know it, it's 10:15, and I've finished the hilarious book, and then I eat dinner and listen to records for awhile---even the unaccompanied viola sounds better with the earphones on---and fix gingerbread and the apartment a bit, and come nicely, like last night, and send for passport and AMG Tom's, and bed at 2.


SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15. Up at 10 to call from Social Security, verifying the $255 for funeral expenses for Dad, then at 10:30 finish the graph of "Days out of the apartment" through January---another stupid list, and then I meditate and exercise in 12.7 MINUTES!!!!, which is great, hopefully I can duplicate that feat tomorrow and the next day. Breakfast and Stu and Claudia call, and he asks if I want to work a year in Rio, and I can't answer him! What a LOVELY thought THAT is. Then it's 2 pm, and I'm down to type DIARY 253-261, catching THAT up to dates, so I've only 29 pages left to type today to get up to schedule! at 3:30. At quarter to four I'm tired of typing, so I'm off to the grocery store, and see the short built fellow from downstairs, but there's no eye contact, pity. What things couldn't be met in the Finast? You come first, dearie! Back at quarter to five and put everything away and have lunch, finally beginning to read some of the articles in the backlog of Scientific Americans. Then back to the typewriter for another ten pages, this time re-reading the Nude Workshop and getting into the swing of that for ten pages, and again I'm tired, so I vary the routine by washing the dishes, which takes another hour, and then back to the typewriter for another ten pages of Nude Workshop, and I'm only nine pages behind schedule by 10 pm, and I kid myself that after I read the Times it may be early enough to catch up to schedule. Out for the Times and pizza, and finally finish up the old Coke which had been degassed in the refrigerator for months, and degassed Coke DOES taste pretty lousy, about as bad as some of the gassy Finast products (for which I paid what I think is a record of $14.95 today, and don't think I wasn't pooped lugging the bulk back to my apartment). By the time I finish the Times it's 12:15, and I'm tired, so I pop into bed, but can't sleep, and then the hideous idea hits me: I can rubber cement my ticket stubs, programs, membership cards, and matchbook covers to sheets of ICWU paper, and thumbtack those onto 3'x4' cardboard slabs like I have in the closet, and cover the ENTIRE wall area of the naked hallway, and I'm out of bed at 1 am to measure square inches of wall and matchbook cover and large and small ticket stub and large and small program. THAT will be the "heavy-heavy-hangs-over-the-head" when I finish with the Nude Workshop and the list of records in my collection. I guess it WILL never end. Then back to bed at 1:30 to count backwards, successfully, damn it, from 50, then start again, and fall asleep sometimes about 2 am, and there goes my earlier rising.


SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16. Out of bed at 11, and fix the apartment up a bit, breaking the THIRD wine glass, and meditate and actually exercise in 12.5 minutes, which makes success and verification from yesterday's 12.7. One day to go, and onward to level 5. Breakfast and type DIARY 262-263 by 1:30, on schedule for THIS! Follow onward with the Nude Workshop, and get to the point where I'd done the bit about reliving LSD experience, and get a bit beyond, doing 23 pages in all, and I'm actually AHEAD of the typing schedule, a good place to be and to keep, since there will be SOME days when I simply won't do anything (like tomorrow, as it happens). Get the idea into my head to have some people over tonight, and I call Joe about it, and he says call back. I get Doug and Larry and John Connolly to come, and call Joe back and he says OK. By the time evening rolls around, Joe and Bob have said no, Azak said OK after Regine Crespin, and Regis says OK after Regine Crespin, each bringing a friend, Azak with John Gestner, Regis with Barry Lane. Arno says he'll come after 10 pm, also, and that's the group. Eat lunch and type more, then shower and shave for the occasion, putting on total stripes, with my black and white striped shirt over my black and white striped heavy bells, and Arno is the only one who says "ugh." Larry is rather quiet as Joe and Doug and I and he share the first two hours until Arno comes, then John blasts in and takes over the place until he's quieted down with booze. Azak is starved, but holds out for a meal from John. Barry is cowed by John, but Regis comes across nicely for Doug and Joe, and Larry properly impresses Doug as exceptionally beautiful, but Joe doesn't find him interesting. Azak is just waiting to be picked up, compared with Regis' reserve, according to Doug, who impresses me, too, by bringing me a bottle of wine. Larry's scotch still holds out, and even with throwing one down the drain when "You've poisoned me!" comes from John when I serve him scotch rather than blended whiskey. Arno doesn't drink, and Azak has only coffee, and by the end of the evening John C. hasn't shown up, and Doug and Larry leave at 11, rather cowed by the turn the party's taken. Barry leaves soon after, and the last four leave at 12, when I have a couple of eggs for dinner, read some more, and get to bed at 2 am, falling asleep quick.


MONDAY, FEBRUARY 17. Up at 10:30 and get down to Norris for an eye check for contacts, and try some on, and they're little difficulty at all. Stop by at Capaldo and Smith, but find they're not MD's, I have to get an MD's OK for eye health, so it doesn't seem worth it, and sort of decide to stick with Norris, even though it is a hefty walk, and $25 more expensive than what Smith quotes. Back at 2, and remember that I'd forgotten "Blue Continent" on TV, but I watch the end about the Red Sea islands and reefs, and it's coy and cute, and aside from the cocky bodies, not much to look at, like the gratuitous killing of the "Devil Fish" (a ray), just to be the "first group of skin divers to have done so." Then it's three and I eat lunch, and Joe calls for dinner at 6, and I stopped off to buy three plates at Takashimaya, and KY at Korvette's, so I try the KY, and find that it dries too quickly, and is too tacky after just moments of use. Experience pays, Abolene cream next, though all they had were enormous jars. Then it's time to shower, and I do just the first bit of studying on Spain from the folders, and it's time to get up to Joe's, where he has an enormous steak waiting with mashed potatoes and a salad, and we decide which of the Joffrey we want to see and walk down to "Die Frau ohne Shatten" with a stellar cast and kicky audience, and someone who might have been Tom Thompson, and the opera is SO much better than in concert version, and the production is undeniably sumptuous, with levels and elevators and stairs, and quick scenes of splendor, and the orchestral interlude before the final quartet is extravagantly splendid, though the singers have been so fatigued from the evening that the singing doesn't go as well as it did earlier in the evening, and it's over to some sort of accident with Leonie Rysanek, who doesn't take final bows, and out at 12:10, to rush home to see the end of a rather boring "Heaven Can Wait," though the Lubitsch touch is comically evident, and bed at 2, setting the alarm at 9:30 for the early morning movie on TV---the only reason I'll rise early??


TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18. Explosion outside now reminds me about the trash fire we had yesterday out front, while the sanitation men clean up the snow, not the trash, with smoke completely obscuring the front of my windows. Wake to find the TV movies have been changed, and watch till 10:30, junk, and meditate and exercise, actually in 12.4 minutes, so tomorrow it's on to level 5, and I fuss about the apartment and settle down to DIARY 264-265 by 2:45 pm, now. Then get on and actually FINISH the NUDE WORKSHOP writing, and that's the last of the items that were hanging me up, so all I have to do NOW is answer all those letters which have been piling up, continue to do the average of ten pages per day, and the only other things, aside from the normal tasks of cleaning the apartment and getting groceries and taking the laundry out, are connected with that fantastic task I thought of to put all my ticket stubs and programs onto sheets of paper and hang them on the wall. Eat lunch at 5, then Cyndy calls twice during the day to say that she's been sick, and that she might STILL be going back to Phoenix for a month. We talk for a long time about her depressions and my triumphs with my writing, and then again I have nothing to do but don't feel like writing so I begin to see how long it will take to type up my record collection, and I begin writing the scratch sheets for typing, and it goes rather rapidly, so I continue. Take time out to watch a National Geographic special on Australia from 7:30 to 8:30, and have some supper in there, too, and Joe calls to say that he hasn't gotten the paper yet, and that he wants to come over tomorrow to fill out some forms that he has to send out for his license for teaching. I call Norma to talk to her, but a hysterical secretary who doesn't stop laughing all the while I'm talking to her, with a shrieky, contagious laughter that keeps me laughing for moments after I've hung up with her, tells me that she's on vacation, and will be back Monday. Continue with the record cataloging, and I have an enormous amount of B's, but it goes quickly, so by 11 pm I've finished the writing part, and figure I might as well start on the typing. That goes nicely, too, once I've gotten the pattern well in mind, and I finish up to about record 600 by 1 am, vaguely debating finishing this evening, but I'm getting very sloppy in my typing, and have a vague bit of trouble with the space bar---getting one too many spacing, which I feel is trouble with my fingering, rather than with the typewriter, and I get to bed at 1, sleeping.


WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 19. Wake to find I've torn huge holes in my sheet, and there's another down the drain---funny how they all go at once. When I find it's only 9:40, shockingly early, I get up to see if maybe they haven't switched "If I Had a Million" to today's TV, but it isn't, and I switch channels to remind myself that Bette Davis is on in "The Sisters," and it's a sobby soap with Errol Flynn as the loved husband who's "got to travel," and the other sister has a child and is happy, and the other sister goes from rich man to rich man, and will obviously end in dire straits, so I watch that to 11, driven up the wall by the inanities of Gloria DeHaven and the icky housewives she calls to identify that tune. Watch the quiz program following, and curse my idleness when I get down to meditate at 11:45. Then I determine to try the first level of level 5, and the "leg raise while on one hand, body held rigid" is absolutely killing, and the next morning I feel a terribly stiffness on the outside of the hip where I've used muscles I hadn't used before. Get the whole thing done in just over 28 minutes, and feel good about it. Finish the record typing after breakfast, and am just proofreading it when Joe comes in at 2:30 with his applications to be typed for teaching certificates, and his resume. He reads Scientific American and looks at Tom drawings while I type, and then it's 7, because I've taken off at 5 to eat lunch, and he reads some of my novel, saying mainly that I've not characterized the people plainly enough, nor have I decided on what mood I want to set and gone about setting it. We watch Thalassa Cruso throwing around bulbs from 7:30 to 8, and then he leaves. I go back to getting statistics on the record list until 11, when the heat's off, so I can't wash my hair, as I'd planned when I'd stripped the bed for clean sheets, so I eat till 12, then read a bit of Krishnamurti until 1, when I put the dirty sheets back on, and get to bed about 1:45, hoping the heat's not out ALL day tomorrow.


THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 20. Up at 10:30, and the heat's on, so the day will be OK. Meditate, and it's getting better, I'm not so much anticipating the little bell to ring, and I'm feeling more comfortable with the time---and I have not so much hanging over my mind to bother me, and so it's going better. Get down to type DIARY 266-267---what is this every other day bit?---by 11:30 am, now. Even the exercises are easier, though my muscles are sore from yesterday, but the one-arm leg raise is done in three sets, rather than in four sets, and that's pretty good after only one trial. The whole thing gets finished in 26 minutes, well on my way to 15 minutes. Call Don to see what he thought of "Your Own Thing," and he thought it was lousy, and says he has free tickets to the Joffrey. I call Regis at work and he says fine, he'll be here at 6:45, and I call Don and say all is OK. Down to Norris at 2 pm, and get the lenses in for over an hour and a half, and though the reading is doubled and a strain at first, they settle down, and he says I have good possibilities of all-day wear. Then I want to take them, and she wants the balance of payments. Terrible! So I have to come back tomorrow. Walk back home and call Joan, who's busy, at 5, and have a snack, and decide tomorrow will be busy, so I wash dishes and sweep the floors in preparation for Regis tonight and for the Bernsteins tomorrow---though they didn't call today. Also washed my hair this morning. Regis comes in just as I'm starting a letter to Rita, since Jean-Jacques wrote to say that the Spanish vacation was on for April 6-May 4. Great. He shaves and we're out to Angelo's for an antipasto, and Don picked us up at 7:45, and we get rather poor seats on the side, though we three are together. "Moves" is still vaguely uninteresting without music, "Konservatoriat" is a catastrophe of good intentions and poor dancing, even Sutherland looking troubled in a Bruhn-part, and "Fa├žade" is vaguely amusing, but "Souvenirs" did it much better. Out at 10:15 and over to Carnegie Tavern for omelets and pig's knuckle, and we chat until 12, and then I'm home, tired from the beer, to get into bed and asleep by 12:30.


FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 21. Up at 9:15, and out by 10:15 after breakfast to get my belt sewn, shoes shined, money withdrawn from the bank, lenses paid for and gotten, and laundry picked up, by 11:30, and the Bernsteins give no sign of showing up. Wear lenses for 2 hours, and all goes well through lunch, then take them out and find there's no visa required for Morocco, call again for an International Driver's License, and type this by 2:30. Continue typing to the end of the third session, page 26, and by that time it's late enough to think the Bernsteins aren't coming. Joan calls to say she'll be bringing up food from Chock Full of Nuts, and I put on steak to broil, since she will have eaten before she gets here. But she's in, almost in tears, to say that Chock Full is closed, and she's had nothing to eat. I say that I've got enough steak for two, and open a can of peas and carrots to go with the sweet potatoes, and have a lettuce salad, and there seems to be enough to eat for everyone of everything but steak, which is good. Before we settle down to TV, I mix another batch of brownies and put them into the oven during the first act of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." Joan remembers that Pat was supposed to come, too, so she calls him and finds that he's out of a job in a month---another client has left the company "through no fault of his own." She's sorry about him AND about herself. Freddie and Diane come in about 9:30, and we all have brownies and drinks until it's over at 11, and Joe hasn't showed up for the beginning of "The Prize," and they watch it until 11:30, and then have to go. It's a good flick, and Paul Newman actually looks humanly surprised when someone tries to kill him, or when he stumbles over a dead body, but the suspense builds nicely, and even Elke Sommer isn't handled so badly. The brownies were an unqualified hit. It's over after 1:30, and I get to bed, tired.


SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 22. The guy on the telephone (after I listened to "Ivan" and "he Hump-Backed Horse" on WBAI for an hour trying to hear an announcement about tomorrow's Wagner concert) said it would start at 9 am, but since they're into the second scene of "Das Rheingold," they must have started sometime after 8 am. My tapes are all set and waiting, and I set up a recording schedule that indicates that 20 reels of tape should be good enough for the Ring. Get involved in listening to Rheingold, checking up on the singers in Schwann's, the story of the opera in Cross's book, and changing tapes every half-hour. Turn on TV about 11 just for a change of pace, and have it on for a couple of hours, not really watching, just looking at the picture to the tune of Wagner's Ring (DAMN THIS TYPEWRITER!!!). Keep telling myself that I really should get some typing done, or get some writing done, but I don't do it, and it doesn't get done through the entire day, which is somewhat of a chore. "Die Walkeure" is quite interesting to listen to, however, and the production on London records is really great. Get out in the afternoon to buy groceries, and take a shower and fix up the apartment, and finally at 9:30, having eaten lunch at the rather early hour of three, I'm getting hungry and go out to see if the Times has come in yet, and sure enough it has. Read it and eat pizza and find that the "Gotterdammerung" performance will be over by 11:15, and so I begin to call people at 10:30 for the performance at the Free Music Store of the WBAI production of "Peloponnesian War" (by Thucydides the Athenian), with Daniel Nagrin. Joe doesn't want to go because he's tired, and Avi had just broken up with John, and feels terrible about the whole thing, and I call Larry Anger and Regis and Azak and Doug, all without answer, and Peter had said no earlier on, so I was deciding whether to go myself when Avi called back and said he'd be over. I shave and wash a bit, and he gets in at 11:30, and we take a subway down to the Lafayette Theater on Astor Place, and it's already full of hippies. The donation jar is only filled with about $10 with 600-700 people massed on the floor. A kid yowls when the lights are turned off, and a candle is passed back and forth among some of the watchers, but Nagrin is simply lousy, and we talk about leaving during the interminable intermission, and when it starts again and he goes through his could-be-interesting bare-breasted-woman act, without even bothering to change his style of choreography, Avi says we'd better go, and we do, getting home at 3, and I go through the rest of the Times to 3:30.


SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 23. Up at 11:45 and go through a painful meditation and exercise until 1, and put in the contact lenses for the 3.0 hour wearing session today, and decide it would be nice to come in the shower with my fog-proof lenses. Get the sheets into the hot water and the mirror set up against the sink, and it's a great view, but I come quickly, and all the set-up time is more or less wasted. Am far behind on typing, and decide I have to do a lot today, but get some of the ends of the LSD novel finished, and just don't feel that I can do much more. Back into the living room to read more of the Times, and watch a great NBC experiment in TV in the early evening, and then see Frankie Howerd from England, which was pretty bad, but I ate dinner during it, and then I keep watching for the Lewis and Clark journals, and it was pretty interesting. Joe had called earlier to see about an EB article about modern art, and he comes over at 7:30 to write down some things about it and I end up reading some of the "Second Series of Commentaries" by Krishnamurti. Joe leaves and I'm still feeling lousy, and not like doing anything, so I turn on the TV and watch "Dr. Who and the Daleks" which is a mindless British science-fiction film, and that takes until 1:30 and I'm tired enough to get to bed and sleep, another useless day, even though I did type 11 pages of the novel, most of them junk.


MONDAY, FEBRUARY 24. Phone the IBM repairman because the typewriter is simply getting on my nerves with the extra spacing, and it's getting on my nerves even more now!!! Yesterday I started on a letter to Rita, and today I finished it, and started and finished a five-page monstrosity to Bill, but I haven't even mailed it as of Tuesday, so there's no telling when it will get there. Finally finish the "Second Series of Commentaries" by Krishnamurti, and type a page and a half of notes for Bill in response to his 31 pages of notes from Nicoll. At least the extra spaces makes for more typing speed, rather than for less typing speed. Spend a long time checking the countries in which I want my international driving license to be effective, and the trip looks better and better. Get out the slide projector and draw some of my own pornography, which is quite effective, but I tell myself I'd MUCH better go out and get something on my own. Joan and Freddie come over at 6:30 while I'm typing and I continue to type until Freddie shows up at 7:30, saying she had a reading at 8, and we're off to perfectly terrible food at Castillo Chino, and there's not even a crowd there this time, so that really has to come off my list. Then they force me onto the subway by paying my token, saying I'M going to read for Iago, and we get up there to find the audition postponed, and I walk up to check on Cinema VII but it's closed, and walk down CPW to find nothing, and see where the sauna is at 300 W. 58th Street, and then home to finish the reading and get to bed.


TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 25. Up at 10 to meditate and get halfway through the exercises when the IBM repairman comes. Patty calls and we're talking when he leaves, and I ask if I should check it, and he says it's OK, and then after Joan calls and I talk to Norma and get back to exercising and breakfast and back to typing at 2 pm, I find that the space bar is STILL off, and I'm getting too far behind with my typing to ignore it---but typing is so much FASTER this way!! Joan drops over at 2 to say she's lost her job, and she rests while I read the new Life, and then she's off to Ora's lesson, and I begin calling freighter agencies and appear to be taking the Havskar on March 21 for $198. Do some typing on GENETIC DAMAGE, 9 pages, and begin typing Diary to catch up, but the typewriter drives me to distraction until I decide to type like this is and just get it DONE. Then call Avi to tell him the news, and Joe, and he reminds me that the Atlantic is a stormy ocean, and he predicts ten days of seasickness, and I laugh, and come back to finish this diary set of pages, and I HAVE to finish with 280 pages before the end of February, so that I can get ahead of myself in March to complete those 500 pages I set up for myself as a schedule. Decide to wait on writing JJ for Thursday, when I'll stop by the Morocco travel bureau and French travel office to see when the Opera's open. Finish this crap at 8 pm. Read a bit more of Krishnamurti's "Life Ahead," which I started while the IBM repairman was here, and then it's 9 pm and time to make dinner, then watch "The Experiment" on TV with a lovely new actor, son of Kirk Douglas, M.K. Douglas, who looks as though he's got a fabulous body, and a nice face and acting manner as well. That lasts to 11, and I read a bit longer, then masturbate for the fun of it, and get to bed at 12:30---and can't fall asleep. I start worrying about what Joe's said about the stormy Atlantic Ocean, and I recall the terribly feelings I had when crossing the Atlantic on the short ferry between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, but I figure that on the freighter I'll be in an outside cabin, without fear of getting caught in the bowels of the ship in case of tragedy, and there'll be less noise of the pounding engines in my ears. But the fear is still there, and I try K's method of simply realizing what IS, the fact that I AM frightened, and my heart gradually stops pounding, my feet and palms stop sweating, I take a few deep sighing breaths, and before I can actually realize I'm not frightened any more---though I had the inkling that the fear was lessening, I was asleep---is there the chance that what IS helps?


WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 26. Wake at 9:30, and lay there until just after 10, then up to rid the apartment of most of its junk, and just in time, because the repairman knocks on the door just as I'm about to start meditating. I explain the torment I'm going through with the typing, and he fixes it again while I read more of "Life Ahead," and he's gone at 10:30, after I've tried it and it seems to be OK. Then I meditate, rather nicely, and exercise, during which I feel very weary, but manage to get it done in a new record of exactly 24 minutes. Which makes me feel better and then Joan calls to ask about the check, and I eat and get down for lunch meat and cheese at Gristedes, and Joan's check has come; as she's moving out, I say she can stay here tonight if she wants to, and she starts crying and saying she'll call me back. Then I can actually get down to typing, and type this entire page without having any trouble with the space bar, so he's managed to fix it at last, and making me happy by saying it's covered by the 10-day-expired warranty. 1:45 pm! Then I type six pages of miscellaneous conversation, and decide that the party would be a good thing to work on, and do 11 pages of that, and work on KEN, MACKENZIE, and by the time the day is over, I've typed 30 pages, and am feeling quite good about it. Joan gets in about 7 pm, and I ask her if she wants to go to the movies, but she doesn't. We eat my broiled veal chops, and I'm determined to make conversation, so the dinner goes smoothly, and we sit and chat for awhile, and then she sits down to read and relax while I read, then fidget out of my seat and into the bedroom where I finish a long letter to Claudia, and write a little note to Arthur Derounian, and send for the Hong Kong camera catalog that Cyndy described, and Joan gets ready for bed, and I type until about 12:30, and get to bed myself, while Joan sits up and reads until about 1, and I'm mystified by her statement that she needs sleep so badly, but she doesn't bother to GET it when she has the chance. I'm having trouble getting to sleep, but do so finally, and then I'm awakened at some morning hour by her shouting "Mother," which I later type into DREAM-LIKE, and fall again quickly asleep, after trying the "accept what IS" of Krishnamurti, it works!


THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 27, Wake to find Joan gone, and I meditate and exercise and put in my contact lenses at 11 am, by far the earliest time on record. Breakfast and shower to get down to Norris at 2, stopping off beforehand at the French National Tourist Agency, and afterhand (?) at the Moroccan Tourist Office, and observe the site of the fire at 48th and Fifth last night, which quickly killed nine people, though the building doesn't look much hurt at all, with all the lights still lit, and offices in the same building open for business, and painting going on right there. Back to do eleven pages of typing, making it into thirteen by putting the heading on the DIARY page and on the WALK IN PARK page, but not typing them. Wanted rather badly to get up to schedule by the end of February, but I just didn't feel more like typing, and I had to get off to meet Joe for "Prince Igor," and it leaves 20 pages for tomorrow if I want to do ten a day, or 40, since I get it into my mind that I should really do 300 pages during February, and then ten pages per day until March 20, so that I can leave on the Havskar on the 21st, which is what I've finally arranged after a number of telephone calls. Then it's 7 pm, and I get dressed for the opera, eating only a large piece of cake and yogurt for dinner, expecting to meet Marty and Regina afterwards for something more to eat. "Prince Igor" has borrowed sets of crowded plainness, except for the burnt-out set of the fourth act, singers who have more quality than quantity to their voices, a prelude that goes on forever with pitifully inadequate semi-climaxes strewn throughout, and not much action until the third act, when Edward Villella and Katharyn Horne bring down the house with their Polovetsian Dances, and even when they come out for the bows in the fourth act, they get all the applause, and so they literally saved the opera. Our seats are lousy, but what do you expect for $2.25? Meet Marty afterwards, and across to the Waffle House for pancakes and drinks, and talk about Krishnamurti and opera and other nonsense, getting out at their 1 am closing time, and I'm home to get to bed after reading some more---just can't get to bed early---at 2:30 or so.


FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 28. Wake about 10:30, and meditate and exercise and just get ready for lunch with Norma at 12:30, even without eating any breakfast. I'd called for reservations at Danny's Hideaway, and we eat in the Inferno Room, which we wait until 1:15 for, and the boneless chicken I have is not gristle-less, and the service is shoddy, and the atmosphere strictly Mad Ave loudly, so I've no interest in going back. We talk about her current spate of happiness, and I talk about my writing, and she tells how bored she gets with her husband, and I wonder whether it's possible for ANY two people to be happy together for long period of time---aside from books and movies, that is. She's bored and irritated with him for what he can do that she can't: make friends, be lively at parties; he's bored for the same reasons, and envies her ability to made decisions and MOVE. And the kids are caught in the middle of a marriage that's getting "bored" apart. She's brought in a story by her daughter for me to read, and I pick it up and get in after 3 pm, fearing I've missed a call from Oz. Read her stories, which are poorly good, and actually finish "Life Ahead" before Oz comes in at 5:30, saying he was held up by traffic. He immediately starts kissing and commenting over me, and I call up others for the party tonight, and Arno calls ME, but can't come, and Azak says he'll be over after dinner, and Don says he'll be over after the show. We talk of restaurants, and it turns out he likes good French food, so I reserve at Biarritz, and he washes and it's jammed, so that we're there at 7, but don't get seated until 7:45, and don't order until 8:15, and I call Avi and tell him to be late. The food is good but the service is terrible, and Oz doesn't like THAT very much, but treats me to the dinner, saying he'll take it off his expense account. Fine. Back home at 9:30, but no one's there, and Joe calls to say he doesn't feel like coming over, and Avi comes over and we chat, then Azak enters and we turn the lights out and sit around with candles, talking of sex and Oz's jobs and my writing and going to Spain, and the current line of plays and movies, and then Don's in at 11:30, and we talk about his evening, then Azak's evening, then mutual friends such as Paul and Joe, and then it's 1:30 and the three of them leave, and Oz again grapples with me to thank me for the evening. I say he can sleep with me, and we get into bed and he snuggles up with me, and when I don't push him away, figuring if anything will happen if he forces it, fine, he gets bolder and bolder. We kiss and kiss and kiss, but I don't get hot. He goes down on my chest and opens my pajamas and handles my cock, but nothing happens. Then we cuddle some more and he's about to call it quits, but then goes down on me, then kisses some more, but the button's not pushed, and finally I say I'm tired, and we roll over, with some bitter comments from him, and fall into a coma about 2:30, and I find it hard to get to sleep, but do finally about 3.


SATURDAY, MARCH 1. Wake about 10:30, and he makes some telephone calls and I sit down for a long letter to Jean-Jacques, and he's off to his dates at 12 so that I can meditate and exercise until 2, when I figure he'll be back, but he calls at 5 to say that he'll be back at 6 so that we can get to Avi's for his party at 7. I type three pages, but can't do any more, and listen to music for much of the afternoon, content to merely watch the sunset and listen to the music and do nothing. Hardly give myself any excuses for being lazy, I'm just lazy. Write to Gramma Zolnierzak, and that's the end of the production for the day. Avi calls and says to make it 8, so when Oz gets in at 6:15, there's more pawing, and then we're into the shower (separately) and he has to have more money, so at 8 we're over to 64th and York to see Frank, his plump friend who kisses me with an oozy smile on entering and exiting, and Tom, his red-headed friend with nice, approving eyes who saves money to go to the opera. I like him. Out into the hydrant-parked car and to the West Side, and I grab a parking spot just off CPW, and we walk the rest of the way to Avi's, and he's not there. Wonder what to do when Avi and Evan walk in, disturbed by our lateness, and we're to Uncle Tonoose's, where they're out of the sweetbreads and shawerma, so everyone has shish kebab except Oz, who's stuck with a terrible couscous. Finished at 10:30 and to John Garcia's party, and it's a nice apartment but a dull party, everyone knows friends and are talking with them, no one's under 25 who's attractive, and nothing seems ready to happen, so we're out at 12, and Evan leaves and we're to Mister D's, which is full of absolutely lovely young guys, seemingly on the cruise, and it's jammed and nicely lit, and the upstairs and downstairs are equally great. Talk to Allan, and get snubbed by Dwayne, and Avi and I dance and dance, and I'm uncomfortable by his presence, and I'm still getting used to my contacts, so the evening is not very cruisy, but the place is ravishingly lovely. Out at 2:15 and walk home in the windy weather, through which Oz is right now driving back to Philadelphia, afraid of the snow which is supposed to blanket the area. Buy the Times and read some sections until I'm pooped, and get into bed at 3:30.


SUNDAY, MARCH 2. Out of bed at 11:45, and how's that for killing the morning? Don't really have time for meditation or exercise, since Don calls and says he'll be here at 1:30, and that's at 12:15. Breakfast and read more of the Times, and down to meet him in the street and over to the campily-dressed Philharmonic for a screamy audience for the not-so-hot film, but it's nicely entertaining, and I'm glad of a chance to "do" something for Don, since he did want to see it, and had to purchase seats by the pair, and could find no one else to go with. But that $3.00 for the seat halves my total cash account, and I'm wondering where the next cash will come from. Home and get back to the Times, and I still don't feel like doing anything, so I turn on "Scott of Antarctica" at 4:30, and watch that through until 6, when Azak calls and says that Joe should come along this evening, so I call him and he says OK. Eat dinner and read the Times and do nothing else until I'm out for the concert at 8:15, and Joe and Dwayne and Azak don't say anything about my contact lenses, though Azak says "You look particularly lovely this evening," and I say, "It must be my coat." Jacqueline DuPre sort of monopolizes the evening, as the Barenboim piano seems mainly like an accompanying instrument. Azak ogles George Segal, and talks with a few girl friends of his, and I meet Jean Amis, now Jean Curtis, and she gives me her number to give to Joan. Joe comes down with me to see the last half of "The Agony and the Ecstasy" until 12:15, and I'm about to go to bed when I see that "King Solomon's Mines" started at 12:30, and maybe I can see the stampede, but when I put in on, it's just starting, and I watch it, hypnotized, and with nothing better to do, until 3 am, and get to bed, cursing myself.


MONDAY, MARCH 3. Wake at 9, having set the alarm for a movie, but there's a substitution, so I watch "Who Is Jennifer?" with an aging Dan Duryea, and an aged Gloria Swanson, which lasts the hour before the postponed Apollo 9 moonshot, so I watch THAT until 11:30, and meditate and exercise and come three times during the day over the pornography, which I rearrange to fit into the new Screw magazine, which arrived today. Sort through all my old collection to sort out old clothed stuff that's no good, and take care also to weed out everything with my name on it, since I'm going to throw it away in the usual manner: dumping the whole mess into a trash basket and hurrying away when no one's watching. So furtive! So stupid to be involved in pornography, when what I really WANT is a man. Decide that I should type a thing called NOW, in response to the conviction that I feel that Krishnamurti's right, but that I'm not happy because I WANT someone, and I'm confused about things, so I figure a typed psychoanalysis might be good---if I don't do it all here right NOW. By the time it's 5 pm, I'm starved, so I have a bacon sandwich, which tastes great---but then I'm starved, and watch the sun go down for about an hour, looking at the shadows on the wall, and the sun ducking behind the clouds and the chimney from the Parc Vendome, and the clouds changing colors and lighting up the buildings in the city. Still don't feel like typing anything, so I don't, and in desperation turn to TV at 6. Watch junky nothings like "Gilligan's Island" and "I Spy" and "Voyage to the Unknown" and a special on Channel 13 about a gaudy Gaudi, and then laugh through an increasingly dirty, gay "Laugh-In," and it's 9 pm, and I've done nothing today. Come again, three times in all, and recall that yesterday I actually KYed a carrot to shove up my ass to see what it felt like, and as long as I'm relaxed, it's OK. Waited for a call from Azak today, too, since he suggested we might tour the free Metropolitan exhibit on Harlem today, but he didn't call. I eat dinner at 9:30, and settle down to reading more of Krishnamurti. But nothing interesting happens, and I get nothing done, and I don't even look at the pile of typing I should do, and get to bed about 1 am, setting the alarm for 9:30 tomorrow.


TUESDAY, MARCH 4. But the movie I wanted to see isn't ON at 9:30, so I watch a stupid "My Little Margie" and "Truth and Consequences" until 10:30, and THEN "Typhoon" comes on, so I call my barber to say I can't make it at 11:30, though I don't tell him why, and he says 12. I make it at 12, and get back at 12:30, having spent my last 67 cents on bread and milk, and eat breakfast and decide to ACTUALLY get down to typing, doing DIARY 278-282 by 2:30 pm. Work on Ken,Adam, and on Ken,Fred, but the going is very slow, and the words seem terribly dull and the ideas flat. Every new page is a struggle with what to say, and this could hardly be creative writing. Decide it's about time to see just what I HAVE, so I make up little sheets for each of the 14 days, and separate pages into their days, and find I have 210 pages done, so I have about 120 more to go to get to the 330 pages of double spaced pages I needed to be the equivalent of 500 triple spaced pages. The idea that I'm so far behind in typing is a grueling one, and I can't seem to do anything about it. There just doesn't seem to be any interest for me in what's left of the LSD novel. Arthur Derounian calls at 2, to say he'll be up at 4:30, and sure enough, on the dot he's here. We talk about his travels in Turkey (where he'd taken the picture three years ago, in Aden) and in Israel, where he got new material for his book, and he's going back to London and Europe in May. He tells of his son who's making $17,000 in systems, and he only has two years of college and four years' experience. Great. He still has the house in Manhasset, or wherever, but he works out of some Jewish building where his other address is. He'd been to Spain only 8-9 years ago, so the only advice he can give is take money with me. He also advises that I don't send disconnected sections to an editor, but the first three or four chapters, and that DOES sound good. Then we're onto sex, and talk about the "wide-open" color shots of women, and he tells about pot parties he's been to. I talk about Frank and Lisa and Mimsy and Phil and John, and have to translate FROM my novel names to make sure I have them right. Good. Then we're onto my sex scene, and he's merely nosy. Stays until 6, when Doug calls and he leaves, and I eat a hungered-for lunch at 6:15. Joan doesn't call back about going to the movie tonight, so I fumble through more writing, but only do a total of 16 pages today. Patty calls, and arrives at 11 pm to sleep the night here. I boil eggs and take Kris to bed, getting to sleep at 1 am, after listening to her mumble in her sleep. Is it put on?


WEDNESDAY, MARCH 5. Up at 10 am for "Vogues" to 11:30, do "HOMER KATZ" by 1:30. Then I'm finally ready for the "NOW" section, and do pages of it, and the first page or two lets me know what was holding me up on the LSD novel, and the other pages are pretty good, too. Had eaten because I was hungry, so I meditated and exercised in the afternoon, getting the exercises done in 24.1 minutes, a new record, and they seem to be getting easier. Fine. Type the ten DIARY pages, and then it's time for dinner. Watch the sunset for awhile, and Joan comes in to kill an hour before her lesson, and we chat and she types her characterization, and I shower and get out at 7:30 to walk through the park (throwing away much of the old mail-order cockery I'd sorted through a couple days ago, into a trash can in the park) to the Advanced Meditation class at 8. There are 8 guys and three girls, and the older bald mediator is properly unmarried and sexy, and the thick-necked young flower-haired with THICK thighs in his bell-bottoms, and the level-gazing thin guy on the sofa are good to look at through the interminable giggly Maharishi tape, with the emphasis on "The mind will just naturally go toward greater charm" and Margaret Potter (I think that's the red-head's name) said that the Maharishi dismissed Kris by saying that "he didn't have a master" and thus, it seems, could have no part of the line of teaching of the Bhagavad-Gita straight from its author in 5000 BC, which EB moves forward to 600 BC. This is over at 10, with an exhortation to come next Wednesday, when they have a MOVIE of the Maharishi, and I'm out to an Angusburger and to Mister D's at 10:30, but it really doesn't fill up until 11:30, and I get into the dancehall at 12, and it emptied out at 2, and there were lots of nice people, but I talked with Jose and George and danced with George and a colored guy, and talked with Bruce, who lived with his step-parents, just came from dinner at the Plaza, and took tricks to his office around the corner where he "did them." Then he said excuse me, and was never seen again. Walk home and have a western sandwich for my LAST $1.35, and bed at 2:45.


THURSDAY, MARCH 6. Up at 11:30 and call Warren, finally telling him to sell 3 IBM's for 300. Meditate, exercise, eat, and do this by 1:30, good. Decide that there's no time like the present to get started on the CHARACTERIZATIONS, and get through thirteen of them before I just can't go any further. But the idea of just sitting down and DOING it is lovely, and it happens to WORK! I say "I don't feel like doing this, it's going to be terrible," and I sit and mope, until something taps me on the shoulder and says, "But if you just START, maybe it'll work out?" If I continue to moan, I'll never find out, but when I DO start, more often than not it DOES work out. Fabulous. I'm supposed to keep my lenses in 8.5 hours today, but it's 6 pm before I remember to put them in, since Joan calls at 4 and talks for awhile, so I put them in and take off for the Asana class, starting off at 25 of 7, deciding it's too late to walk, wait for a bus, which never comes, so I end up taking a taxi, feeling rich because I went to the bank this afternoon and cashed a "cash" check for $23, which puts me absolutely up against the wall with available money, but gives me something to spend when I want to. There's only one other person for the Asana class, and we get it down in one hour, then I'm downstairs to read it through again and come up with questions, and though they're all lovely to look at, they talk an unremittingly straight scene. Pity. Out to call Bonnie to see if she can pay me back, and she can, so I'm up while the two of them weave back and forth smoking #1 in a pipe, which is the worst, and Bonnie rolls me a joint of #10, which is the best, asking me to share it with a friend. Now who could THAT be? Home, driven by Bonnie, at 10:30, and I eat dinner and decide to watch TV to stay up to 2:30 to wear my lenses, so I watch "Clash by Night" with a barrel-chested Paul Douglas playing the patsy husband to a dating Barbara Stanwyck attracted to muscled Robert Ryan, and who wouldn't be? Then "Green Hell" pits Doug Fairbanks Jr. against the rains, natives, sniveling underlings, and beauty of Joan Bennet while looking for ancient Peruvian gold, which, of course, they find. Bed at 2:45, tired.


FRIDAY, MARCH 7. Up at 10 to a phone call from Norris, saying he's sick, and will call me back on Monday. Back up at 11 to a call from Joe, saying he'll meet me at 12 at the Frumkin Gallery, so I shower and shave and don't bother to exercise or asana or meditate, and get out late, but he's even later, and we look at Friedman at the Egan Gallery across the hall, the Mexican folk art thing at IBM, and DeKooning at Knoedler, where Joe meets one of his blond god students and talks quite a while. Back home to type a bit, then lunch, and down to pick up a check for Joan and a W-2 form for Bonnie which I'd said I'd do when my eye exam was current, but didn't feel like canceling out as Dr. Norris did. Get there at 5, and buy licorice chips, and pass by the pornographic photos, stopping in on one to see if there was anything new, but telling myself that I really shouldn't spend money on such stuff, but that I should pay for drinks in a bar, or admittance to the baths or the sauna. Feel good about coming to such a decision, and get home at 5:30 to watch the sunset, and get back to typing. Joan comes over to relax at 7, then calls again looking for Bonnie. Joe calls to tell me to leave his resume, which I have to type, downstairs for him tomorrow morning. Marty calls to say Jerry may be pregnant, and to remind me about the party Saturday. Doug calls to say goodbye (a bit early?) and I call Meyer Line to find a late payment is OK, "Since you have the deposit in." Then there are a couple of wrong numbers, and I get the idea that the phone never stops ringing. Back to work and finish up the characterizations with much imagination and speed, surprising myself no end. Continue with the Trip to Capilano, begin to debate what's next, then go blindly on to Ken and Fred in Town, Ken and Fran to town, and my enthusiasm is knowing no bounds. Finish with the lunchroom scene, and am delighted that I got 31 pages done today, which was half the 62 behind that I was. If I can do 31 pages tomorrow, and the same the day after, I'll be ahead of schedule, as I've been on only ONE other day, February 16, since this terrible regime started. Bed at 12:30 feeling triumphant and tired, but toss and turn a bit before falling to sleep at 1 am.


SATURDAY, MARCH 8. Up at 10:30, fuss about and do the exercises by 11:25, then rest for the Asanas to 12, and meditate to 12:30. Peter calls, this by 2. [So this is the FIRST time I type a DIARY page with a number next to it since March 8, and it's now August 19, which means that I'll be typing the next 97 pages between March 9 and June 13 more than FIVE MONTHS AFTER the events which I'll try to described. Sounds difficult, and I'm sure it will be, especially these nothing days before the trip. The style of page 295 and 296 will be markedly different, about the same as a published diary and an autobiography written long after the events. It really might be silly that I insist on typing one page per day of this diary for the time I was on vacation in Europe, but the neatness of the idea of closing the gap and having a continuous diary running from September 20, 1968, when I quit work, through the present is too nice to be able to ignore---it will also show that it's possible for me to keep to SOME sort of schedule: heaven knows the "Ten pages a day" schedule has come and gone often enough, and it's particularly effortful for me, on this August 19, as I type this, to know that I'm 230 pages behind before I started typing today, which is just under the record of 237 pages behind on the first day of reckoning. Let's hope it'll never get that high again, which it might not, since even if I stopped this NOW, it would sink to 225, since this is the 15th page I've done today, and it's a chore not to be able to count all the letters I've written in the past few days. But enough rambling, filling up the page, I have to get back to THIS date, March 8. I must have typed most of the day, since I actually finished by typing 33 pages, second only to the 36 I'd typed on February 11, but I later exceeded that by typing 40 pages on July 28 and on August 7. But the 33 LSD pages brought me to a grand total of 300 LSD pages, and with that I sort of felt that the worst of the LSD typing was over. What else I did today I don't know, except that it was the second of the four days that I wore my contact lenses for the first time for 9 hours, and I got more and more used to them, but during the trip they became a pain, and I didn't wear them at all toward the end, and then afterwards I had the darndest time remembering to put them in to get the time stretched out again. Stop writing like I know the future.


SUNDAY, MARCH 9. Undoubtedly I got the paper last night and went through it and worked the puzzles, much to my disgust. It's amazing how much these same themes recur. No wonder I could get so depressed by going down into the "endless loop of life" and seeing that I'm not changing very much through the years. While I typed my Columbia diaries, there was much about looking out the window with binoculars. The theme came back in Aberdeen when I peeped across to the other barracks' shower rooms to see who I could see, and that goes back to grade school when I peeped into the holes in the Garfield shower rooms to see what sort of big dicks I could catch sight of. There was respite from this on 70th Street, since there was little to look across at, and my shades were rarely up, but now, again, on West 57th, I'm staring out to see what happens, except that now I have the added advantage of being able to see many buildings, and sunsets and the Hudson River boats as well, and jets landing in Jersey. [Some people will say anything to get a page filled. Well, it's better than sitting over the typewriter mooning about how much has to be typed. Let's get it over with, I say, so that I can get onto something new, or maybe even back to the novel. Yes, back to March 9]. Judy Garland had died recently, so they scheduled "Wizard of Oz" and "A Star is Born" at the same hour on TV, so Joan called and asked if she could come over, and she did, and we flicked back and forth hoping to catch the better parts of both, and then afterwards we watched "The Cardinal" with a stony-faced Tom Tryon, who went through everything wrong, including killing his sister because he was too stupid to bend his morals a bit. What a great show for making Catholic priests seem like fools, and these are just the fools that become cardinals, too. During the day I typed 20 pages, so I felt OK watching TV, but I didn't know at that time that that would be the last typing I would do before going off on the trip. When I saw that I had 320 double-spaced pages typed, equivalent to about 450 of the pagers I ORIGINALLY wanted to type, I figured THAT WAS THAT for the first draft, and labeled it nicely and put it away. I'm sure it stayed on my desk waiting for me to do more on it, but sometime before I left, I filed it away. Joan left finally and I probably came and went to bed typically late at 2 or 3.


MONDAY, MARCH 10. So long as I can keep each new day at the last line of the old page, I won't have to worry about having absolutely nothing to say for the following day. I can always hope the day following THAT is spectacular, and then I can put literally two lines for day 1, and go one for two pages for day 2. Watch "Rembrandt" in the morning on TV, and then in the afternoon go down to Warren's to take him all my IBM stock, and sign a number of releases, so that he can cash what he wants if I wire him that I need money in Europe. He tells me about a great new company which is coming onto the market called Pop Shops which he purchased at 10, getting a couple thousand shares. If he thinks it's that good, I figure, he can have a lot of IBM and put it into it, so he gets me 200 at 113 but months later, when the market is down, it's just around 12, which means it's holding its own, which is more than most other stocks except IBM can say, but it's still not such a bargain. He'd bought Globe Rubber Products at 13, and it was selling around 5 or 6 currently, and he bought Listfax at 38, and it was hovering around 26, after having been below that for quite a time. Things just aren't looking good now. Back to March 10. Back up, maybe walking around taking a last look at the World Trade Center, which was about 5 floors above the street at this point, almost equaling the 6 floors you could count beneath the street, in part encircling the Hudson Tubes. Watch "Laugh-In" this evening, and talked to a lot of people on the phone, hopefully, about my coming vacation. Also, sometimes I read articles in Encyclopedia Britannica about the countries I was going to see, but since I really didn't know where I was going other than Spain and Morocco, I didn't have much to read. Got many guide books from places around town and sorted through them, including little dollar books on Spain and Portugal, but I passed up a very elaborate Guide Bleu on Spain because it was just too expensive, and I didn't care to buy a Michelin guide of France, because I wasn't that hot in French. Getting slowly ready for the trip, and have even begun getting a little nervous about the boat, since Joe keeps insisting that the crossing will be rough and I'll be seasick most of the time. Anyway, it's better than flying.


TUESDAY, MARCH 11. This is the last day for wearing the contact lenses for 9 hours, and as the hours get longer it gets increasingly difficult to fit them into the schedule for the day. Before it was that I'd wear them only at home, but now I'm beginning to wear them outside to get more experience, and it's getting to the point where I don't wear them when I'm merely at home, but arrange to be wearing them when I'm out to the movies, or walking, or cruising. In the movies they're a pain, because, especially with subtitles, there are odd reflections which Norris says are caused by the thin space between the lens and my eyeball. Then there's a glare, and I'm very conscious of them at opera, too, though they make binocular-using convenient, since Joe or most other people can use my now-adjusted-to-normal binoculars without fiddling with the focus. (Stop fiddling with my focus!) Called a number of times to check with the New York City Health Service about vaccinations, and today with the appointment at Norris', I can get rid of both of them, getting the vaccination before Norris. But there's a huge line, and it moves very slowly, and it's only right at the end that the girls next to me begin talking and the time moves more quickly, and I'm out at just about 2, not having had the nerve to plead a previous engagement and please couldn't they take me first. Norris says my lateness is OK, and we have a long talk about everything I've noticed, though the strangest thing is the odd mis-focus after I take them out, whereby a point of white on the rug becomes a CIRCLE of white in my odd vision. I can't imagine how the eye would do this. But he again marvels at the ease I'm having getting accustomed to them, and how well they fit and how well my eyes are doing. I have one more meeting with him before I leave, but he says I should have no trouble on the trip. That's nice [but I hardly use them on the trip]. Don't shower for the next few days because of the vaccination, but it doesn't get ugly, so I have no trouble with it, and it's practically vanished by the time for the trip. The list of things I want to do before I go is still quite long, and before long I begin crossing things out because there's just going to be no time to do everything.


WEDNESDAY, MARCH 12. Another thing I had to do before leaving for an extended period of time, assuming that nothing much would be wrong, since I could only return a maximum of once or twice in case anything was wrong, and that was to see Rosey Sheik. She again remembered everything about me and Dick and Maria, and I told her about my new vacation and she was delighted to hear about it. I was delighted to hear that there was nothing wrong with my teeth, even in the section that she said she had to check from last time. Walked across the park slowly to the Advanced Meeting, getting to the area at 7:30, so I decided to eat before I got there, and called up Bonnie to see if she'd pay me the $40 that she owed me, which she would, so I got to the meeting and the uncomfortable fellow was there with a film of the Maharishi's teacher, and the whole thing seemed more and more silly as he went on about the Shankaracharya of the East, the Shankaracharya of the West, the Wicked Witch of the North, and the do of the south. The best part was waiting downstairs with Joel Rosenberg, a bright-eyed fellow who looked around attentively at everyone and who disappointed me when he said he was married, but he seemed so cool that nothing would faze him, even a guy in bed with him. We talked about the place that he wanted to establish near his parent's home in Deal, New Jersey, and how nice it was down there (of course, I was invited to come down, but then when I asked him about a specific weekend, his enthusiasm seemed to fade somewhat), and how much he liked people, and how his place would be cheap, too, only about $30 a day, which was reasonable, wasn't it? I didn't say too much, but he didn't seem to like kneesies upstairs, but his brightness and alertness was still very fetching. Out and up to Bonnie's, and we all talked while we smoked a bit, and Bonnie paid me and their apartment was an absolute mess, and so was she. Walked back home through the park, but nothing much happened. It was fairly warm these nights, but it didn't look nearly like spring yet, which was one of the sad things about taking a trip in April, I would be missing all of this spring in New York. There weren't even the suggestions of buds on trees yet, though possibly the willows were yellow-greening. Home and bed, alone, since I don't have anyone recorded: why meet someone only a few days before taking off on an extended vacation?


THURSDAY, MARCH 13. Avi Arranged to get me to be a chaperone for "The Comedy of Errors" at Hofstra for about 30 of his 170 students. I subway out to Brooklyn, wearing a suit for the first time in ages, per his request, and find a complete mess in the auditorium. We leave late, but the kids seem to like me, and there are many flattering comments back and forth, calling me "outside talent," wishing I were a teacher, saying they were with me, and glad of it. The subway ride in was noisy and pleasant, and everyone waited on line impatiently to get into (YE GODS, that was all for "Romeo and Juliet," back on February 13. Back to MARCH 13.) Avi and everyone was already in the bus, and nothing I could say about being EARLY helped Avi accept me. Onto the bus and out to the accompaniment of guitar and singing from the rear of the bus, and Avi roamed up and back talking to the kids. I looked at the scenery, enjoying the ride. Hofstra was an impressive campus, and when we had time to kill in the cafeteria, I took off to see the dormitories and walkway across the highway, the entrance to the library, some classroom buildings, notes for a slightly militant campus, and lot of dolls wandering around, one on crutches, moving faster than everyone else. Grabbed a quick lunch in the cafeteria, and was the last one finished, but we weren't ready to be seated in the auditorium yet. In to the worst seats on the side, the kids bitching, but the play was funny and well directed, and the Dromios were perfectly done, despite the fact one was white and the other was black. The old Aegeon was well done, bits with a litter being particularly funny, and lots of bosom jokes coming into it. The kids loved it and I thought it was pretty good, too. Back to wait for the bus which didn't come, and Avi went one way, and finally I sent two girls the other way, and they found the bus. Walk to it and sing back, I being serenaded by an ugly girl who kept talking about her finance, so good for her. Off at the school and said goodbye to everyone, and Avi and I subwayed back to the city. The rest of the evening is lost in a haze, because I didn't bother to record anything in my date book for that particular day, but I'm down to the bottom of the page, anyway, so it doesn't matter.


FRIDAY, MARCH 14. Call a number of people to try to get them to see the Havtjeld with me, since I want to get an idea what the Havskar is like, but no one will come.  I take the subway out, and it takes quite a while, and then there I am in the middle of Brooklyn. Walk toward the docks and hit a dead end, and wander up and down looking for an entrance, find one, and thread my way through trucks and cars and packing warehouses and loads of freight, and ask two or three people, go through an alley, and finally there it is, first impression of bulk and lading booms and a small passenger's area. I shout up to officers who speak little English, and am told to come abroad and meet the Chief Steward (come to think, of it, OUR ship doesn't seem to have a Chief Steward, unless it was the cute guy who stood silently behind the bar the whole trip). He's very gracious and I'm very much impressed by the newly-polished wood look of the interiors, and he shows me to the two suites on the upper deck, saying that the cabins are already occupied, but the bedrooms are the same size. Again there's spaciousness and cleanliness, and we go down to the public area to see the table elegantly set for dinner, the dining room, lounge and bar making a window-filled expanse which is very pleasant in its wood, white, and pastel blues. Then I see that the chairs are bolted to the floor, and I ask if the voyages are often rough. "Oh, the passengers manage to make it for a few meals before they go back to their cabins," he answered with an inquisitive grin. I wouldn't be getting any information of that sort out of HIM. In leaving, I saw an old lady who asked if I was a passenger, and I said next week. She said there'd be another couple like her, she went this way every year, wouldn't have any other means of transportation, that "March was NOT the best month in which to sail the Atlantic," and she was sure I'd enjoy my voyage. I said that if the other people were as nice as her, I'd have no trouble, feeling vaguely like a apple-polisher. One of the maids told me to give my regards to Rita from Lisa, and I wrote it down so I wouldn't forget it. Back to the subway and home, head in a spin now that I really seem to be leaving on the trip, though I haven't paid the rest of the fare yet. See "Pat and Mike" about Katherine Hepburn as a woman athlete who can do everything, on TV, and bed.


SATURDAY, MARCH 15. Write Cyndy final instructions, to Lisa Bieberman for the Psychedelic Information Center Bulletin, subscribe to Screw, write to Arthur, and pay Rosey's bill, which certainly arrived quickly. Finish reading "Year 2000," and eat dinner in preparation for Marty's party. Get there late and the place is full, but the only people I know are the Shoshan's, so I talk to them until I get bored, then someone whales me with a simple physics problem about shooting a bullet straight out from a tree, and how high do you have to climb so that it strikes as far out from the base as you are up from the base. I think about it and nothing comes to mind [but in 2003 it's clear that it depends on the velocity of the bullet!!!], and everyone looks at me like I'm stupid, so I excuse myself because I've been away from it for 12 years, and leave my terrible interrogator. Anthony Gray and his wife come in, and I tells them all about my book, and they express great interest, and he interests me by inviting me up to the summer place, where they have a boat, etc, and we have quite a nice talk, except that by the end of it I feel that I'm being outlandishly polite and under a strain, and the smile is beginning to set on my face, so I move away from them and latch onto Fred Bernhardt. He seems more and more gay all the time, and we talk about my leaving work and a bit about both our lives since the last time we saw each other, about how Carol Diedrich has had a kid and isn't working anymore, and how even (and now I forget the handsome guy, Don Liebelt, that Carol used to hang around with that I thought so attractive) HE was married, and about some other names that I really didn't remember. (Reminds me of meeting Jack Reilly outside the Columbian coffee thing, and we could hardly think of what to talk about). Away from him and back to Marty and Jerri for awhile, and then commiserate with Joan about what an odd party it is, there are then other people that I seem to remember, and we talk, then I hear that Gail has been to Spain, so I go in to talk to her, and she tells me absolutely nothing, so Joan and I make our excuses and escape, and I walk her home and walk down CPW, getting a paper, even though it's too late to get a pizza, and home to read it and bed fairly late.


SUNDAY, MARCH 16. Do a few necessary things about the apartment before I have to stop and spend all my time just getting ready for Avi to come down so that we can walk down to see the APA production of "Hamlet."  Ellis Raab has his speeches down a bit too pat, and they go too quickly, but he's an imposingly thin figure in black and high slender boots, and Laertes is tremendously sexy in his gray tights, especially so in the duel scene where he takes off his tunic to reveal a squarely-defined chest of hairless sheen, and a large lump between his gray thighs, but Avi can't see this, because he's made another appointment with someone else, and has to leave before the last scene. Two girls behind us rattle their programs and jangle their bracelets, and I tell them to shut up and Avi explodes at me about my touchiness, and I berate him for what is obviously his brand of touchiness, too. There's a remarkable effect in the ghost scene caused by having the ghost cart around his own smoke maker, so his feet are completely lost in the miasma swirling through his robes and around the floor as he walks leaving a trail like a diaphanous slug across the stage. The lights are very dim and there's only the idea of hacked and pitted grayness for a face and body, and the ghastly taped voice comes over the loudspeakers rather than from the stage, which is a good effect. A green spotlight follows him along, and the rising and lowering drops at the rear of the stage also cause him to appear and vanish with disquieting irregularity. The stage is well-used throughout, being very deep, and in some cases processions come from immense distances backstage, and people, engaged in plotting, walk farther and farther back until they are convincingly lost of the darkness of distance. The Ophelia is well done, too, but it's too bad the papers had to reveal and lessen the shock of her baring one breast to give suck to a doll that she carries in her madness. I'm back to TV to watch Anatol's adventures with all sorts of women, and it's datedly funny, and then re-see "Wild Strawberries," concentrating on it because it's supposed to be such a great film, and I remembered nothing from the first seeing, and I've already forgotten the second seeing, except that it's about a boring study of old age as is "Umberto D." Maybe if I were 70, when I saw it, I would be struck by it. But "Ikiru" was well done enough for me on that topic.


MONDAY, MARCH 17. Begin to make a list of things that I want to take with me on the trip, and I have no problems with weight because I'm going on a boat, and I'm figuring to return on a boat, too, but I really don't think ahead to the time that I have to get around in Europe, carting all this stuff, and I don't pack ahead of time, and things get pretty bad, as will be discovered. Saw advertisements for "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" in Sunday's paper, and am glad of a chance to pick up an Academy Award performance for Katherine Hepburn that I thought had sunk from sight. Now all I have to worry about seeing is "In the Heat of the Night," which HAS sunk from sight. Also see "To Sir, with Love," and having talked to Bill and Avi about the problems of teaching, it seems very true to life, and his solution is beautifully realistic, and their reactions to him are only a little overly sentimental, but he really plays an unbelievable part in "Guess," which is a pity. It would have been better if he'd had SOMETHING wrong with him. But it's a good double, and I eat my way through two boxes of popcorn, yummy. Then with Don to Eddie's theater for "The Big Bounce" which is pretty bad, not even having the benefits of modernistic nudity. Back to the apartment and get the first inkling that it might be impossible to do all the things I want to do in time. Particularly struck by the fact that Warren hadn't gotten my money to me yet, and I had to have it or else I couldn't pay for the rest of the ticket. Telephone back and forth to make sure my deposit holds the ticket, and finally Warren checks his bookkeeping department and tells me that the transaction was "stuck in the chute" and would be taken over to the bank immediately. One of these days I sat at the bank while they telephoned back and forth, trying to assure themselves that I really DID have the check in the bank, and came trotting to the 3 pm wire waiting for a verification by phone. I got snottier and snottier as the afternoon wore on, and finally when I got the money I treated it as a "you people just are out to give me a hard time," which is hardly fair, but they kept me waiting for what I considered their paperwork. I'm caused timing problems by THEIR hang-ups about verification. I've never been the same since they bounced my 309 deposit signature.


TUESDAY, MARCH 18. Had a terrible time getting to sleep last night, and if it's that way every night before the trip, I'll be a nervous wreck. I simply can't get up the courage to fly, but now the idea of ten WHOLE DAYS in a possible state of seasickness is wearing me down, and I think of the terrible feelings of suffocation I had on the ferry over to Newfoundland and the fact that I couldn't sleep, and the idea of ten days without sleeping causes me this one night without sleep. Disgusted with myself, but my stomach rumbles into knots and I'm vaguely sweating and apprehensive on the bed. What if there are icebergs? What if something goes wrong with the engines and we have to drift for days? What if there's a fire, or an explosion, or a collision? Ridiculous, I try to tell myself: the ship has radar, there are probably auxiliary engines, they're sure to have seasick pills (but I make a note to get my own supply of Dramamine and Compoz, just in case), there won't be that many icebergs, and the ship has sailed back and forth any number of times and nothing's happened to it yet. The same problems of rationalization as happens on a plane, without the definiteness of death from falling, but the slow one of drowning now seems even worse, particularly when the fear is stretched out over ten days. Oh, why couldn't I fly? Much of it was simply the unknown. How much would I hear of the engines, how much water motion would there be, what would the passengers be like, what would the weather be like, how would I like traveling by freighter? What would the food be like, the people on the ship who don't speak English, would there be a chance for sex, what if they found out about it, what if there were a terribly storm and everything cut loose and slammed across the ship, what if the cargo worked loose and slammed through the side of the ship, or into the passenger's quarters, who would I get for a roommate? Up drowsy and meet Norma for lunch at 12:30, admiring her new office in the General Motors building, and we have lunch in Orangerie, odd setting, but expensive for what you get. Down to Meyer Line to plunk down the money for the ticket, and get it in hand, and in the evening cross off another movie from the list with "Shame" and "The Witches," the first ending oddly by everyone dying on a life raft, second funny.


WEDNESDAY, MARCH 19. Sleep goes a bit better this evening as I apply some of Krishnamurti and simply admit to myself, "Yes, I am afraid, yes I am fearful of dying, Yes, that's how it is," and whether it's from the fact that I'm tired from not sleeping last night, or that the technique worked, but the next thing I know I'm asleep and it's the next morning, and I'm rested from a night's sleep, and there's only two on-shore nights left to sleep! Joe comes over to treat me to lunch, and says I have to dress up, and we go walking in order to surprise me, and I AM surprised to find it's Le Perigord, which he says he asked me about, but I don't remember, so the delight is intact. The atmosphere is nicely quiet and cheerfully lit, and some of the food is passably good, some is great, and some is mediocre, but all in all I over-praise everything just so Joe will feel as good about taking me to lunch here (and paying the same price) as I felt about his complete delight when I took him to lunch at Lutece for his birthday. We're out, feeling contented, and wander back along the streets and he says he wants to see "If...," so I say that I really wanted to see it, though that's not true, and he pays the way in to a strange black-white and colored film that someone tells me later was done entirely at random as the guy had only enough for black and white film, or more than enough for colored film. The lead was terribly unattractive, and they didn't spend enough time on the acrobatic doll and the cute kids, and the ending was completely unbelievable as they gunned down everyone on the campus green, but it was entertaining and I thanked Joe for it. Met Doug and we all talked on the way back, and then Joe and I sat here and talked, not feeling like dinner before the Joffrey Ballet at 8;30 at City Center, and then we stopped somewhere afterwards for something to eat, but I've forgotten where. A very pleasant day spent totally together, concocted by Joe as an entertainment for me as a going-away present. And it kept my mind off the impending trip all day, so from that point of view the day was an enormous success.


THURSDAY, MARCH 20. Again the Krishnamurti acceptance method seems to work, and I get less worried about the trip and more worried about whether I can get everything done that has to be done before I leave. Write the last few letters to Claudia, Paul, Mary Kingsolver, Rita, and figure out what my three income taxes are, and I should have figured them out sooner, because I get returns from two of them because I didn't work the entire year, and the only reason I have to pay New York City tax is that they forgot to take out withholding for it at work. Get down to the last meeting with Norris at 4:30, and he says it looks fine for the trip, and that if I can get anyone else to get a set of contacts from him, I get a spare set free! Well, it's worth trying. Figure to get packed this evening, but when I call Azak, among others, to say goodbye, he says that he has tickets to "Does the Tiger Wear a Necktie?" which had gotten such great reviews for Al Pacino, and I agree to go with him, there go the packing plans for this evening. Well, I have all day tomorrow. We see the rather unpleasant play, and eat down the street at La Bourgogne, and the food is pleasant and the drinks are dizzying, and we end up actually kissing on the street, rather to both our delights. Home terribly late and tumble into bed, so drunk that I fall asleep immediately. That solves THAT problem.


FRIDAY, MARCH 21. Today is the day! Up late and I have the whole apartment to fix up before Cyndy calls, and everything falls behind because today was the day that I had to take so much time at the bank. Late in scrubbing the bathroom floor and tub, somewhat less late in sweeping and dusting the apartment, but then Joe arrives at 2 or 3, when we were supposed to leave, and I actually haven't started packing. Somehow the list of everything I want to take has gotten lost, so I have to go from memory, and get out the two suitcases and find, with all the books, that there's just not enough room in the two of them! And the portable typewriter that I wrote to Rita to send me, that she did, takes up enormous amounts of room, too, along with the snorkel equipment. Panic and grab a shopping bag and stuff the typewriter and books into that, and the three of us try to find a cab, but they won't listen to our terrible instructions to the dock, and we decide to take a subway. I'm carrying a case and the bag, and Joe's carrying the lighter case, but by the time I get to the platform, I'm completely exhausted and my hands are sore. Then he sees the N express across the way and says to catch that. I'd forgotten that he had a class at 6 and demur,

DIARY 309 through 403 missing


SATURDAY, JUNE 14. Meknes and Fez. He leaves about 9:30 to go sailing, and won't be back until Sunday night. I continue reading Life Magazines until I get dizzy, then start writing, but by the time I get to page 4, I'm starved, so it's out to get groceries at Gristede's, and have a three-egg omelet with bologna for the first real meal, of course not counting the can of pineapple at noon. Then I'm back to type the rest of the ten pages that I determined to do for yesterday, and then it's time for the exercises, meditation, and exercises that I was stupid enough to miss Friday, and that takes until 6, by which time I'm ready for something else (that, my dear me, was yesterday!) I came once in the morning in bed just after he left, but looking at all those Screws later in the afternoon inspired me to get out my pornography and come again, which I did with joy and exhaustion. Type two more pages, and again get hung up in reading Life magazines, until it's 9 pm and I figure I'll have to get to exercising, or I'll be starved. Do the yogi positions again, and my foot hurts, the same one I twisted at the Parador, meditate again, and do the exercises in absolutely record breaking time for the second time, but it's an enormous strain and I lay exhausted on the sofa, positively dripping with sweat. It's been terribly hot and humid the whole day, and the thunder showers don't make it any cooler or drier. Get up enough effort to make some sort of dinner of a sandwich and soup, and by 10:30 I'm really too tired to go out for the paper, so I tumble into bed about 11 pm, and fall asleep immediately.


SUNDAY, JUNE 15. Up at 6:30 again, and luxuriate until 7, when I'm back to the magazines. At 8 I've had enough of that, so I eat breakfast and go down for the Times, and read it though with much to cut out of plays and movies that I want to see, and all of 19.5 hours of TV, too. Start by watching Camera Three with Melies films, then call Joe about 12:30, but he's off to the Hispanic Museum; then call Avi and he's willing to join me in the afternoon for films, so I don't have to call anyone else, a situation which I rather like: why should I bore myself by telling people a dozen times the first two days that the trip was great, when I can stretch it into two or three people a day for a week or more? Begin getting hungry for lunch, so it's about 1 when I again do the exercises, meditate, and exercises before Avi calls at 2:30 so that he'll be over at 5:30. Fine. I manage to get five more pages of typing done, and telephone Lloyd Moore to tell him I'll be taking the ballet tickets tomorrow, and we talk for about a half-hour, playing Mickey Mouse with how wonderful London and Amsterdam were on our trips there. Look at the terrible mess in the apartment, but just as I try to fix up one or two things, I just tell myself to leave it, I can do it later. Do get the shaving and dop kit out of the way, and take a good shower and shave for the first time after getting back, and come again with glee. Look through someone's W.C. Fields book, check check stub for how many issues of Screw I'm to get (20), read a few of the Screws, measuring my cock size to see where I fit in (ha) to their study, eat lunch at about 3:30, knowing I'll have to get done in time to digest it for leaving room for dinner, and suddenly the day is gone, it's 5:15, and Avi's at the door, agape at the mess. We walk down to Times Square and eat in the flame steak place, and look at some of the sex shops before signing into the Harris at 7 pm for "Charly" which starts very slowly, with Robertson doing a gimmicky, rather than overly good, acting performance for the Oscar, but it speeds into a quick multi-screen goody during the pleasure sequences. "For Love of Ivy" is outrageously funny, though much of it just doesn't add up ("Charly" wasn't that great logically, either, and it WAS the story Marc told me, damn him, unless someone played a trick on HIM and he believed it). Out at 10:30, and almost get socked by a colored guy who refused to stop smoking on the bus just because we ask him to. Darwin just got back, too, and he looks through Eros while I finally scoop the junk into trash bags into the hall, put a lot of books and stuff into temporary storage, and agglomerate the dishes and stuff I have to do, making the living room almost livable, then we watch "I Am a Fugitive" with an over-acting Paul Muni, and fall exhausted into bed at 1:30 am, killing my morning.


MONDAY, JUNE 16. Not quite, still up at 7 am, breakfast, sort more luggage out, and spend until 11 am looking at various stamp albums in price lists I have, then DIARY. Type about 5 or 6 TRIP DIARY pages until 12, then yoga and meditate and exercise, actually doing the third level in something less than 10.6 minutes, though I couldn't get the 30 consecutive sit-ups in one run --- but I tell myself that I have to stay at this level until I DO all the exercises at once. Then back to typing, and eat lunch at 2:30, quite a bit late, and it's only at 4 that I get dressed in thick bells to get to IBM to get the tickets for the Stuttgart Ballet from Lloyd. In the hall everyone seems to be passing by: Murray Eisenman (who seems happy to see me, and would probably have taken me back if I wanted a job), Peg Smith (who just returned from three weeks in Spain, and envied my three months in Europe), and Bob Friedman (horrid in beard). Out to pick up the laundry and get more groceries, and home to fix up the apartment even more, putting many things away. Darwin doesn't come back, so after typing some more, I have dinner at 9 pm, and he comes in about 9:30, and I ask him to identify what's his, put Cyndy's suitcases into the closet and mine into the hall closet, and for the first time since I returned, there are cleared spaces on the floors and furniture, so that all that really remains is doing the dishes, vacuuming, dusting, and scrubbing the bathroom good, not to mention putting my drawers back into some sort of order. But it's gradually becoming more livable. Watch "Laugh-In" from 8-9, and "High Sierra" from 11-1, which Darwin starts, but he's seen it and gets to bed about 11:30. I load up my desk with things I have to do, and exult in the fact that I actually typed 21 pages today, and the feeling of automatic typing has finally set in. Take about three minutes to get to sleep.


TUESDAY, JUNE 17. Wake at 7:30 and get out of bed at 8 to fix oatmeal when it seems that Darwin might not come out of the bedroom if he thinks I'm sleeping. The bright blue sky is a welcome relief from the gray and clouds which have been up there since my return on Friday, and I make plans to get a haircut, do the laundry, draw money from the bank, and call Don and Joe today. Cough syrup yesterday seems to have soothed my throat, and I only cough once in my first waking hour. Finish DIARY at record hour of 8:45 am. Get a lot of typing done, and Joan calls, delighted to have me back, and we talk for about an hour until 11:40, when she decides she want me to come down to Bryant Park and share lunch with her. I don't care to, but she coaxes, so I do, shaving and washing a bit, going to the bank to cash two checks for much-needed cash, call Joe to make arrangements for this evening, call Don to tell him I'm back in town, and am late at Bryant Park. We have cheeseburgers from Nedick's, and because she has nothing to do at work, we sit and talk until 2, then I walk her back to work, and make my way home by way of 42nd Street, but none of the sexy shops have bathing trunks that open on the side. Have to wait for the Village to get it, I guess. A new 69 cent shop on 42nd Street is good because all the classical records are stereo, and they're segregated from the pops, even though they still have a dozen copies of each record. Buy two, with cough drops, and I'm back uptown again. Too late to get a haircut, so I read some more magazines, and finally get around to cleaning the filthy toilet bowl, and washing the moldering dishes. Then shower to get up to Joe's after yoga and a cut-short meditation because I didn't have the time, and exercising, when I couldn't quite bring off all thirty sit-ups in one swing. Take subway, and it IS fast, getting there just after 6:30. He's done a new large woman, who hangs over his bed, and I like it. Down to Victor's for a quick dinner and lousy pork, and to the Stuttgart for "Nutcracker Divertissements," absolutely fabulous, "Opus One," less satisfying to awful Webern, "Holberg Pas de Deux," odd, with good Grief music, and "Jeu de Cartes," where Madsen did some spectacular things, but he's not a completely satisfying dancer. Here after for two of Joe's better jokes: "That's Arthur Mitchell over there --- the dark-haired one." And "It sounds like a navy command: 'Man the Manipulator!'" and he looks at art souvenirs to 12. Then Darwin's back and we can all go to bed at 12:30.


WEDNESDAY, JUNE 18. Up at 7, having put the shades down so I could get some sleep. Moon through much of the morning, doing not much, off kilter because the washing machines are broken downstairs, and the thought of taking them outside to do them is very discouraging. Do some more reading, and come again twice, which should really stop, but the mirror looks so appealing. They're fixing the roof across the street, so that bears some binocular-watching, and then there're some gray neatly-stuffed ballet tights in the window across the way, and I look at those for awhile. Call for an appointment with Torres, and yoga, meditate, exercise, shower, and lunch all very quickly in order to get to his place by 3;30. He cuts the Buster Brown style I request, but I quickly find it's too long, and I predict I'll be tired of getting it wet when I wash my face, and it will quickly get greasy from hanging onto my sweaty forehead. Search for lice, and find none for the first time, but still each crotch-itch and leg-scratch leads me to suspect that the siege isn't over yet. Out with the laundry and waste an hour getting it done myself, next time I'll just leave it, and back at 5:15 to put everything away. Get only five pages of typing done today, and kick myself for that, and I'll just have to get back into the habit of DOING things rather than moaning about doing things, just as Kris recommends. Eat dinner and dress for the ballet, and "Romeo and Juliet" is at beat uneven: the Balcony pas de deux being one of the best choreographed and danced in history, but the tomb scene and the "morning after" scene being definitely come-downs. The black and gold of the ballroom scene one of the most sumptuous since the American Ballet Theatre's "Swan Lake," which was the best for quite some time. Meet Azak on the terrace at intermission, and he's delighted to see me, inviting me to a play as his guest tomorrow night, which means I try to call Avi to cancel the movie, but I find, too late, that the movie I wanted to see Thursday ("How I Won the War") was really Wednesday, and that IS a disappointment, since I now haven't seen HALF the films I wanted to see at this summer's Thalia festival. Back to talk to Darwin again, about ballet, and he seems eager to talk about anything. Bed at 12:30, exhausted.


THURSDAY, JUNE 19. Still in bed when he leaves at 8:30, then up to come over my old drawings, and that leaves me rather drained. Joan calls and we settle details about tomorrow night. Call Joe and settle with him. Finish the page in the typewriter and finish these last two diary pages at 11:10 am, a bit late. Type a few more pages, the last, of the Europe 1969 Trip Diary, and then, rather cursing myself, I get back into the archives and begin typing the 1959 diary which is now, obviously, ten years old, but the urge to get everything transcribed is great, and I do so. Also catch my trip list up to date, and then it's time for lunch. Then I scrub the bathroom walls and floor, dust and polish all the furniture, and then sweep the floors, taking a long time to get everything in order for the party tomorrow night after Joan's showcase. Talk to her through the day to get plans settled. Even do the dishes again so I'll have enough glasses for the 10-15 people scheduled to come over, including the Shoshans and Azak. Then it's close to 5:30, so I shave and shower and get ready for Azak's at 6:30. Claudio arrives after I do, and they're old friends who delight in digging at each other, Claudio razzing Azak's wearing of the campy yellow glasses for his night blindness, Azak ridiculing his suit worn directly from work. Azak loves to cock-tease, making ridiculous conversation, fussing with glasses, bandying instructions on how to make drinks, insisting on knowing what he wants when he plainly wants anything, deliberately frustrating his obvious request for a drink with the most innocent-seeming delays and dalliances in the world. Then John Gessner comes in, and his deliberate attempts to dislike everything is most annoying, and I choose to simply ignore him for most of the evening, since when I talk to him and he vents his venom on the food, or the company, or the plays, I feel I have to agree with him, my problem as well as his. Plastic glasses, glass glasses, stirring, ice, contents of drinks, all is topic for conversation, and finally we're into cab to the Provincetown for "Time for Bed-Take Me to Bed," and we have time only for terrible pizza beforehand, the first play is funny, the second dominated by a bitchy woman that Azak identifies completely with! Then to Figaro where I have a toasted sandwich and a grenadine, the others talk, and we walk over to St. Marks Place, while Azak lags behind. Then cab to my place for "Zarathustra," pot, and sex, with Claudio disgustingly nipping and licking and sucking till 2:30, and I'm limp.


FRIDAY, JUNE 20. Up at 10, still weary from the night before, have breakfast, and do nothing in particular before calling Norma at 11:30. We talk for a bit and she invites me to lunch with her, so I get ready to go and get there just before 1. Into the park with four franks and an orange, and we talk about her two fellow friends who turned out to be lovers, with the wife of the one not knowing about it, her reading of the "Homosexual Handbook," the people going past with "non-surprise-package" cocks hanging down one leg, her happiness with her work, her coming vacation in her therapist's apartment and trip to London and Paris, and her envy of the newsy, friendly, sexy homosexual underground ways of meeting and knowing people. Leave her at 2 to shop for a bathing suit, and end up with a terrycloth wraparound for $3 from Alexanders, then shop for a stamp album, and get one on Lex between 56-57 for $21.50, including the latest 1969 supplement for $2.50 and a packet of folded hinges for 304. Back to look through it and put the page supplements in, and then it's time to get ready for the play. Eat dinner and Darwin gets back just before 8 and Joe arrives just after 8, so we walk down to the theater, and I talk to Bonnie and Norman and Bill Dempsey in the audience, the plays are terrible, talk to Fredi afterwards, and there's Ora and all the members of the cast, and Peter and his friend and his friend's mother and all sorts of other people, including May Monro, who takes over the evening in the bedroom by giving Reikian massages, oil and all, on my bed, strongly and vigorously winning over every male in the place. Joan and the rest of the gang are smoking pot in the bathroom, there's interracial meetings going on in the living room, and Bill and Joe and I are skirting around sex all the time. Pat and his friend arrive very late, as do the Shoshans and Helen, looking kooky in twin pony tails. Darwin takes up with Sheila, dancing starts, my records are ruined, the kid gets chocolate cake on the walls, but the uncle stops him at the window. No glasses, no ice, no scotch, but I really couldn't care less. Party begins lightening at 1, and by 2:30 everyone's gone, and Darwin and I fix things up a bit, then fall into bed.