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1969 6 of 7


THURSDAY, OCTOBER 16. I eat and dress slowly again, and finally root myself out of the house to get down to the Post Office to buy blocks of Eisenhower and baseball for Bill, if he wants them (he doesn't), and four postcards which I write there (watching all the sexy people parading in and out of the office, greeting one another, engaging in pleasant conversation, or waiting for someone else, their legs cold under tight blue jeans) to Ram Dass, the O'Sheas, Dublin Inn, and Angela at Dublin Inn, asking them when it would be convenient for me to get in touch with them in the next week or two. Back to watch the second installment of the "Forsyte Saga" on TV (my first view), and I was quite impressed with the skill in handling so many people, the wisdom of the dialogue (and the people saying the dialogue), the goodness of the acting, and the skill in editing and cutting. Very impressing, and it seems to have deserved its fame. Begin reading "All and Everything," but it's impossible to take seriously (DIARY 580-583), and so I skim through the pages, looking for anything interesting, laughing at the words (wondering whether they have any relationship to words in the Caucasus), and taking small jottings of what I find that's interesting. I see by the weekly paper that "Popi" is showing at the only local theater, so I intend to go, and get through something like dinner beforehand and walk to the show. The place is almost empty: there were probably about 20 at the early show and about 15 at the later show, and everyone sat around in school-groups or three or four and talked through the whole movie. There were one or two singles, but mainly they were just students who didn't have anything better to do, no family groups, no cruising, no interesting singles at all. It was rather discouraging, since this was a good movie: I fear what it was like when they had a stupid cowboy feature (probably a better audience, from my point of view, but I'd never be part of the audience). Bill didn't even want to come with me, but got further along in his cataloging, which didn't include everything, only those issues which he thought might be worth something, and he usually erred on the side of safety rather than risking losing.


FRIDAY, OCTOBER 17. Yesterday I skimmed Harry Lorayne's "Mental Magnetism Course" which was dreadful, only the old Dale Carnegie hints for popularity updated into the "fill in the blanks" mentality. Read "Meetings with Remarkable Men" which seemed merely to be the IMPORTANT men in Gurdjieff's life. I guess he assumed anyone that his karma destined him to meet would have to be important. (DIARY 584-590) His truly important meetings were sandwiched in chapters about uninteresting people, and if some of his followers would say that G. intentionally hid his three meetings with Important Men in a framework that others could look at and scoff, I would tend to reply that he did his writing more chain-of-thought than anything else, and anything which is "contained" in his writing slipped through unintentionally his desire to be a "wiseacre." I have little respect for the man, even though he himself might have seen the light. Someone who sees the light should respect himself and his fellow men (who are only himself) even more than the rather eccentric, self-centered, self-destructive Gurdjieff. Bill gets back from work and wants to go to the Canadian Esso for some more steak, so we're into the truck and off. The place is full of redneck types at the bar, families at the tables, most of them escorting old in-laws who look blind and deaf and feeble, and this is probably their only high-life for miles around. There are gangs of guys from cars, all with short hair, and Bill and I were discussing Communism, and I would look over at them to see them just aching for us to do something wrong, even if it was to look at them a few moments too long (but it was all right for them to look at us; I never could adapt that stupid, angry "Wadda YOU lookin' at?" expression, even though they were far more interested in us than we were in them. The waitress was just short of moronic, and at the table with the cute gas attendant were seated two hare-lipped brothers, each more self-conscious than the other, and their muffled voices caused others to look, then quickly look away, and exchange half head-shakes with others at their table. Why can't they stay at home; why would they want to parade their sins here?


SATURDAY, OCTOBER 18. With the coming of the cold weather, Bill had to get up the few storm windows he took down at the beginning of summer (in July?), and I helped with the washing and with the ladder handling, and unloosened some hooks from the inside, but he still did most of the work, since, as he said, he knew it was his place and he took full responsibility for its upkeep. Then I and he drove out to Vaughan Gallop's farm, and he opened the place to us, showing us the monkeys angry in their cages, the baboon that he said was so mean, his limping anxious dog, the elk who lowered their heads and smashed their antlers across the wire, the bears who ambled in their enclosure, which smelled terribly of shit now that he only cleaned the cages once a week, and the lion which permitted itself to be scratched. There were peacocks, waterfowl, swans roaming loose, goats, eland, a number of sika deer which dropped rather formless antlers, llamas, and a number of other animals, all penned up for the winter. I feel in love with the demeanor of the grandest elk and his huge antlers, and I paid $10 deposit on them, with the understanding that they might be chipped and broken a bit, but that he would return my money if he couldn't find them. "They bury them, but I can tell when they're about to drop them, so I watch them, then chase them away from them." Even the animals have a better sense of returning elements to the earth than we have. Then Bill remembered some friends who had a canoe on a lake, and we drove down to find it still resting under a plastic cover. Out onto the lake, and I rowed, since it was my wish to go, and we went against the wind to the other side, lolled about in the shallows, looking at the reeds and woods, then paddled to an island that we wandered about, clambering over rocks, tinkling, sponging on moss and dried leaves, and then blew past the dock and had a dreadful time pulling back into it. Completely exhausted as we put the plastic back over it, and then went back home in the gathering twilight for Bill to make another fire, and I was beginning to think I could do it, too, and his burning of old files made nice architectural blazes to liven the long evenings.


SUNDAY, OCTOBER 19. Again we went for a drive in the Chrysler, this time south down to Calais. While I tended the gas, he went off to have another sundae in the place that had the banana splits, and then we took off again toward the ocean. We came to an inlet where the tide was coming in for its 30-foot traverse, and again I delighted in watching each successive lap of the water cover more of the dry pebbles in its path, until whole feet were covered in just minutes. After tinkling, Bill had his fill, so we drove on again. I wanted to see Lubec, the Easternmost town, so we drove out there, and then there were signs for the new bridge to Campobello, so we drove across for their final day of showing the old house, where FDR swam to get his tuberculosis. It was plain enough inside, but roomy, but the bright red paint job on the outside made it look unnecessarily garish. Picked up brochures about the region and the county, and then drove back across the bridge to Quoddy Head. All this while we were looking for someplace to eat, but I wanted to stop at Quoddy Head to look at the breakers, and clambered out on piles of rocks to watch the waves beat in over the crags covered with bulbous masses of seaweed. The rocks on the beach were uniformly large and oval, so there was nothing to be gathered. Bill left the beach almost immediately, quietly sulking, and I sat on the rocks as long as I dared, then raced back to the car, where he expressed his willingness to go. We talked about the route, and decided that Machias was the best prospect for food. Stopped at a couple of places at the outskirts, but only Rosey's, or some such, was open, and even at 4 the back room overlooking the river was packed. We sat in the front, which then filled up, and I had fish which was very good, and he had steak which he enjoyed, and we were both content now that our stomachs were full. I suggested going back an off-beat way, but darkness fell quickly, and there was nothing to see but the curving road, not even any gas stations, and there were some terrible moments when I feared everything would be closed, but in the nick of time we filled her up, and the rest of the trip back, despite the torrential rain, was routine.


MONDAY, OCTOBER 20. Bill was off to school again, and I had a stack of complete collection of National Geographics (though the new issues seemed much more to home than the earlier ones, but maybe that was because there were many more places that I'd seen since I was a kid, and maybe more was considered "in my back yard"), and rummaging through the garage trying to find his book on "The Boy," but he had hidden it too well. There was nothing much more of interest to see, but I looked at the high-rise bicycle, the pictures and frames, the furniture that some of the townsfolk stored in his available barn space, and old books and magazines that he had stacked about the walls. Thee was nothing to do inside the house once I'd listened to his records on LSD, the Homosexuals, and the horror movies of Boris Karloff, but I got many chances to listen to the "Song of the Forests" in its recorded version, and listened much to "Ma Vlast" on Bill's enormous Magnavox. Also, I re-listened to his earthquake record, formidable on the rumbling speaker, almost reproducing the rumble of the earth-movement, and laughed at the boredom of Thomas de Hartmann playing some of Gurdjieff's "compositions." Bill was inordinately proud of the full-sized loom he had put up n the sitting room, but I couldn't find anything of interest in it. There might have been treasures in the basement, but I never got beyond the woodpile for supplies for the fires we had about every other night. That was one of the best parts of the stay, since his living room was perfectly adapted to roaring fires: he didn't care about smoke or fume damage to the furniture, he'd set up a poking stick and a system of maintaining the fire, and it seemed so automatic to him that he really appeared to enjoy it. I read "Hermetic Philosophy and Alchemy" all day (DIARY 590-600), and I really felt that I understood her conclusion that ENLIGHTENMENT was the true Philosopher's stone, and the business of gold and wealth was only by way of analogy: the whole point was to get to FAITH in GOD. Bill disagreed. The evening finished in the typical way: TV (Laugh-In) and stamps.


TUESDAY, OCTOBER 21. Finished "Hermetic Philosophy and Alchemy" today, and listened to records for the rest of the day, when I wasn't looking at stamps. Bill's method of building a fire was meticulous: from the woodpile he would first select thin boards which he ax-chopped into splinters about a maximum of 1/2 inch in every dimension except length. He'd make enough kindling for at least five courses of very closely laid bottom layer, and so ideally he would have five shingle-shaped pieces of wood that he could cut into about seven or eight pieces. Then he would devote himself to the spacers, which would fit between each course of kindling and firewood. The spacers were ideally about one inch square (I ran into difficulties when I made them too fragile, because they burned through, and the whole pile collapsed), and also ideally of hardwood, since they would then burn last, after everything else had been reduced to glowing embers. They had to be precisely as long as the distance from the andiron-fronts to the back of the fireplace wall, so that the burning area was as large as possible. A dozen would be too few for the number of pairs of spacers, since the kindling had about six layers, the firewood had about four or five layers, and then he had to rebuild the top of the firewood stack three or four times while it was blazing away. Then the firewood itself, starting with softwood, would be chosen from the pieces which were already hopefully cut to fit across the fireplace opening, and he just had to balance them so that they had enough, when used in combination, to again fill the fireplace, yet not leave too much room for dead space, only enough room for ventilation, so that the fire could immediately warm each and every single piece of wood, so that it would all burst into flame at very nearly the same time. Then he could carefully construct his edifice, filling the entire opening up to about four inches from the flue, and then with his too-precise motions crumple newspapers, about five or six whole sheets, and stuff them under the kindling, and then light the array not from the center, but from the sides and the center, in at least four or five places, to start the whole thing off evenly.


WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 22. Today I finished Pauwel's book "Gurdjieff," which I had started before, but put down so that I could read the other things about and by Gurdjieff before reading this book that Bill said was against him. (DIARY 600-602) I might have made the fire this evening, and everything went wrong with it. I made the bottom spaces too thin, and of softwood, so that the edifice was stable enough (except that it tended to lean forward a bit, since I had made the spacers a bit too long, and then tended to cover the entire spacer with firewood, so that the whole thing jutted outward into the room), and when the bottom spacers burned through, they dumped the whole schmear forward onto the tiles, and both of us had to scurry forward and sweep it back into the hearth, until there was simply a jumble of wood burning every which way, and there was no foundation on which to add wood. To add to the troubles, I had thought that one enormous log on top would be a nice touch, burning through the evening with a fierce flame. It took quite awhile to catch, but when the thing crumpled, it really hadn't gotten started, so for the rest of the evening, the wood had to be piled around it, and it lay there on the bottom of the grate, black on the outside, but wholly unburned on the inside. Since we went to bed about 11, the log was still about 3/4 there, and Bill had to set the fire screen around it, because it was still quite hot, shooting off sparks every so often. I sat watching it for a time, dimming behind its fire screen, and it seemed that it was better after the roar of the fire was over, because then the attention would be drawn to each pop and snap and flying spark, and you really couldn't bother to think about anything, you were too busy watching the activity in the fire. But here the flames licked out violetly, the sparks ran along unburned sections of wood, and the whole thing settled into darkness as the blackness of the night deepened. It seemed to be still smoldering there when I went to bed about 12:30, and the next morning, Bill reported with some satisfaction that the entire log had burned through, and it wasn't even possible to tell where the thing had been, so ashy was it.


THURSDAY, OCTOBER 23. "In Search of the Miraculous" bit the dust today, after having nibbled at it for a number of days between reading other things. (DIARY 604-608) During some of these evenings, Bill showed me other things besides his slides, for instance about 100 old letters, also from Mary Peabody, dating back beyond the Civil War, some of them telling about the horrors of the wounded and dying, others relating ocean voyages around Cape Horn in order to get to the Alaskan gold rush, others talking about the diseases and deaths in the immediate family, and some of them elegaically touching in the fading black ink on small sheets of paper. Some had only town stamps on them, which are cataloged in the Specialized US Catalog at about 5-10 dollars apiece. There were legal papers, checks, and other documents, some relating to the old Hyde dealings in town. Then he brought out the parchments again, telling me what had happened with them, and since I figured I would be seeing Paul in the not-too-distant future, I could take them down to the Library of Congress, as he had wanted to. He said that would be fine, and also last weekend, I forgot, we went out looking for cattails, and we didn't see any, or they had been taken, and finally we found a bunch that were beginning to escape off the top, and in the course of their being together waiting for me to take them, one or two of them split, and there were tiny seeds from cattail over quite a bit of the room before I could close the paper firmly on them. He showed me the pictures he delighted in: the Olympic swimming team, ostentatiously masculine, but there were actually as many female swimmers in the picture as masculine swimmers. He'd also brought up two posters of David from New York, and unrolled them and hung them. Then he showed me the few drawings he had left showing flowers much like in the Taj Mahal, which there had been more of, but they had been torn apart and used for painting before he could rescue them. He showed me the coin sets he was collecting, and the Canadian gold pieces his friends had mailed to his Post Office box in Fredrickton, and he gave me the catalog which allowed him to purchase his sexy golden Discobolus.


FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24. Spent the day clearing up odds and ends, looking through National Geographics, reading Science Digest, "Hatha Yoga" by Theos Bernard, and getting the idea for describing the universe in a "System Description." I now remember that one of the first things I did was read Bill's "akashic life reading" from the Grace Wittenburger Moore, or something, Foundation, in which he asked about his karmic relationship to me and Howard and Tom and some others. It came back with all sorts of reasonable rational information: those who were gone, let them go, you're through with them; those you seem to be hanging on to, let go, they're of no more value to you; those who have done you wrong, forgive them; those whom you have hurt, they forgive you; those you're involved with now, don't worry about them, this wasn't the first life you've lived with them, and it won't be your last. We were brother and sister once in Peru in the 1500's, and were something like mother and daughter somewhere else in the 1600's, and we were lovers in England in the previous life, where he was Charlie's father, but neglected Charlie because of his attentions to me (they didn't say this, but the conclusion was there). His "Big Brotherhood" to Charlie thus worked off his "debt" to Charlie, and we could be somewhat more distant friends in this life. We would meet again in a future life, but it didn't specify how we would be related. His relations with his father and mother and sister were also reasonable: your father did love you, he just didn't know how to show it; your mother is pleased with you, and this is your last life together (so you can safely forget about her), your sister is trying to make it up with you, so why don't you become more open with her? It was all very agreeable, except for the quasi-scientific parts of it, which they messed up in the bumbling way such people have of confounding science and mysticism. I tried to pooh-pooh it, but it was obvious Bill believed in it, so I satisfied myself in talking about what he would do if he got the Philosopher's stone, and he amazed my by staying in Maine, so either he's happy, or he has no idea what he could even DO with himself to be happier.


SATURDAY, OCTOBER 25. After a number of mornings of whacking off when he's not around, and exercising too infrequently, and being too hung up with the lack of heat in the building, and then too all the leaves have gone, and it did something suspiciously like snow each day of the week, though nothing had stayed here, I decided I'd had enough of the place, and I should see about getting out. Since no one except the O'Sheas had sent back a postcard, I decided I had to telephone to see if my reception was waiting. Well, Ram Dass was in New Mexico for the duration of the winter, returning maybe in May, so that cut out the visit to West Franklin. Angela was glad to hear from me, apologetic because she hadn't sent my stuff early enough, and eager to see me, but not eager enough for her to say she'd stay around that evening, but would go off somewhere she wanted to go, and there wasn't anything terribly special going on at Cumbres until November 8, which was too far into the future, so with everything considered, I wouldn't want to go down to Dublin, either. So that left only Boston, so I telephoned to say I was driving down, and that would be fine, and then in talking with Bill, since I wasn't needing to return the car, I could just take a bus down. Checked with the bus schedule and one left at 1, getting down to Boston at 11:30, so I called Hetch back and settled it, then got down to packing everything into the suitcase except the cattails, and then I was ready to go, after a quick lunch which finished everything, and Bill made me take along some oatmeal and a couple of cans which I had bought but hadn't had time to eat up. He drove me down to the bus, put me onto it, and we waved each other away, and it was rather a relief for both of us, I'm sure, though we both rather enjoyed it---he even said that he was very impressed by something we had discussed last night at Wandlyn Inn, but I don't even remember what we talked about. The bus was slow, there was snow further south, I struck up a conversation with an Air Force fellow who told me about a possible "Situation Red," talked with a jabbery older woman, read Playboy, and waited for Don in the station, getting to his neat house at 1 am.


SUNDAY, OCTOBER 26. Up to juice and toast before getting off to the folk mass, and I was greatly affected more than once. The sermon was a rather long-winded thing about the last Sunday of the liturgical year, but spring is just around the corner, but some of the songs, particularly the "Amen" Negro chorus, and the "Come on People" at the communion were enough to bring tears to my eyes. Then there was the exchange of the "Sign of Peace," and two people shook hands with the priest, and these two shook hands with the first ones of each row, and then the sign of peace went down the row, families kissing members of the family, and children solemnly, shyly shaking hands with the people next to them. When I saw the wonderfully soft look of Hetch as she turned toward Don to kiss him, I just about burst into tears. Then Don turned toward me, shook hands, and said in a low voice, "Peace, to you, Bob," and it was all I could do to pass it on to Cathy, sitting by my side. The Recessional hymn had the refrain "And they'll know we are Christians, by our love, by our love," and I felt that in churches like this, it might just be a fact. Left feeling very warm, and back to the home where Hetch outdid herself with eggs benedict for the real brunch, and it was so good I just couldn't stop praising her, and she really beamed her appreciation. Don had made reservations for Cathy and him and me at the Children's Museum, and we drove through half the town to get there, and it was an old house hollowed out into play area with giant telephones and money and paper clips, Indian areas with wigwams and leather chaps and papooses, building areas with blocks and linking squares and dominoes, magnifying areas with telescopes and microscopes, magic mirrors and lenses for looking, fur and felt for feeling, "Big and Small" things for contrast, pan balances, desk computers, draw-your-own motion pictures, and a small film auditorium where the kids were read stories, and then a movie about a wooden boat which fell from central Canada to the ocean, "Onward, Voyager," or something, which we all sat through, and then Cathy insisted the other building had something, and the Junior Spock who ran it himself took us over to look at the guinea pigs and snakes, and to see it WAS something, and they're changing it now.


MONDAY, OCTOBER 27. We ended up the evening with beef bourguignon and French bread which I had to tell them wasn't very good, but the mousse for dessert was quite fantastic, and I told her so numberless times. Then we went into the living room for the "Forsythe Sage," and the kids were sent to bed, and everything was quiet while Don and I and Hetch talked until she fell asleep, and then we all got to bed. Don takes me to work with him in the morning, and we walk around the campus after he sets up his co-workers in their week's working and answers their questions. We're over to the University Museum and there are acres of stuffed animals, skeletons, lovely models of Tahiti and other Pacific Islands, dioramas of Indian life, artifacts, costumes, and endless junk for sale in the shop. Then we're up to the Glass flower collection, and it's staggering in the detail of the items, though every effort is made to make everything look so real that it's not an exercise in glassmaking, it's an attempt to deceive the eye. The models of enlargements of spores and stamens are the only things that look, "modeled," and the rest is flawless (except when broken), though some of the colors don't come out very well. Then walk over to the Fogg Museum, and they have etchings by Rembrandt, but not very much else of note, and we're out quickly in time to get to the Faculty Club for lunch, and there's horse steak on the menu, so I order it, we talk, longer when it was given to someone else, and it's tough and tasteless, but interesting, and then Don sets off to work, and I wander through the Widener Library, looking at the theater exhibits and the models of the development of Harvard, then out to the square to stumble onto Bailey's, where I have a heaping hot fudge sundae, and then around the corner to look into bookshops, other shops, then around the block to sit on campus and watch the people pass, then to the corner to cruise just a mite, but I've decided I'm tired of Boston, and will leave tomorrow. Back to meet Don and home for lovely chicken in wine sauce, very tasty with rice, and then Don brings out "Diogenes" and he really has taken my critique to heart, and much of it is very good, but I tell him more, and we're tired at 1.


TUESDAY, OCTOBER 28. He's picked up by a friend, we park, I get across campus to the subway, JUST manage to catch one, ride into the center of town, search out the information booth Don described, and that puts me onto the Freedom Trail, where I follow the red arrows to the State House, where I take the tour, then around to two graveyards, three or four churches, including Old North, to the Corner Bookshop, past all the new construction on all the Kennedy centers, then out to the Italian section, where I spy Durgin Park, and walk to the top of the hill to look down on the harbor, then stroll back to the center of town, finding no place to eat, except in a MacDonalds just across from the YMCA, and then pat the museum to the Gardner Museum, which is huge and pink and flower-laden and full of lots of bad art and a couple of spectacular Rembrandts and Vermeers and Sergeants. Finished with that and to the museum, which is too huge to see, so I quickly try to get the most of it in, wandering through huge empty halls of paintings and corridors off which are numberless period rooms and bibelots. Getting terribly fatigued, and catch a bus which dives underground to turn into a subway, transfer onto the red line out to Harvard, and then meet Don just at the right time. Back home and drive out to Durgin Park, except that Don gets all lost, and I haven't the vaguest idea where we are, so enjoy the skyways and freeways and backstreets until there's Durgin Park, and the wait is only five minutes, and the service isn't nearly as bad as it was painted, and the people at the adjoining table are nice when we ask what they're having, and the place is friendly, and the steaks are great and very tasty. We decide we can make it to "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," so we're out to grab a cab instead of driving, and get there just in time, go through a lobby which is a passage through a building, OUT THE BACK, and into a little old theater on an inaccessible side street. What an accomplishment! The movie is good, particularly at the "Horseshit" when they're forced to leap from the cliff into the water, and one can't swim. Cab back, and everyone's tired and happy, and we sit and talk for a bit, then everyone's to bed.


WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 29. There's a bus that's supposed to leave at 9:30, and I break my neck into the subway, standing on the train, up the escalator, frantically waving for a taxi, and am there in time only to find that the train leaves at 10. Sit in the lobby and again see the too-handsome guys who could only be looking to be gigolos or hustlers, but who pay lots of attention to the girls, but still are very conscious of who's looking at them. I feel stupider and stupider with my cattails, though they got me down the basement at Don's to look at his lithography, and when looking at some of his drawings and ideas, I chance upon his black pool ball with a question mark on it, shadowed on the floor with an exclamation point, which I say I like, and a few days later, with a recipe for the mousse I liked, it arrives in the mail for me. Bless the O'Sheas. The children were lovely, Sean quite ignoring me, Cathy just brimming over with love of me, almost to the point of being sick about it, but I read them a number of books to cement their love, and she gives me a picture of her Mommy to take with me, and it's really the perfect gift. Don also gives me a couple of quantum mechanics books, and I'll have to get into them if I want to learn what the new science is like. The bus starts on time, and I get everything into the top racks, and we're off. Make a short stop at some suburban bus congregation point, and then it's straight into NYC, getting in at 2:15. Sort of collapse into the house, getting all the mail and reading everything that's come in during the past three and a half weeks, including a number of stamp things that I hadn't requested and that I don't intend paying for or sending back (is this my contribution to the dishonesty of today's world? No, I really DIDN'T ask for them, and why should I feel obliged when they use far-out methods to try to win new customers "for free," without advertising?). Called Joe to say we'd meet for the Ballet in Brooklyn, and we move down for an awful "Eternal Idol," a boring "Elegy" and a disappointing "Etudes" with poor D'Antuono, lousy Young, and sweating Ebbellar. Then I'm to Arnie's for an extremely extended evening's activities in bed until about 4 am, then sleep.


THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30. Sleep till about 11, when he wakes me, we toss some more, then I have to get back home, and he comes in with me. Call the Food Fair and they have my gifts, so we walk over there, stopping in at the Greek place, as he calls it, for some of their soup, and I'm not feeling like much more, so don't have more, only a bacon and egg sandwich while he eats the bread which came with the soup. Wait for ages for the Food Fair gifts to get rooted out of the basement, and the bookcase is quite heavy, mainly the glass for the doors, and we grab a cab and come home, where I put the thing into a corner and don't get it up for somewhat over a month. Arnie's going down to the Museum of Modern Art for some stupid Yugoslavian films (they have a sexy brochure, though), so we meet Joe to eat at Victor's, and then Joe and I walk down to the State Theater for a sprightly production of "Spanish Hour" of Ravel, with absolutely nothing music, but the set is so petite and white and neat, and the yellow-green and rose-pink costumes of the men who are stuffed into the clocks meld so nicely with their clock interiors, the tenor is so hefty and cute, the girl is so pretty in her yellow jumper, that the whole thing is quite charming. Then the much awaited "Catulli Carmina" comes on, and it's really quite dreadful. Everything Orff did in "Burana" he repeated in Catulli, and what he does bad he does very badly. There's no overwhelming beat to the dance, and the actors are so poor that you really don't care what happens to them, and Butler wasted a perfectly good chance for some fantastic choreography when it was boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-boy, and with a girl with the name of Lesbia, one would think there was even some girl-girl possibilities. The singing was strained, the dancing emotionless and contorted, the playing not particularly good, and I was quite disappointed with the whole thing. Not so much that it was bad, but that it could have been so GOOD, following what was so great about Carmina Burana. Maybe the times have changed enough so that what was striking about Burana is now so stale that, even going beyond it in Catulli, it didn't work. We talked a bit on the sidewalk, but I was rather tired, and went home to bed.


FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31. Today's Halloween, which I had been tempted to stay until because I was so delighted with the O'Shea children, and would have liked to see Halloween in their country-like setting, where it would still be pleasant fun, but I couldn't resist the double feature of the two tickets last night and the night before. Unpacked all day today, reading the mail and throwing most of it away, piling up Life magazines to read far into the future, and fix the apartment up from my vacation, putting everything away, washing clothes, making it look as if I had never left it. I'd been calling people during the day, but those I didn't manage to get to somehow got through to me, and Cyndy said she wasn't doing anything tonight, so I asked her to come over, there was a good program on TV, and we could talk. She came over from work, we gave each other nervous little kisses, and talked for a bit, and I decided to see what some of the neighborhood restaurants were like, and she agreed to try China Song, down on Broadway. The décor wasn't so bad, but we were sitting right at the kitchen door and couldn't get any service. The TV started at 8, but we were 15 minutes late finally, and we didn't even bother to have dessert (who wants ice cream?), and the food was quite poor, and the prices not bad, but for poor food, why go? Then we dashed home to watch "Glory, Hallelujah" in vivid color, especially when he rolled over the person lying next to him near the river and "half his head fell into the river," with a great deal of blood. Effective use of dye in river water was used through the film, though the boy who wanted to marry the girl always seemed to be so smugly know-it-all that I couldn't see what he would see in her. The touch about "then he combed my hair" was nicely carried through when the daughter expected HER husband, without being told, to brush HER hair. Then Cyndy and I sat around and talked about my vacation, about her job, about Darwin and other fellows she'd been meeting up with, about the troubles she was having with her apartment, how she never had any money, and, predictably, wanted to change jobs because they didn't appreciate her. Same old stuff. She finally left at 1 am, all talked out.


SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1. I wanted to get some stuff done that was preying on my mind from the trip, so I went out to stand in line to look at the Cartier diamond which had just been sold to Dick for Liz, and listened to an incredible married couple talking on the line behind me: he didn't want to see it, and she did and was going to be killed (or killing him) if she didn't. The diamond was worth seeing, gleaming in colors behind its glass case, large as a giantess' fingernail. Then I went across the street to Creative Playthings, which Don had referred me to, and I stood for many minutes in front of the posters, deciding that the maze was transparently simple, the symbol things said something stupid like "A circle is a continuously curving line equally distant from a center at each point along its curvature," and growing giddy-eyed at the poster trying to decide which pair of circles was the same, eventually verifying one girl's discovery that the one in the lower right corner matched the one diagonally upward from it in the fourth column from the right, but the other pair was still unfound. Watched the kids grabbing red-yellow-blue balls from the flight-high wood-block-maze, pushing buttons to get bleeps and bloops from the speakers on the walls, went up to the gallery upstairs to find no one there, and get a great idea from an apartment complex for a "do your own" apartment complex out of plastic pieces, and got overpowered by the International Harvester yellow orange of everything around. And the prices were uncreatively steep. In to search for Pauling's book, but they don't have it, and I settle for "The Last Days of the Late, Great State of California," which I read as soon as I get home, but it was more satiric comment than disastrous description, though some of it was handled well, especially when the mind boggles when the whole state wasn't there. To Arnie's at 8 for dinner, and we talk, then go to bed, where he gets out his oil, and I rub and rub and rub, and he comes rather squirmily, and I get a chance to rest my jaws, tired from doing him, and he rubs me, too, and we fall asleep rather early, since I have to be up early tomorrow, having to get to Avi's by 11.


SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 2. Thanks to rapid transit, manage to get to Avi's by 11, say that I'm hungry, and he even gives me some breakfast, with Joe, of French bread and coffee, and we're rather nonplussed when Bill arrives early, because he's merely the one who's driving us around today, and he's the only one who Avi hasn't invited for breakfast. It's just starting to rain as we get into the car, and it starts to rain harder as we travel. Up the West Side Highway, and when we get into Riverdale, Bill tells us about some exclusive section up there, and we drive through the private-looking streets, gawking at the old-type Tudor houses perched on artificial hills, or sunk into valleys which loom like hills from the street around and below. It does seem to be a nice section. Back onto the highway, and we still don't know where we're going, so we stop into a gas station for a map, and pore over it looking for things to see, and I spot a monk's winery on the west side of the Hudson, and there's also a museum of some sort marked, so we head in that direction, except that I don't want to direct traffic, because I'm getting slightly nauseous sitting cramped up in a back seat, swaying through the countryside, and there's nothing much to watch outside except the rain and wet trees, and I don't care to look for route markings. We go around Hawthorne Circle two or maybe even three times looking for the right exit, and that doesn't help my dizziness, either. Avi doesn't want to read maps, and Joe doesn't have his glasses, and Bill's driving, and doesn't really care WHERE he goes, so finally Joe, by default, gets the job. We're on the wrong road, and we get turned back at a gas station, and finally make it to the Winery, asking again at the NY Turnpike station, but it's closed. Then we go through the back roads, barreling over unknown terrain to get to the museum, and it's closed too. We'd stopped to eat at a roadside inn, where the food wasn't great, but Bill was hungry, and it sufficed. Stopped into an antique shop and browsed around, but it was mostly junk, and we had nothing to do but drive home in the dark, snoozing in the back seat. Scrabble, then I'm home to the Forsythe Saga and the Times.


MONDAY, NOVEMBER 3. Get up at a reasonable time (probably 10:30, and am determined to get back into the exercises again, so I start at level one, and find I haven't lost ALL bodily memories of the stretches, since I can still just barely raise my thighs off the ground, and can do the twists without falling over, so I haven't lost all the ground I gained. Get back to the mail and send out eight bills, write Mom, and do some fussing with stamps, sending back $1.65 in cash to McCoy, and canceling as I did all the others. That about kills the afternoon, since Joan's invited me over for meat loaf this evening, and quite by chance I bump into Joe Elkins on the subway, and it turns out that Charleton, that he's on, is just an extension west of 6th Avenue of Prince Street, that Joan's on, and it turns out I recognize the building on the corner of Prince and Thompson, which is where Larry Anger used to live. Isn't it a small island? Up to Joan's cruddy apartment (it seems when she lived with Helen was the best she had on her second round in NYC, the thing with Langley was about the best when it was fixed up, which was seldom), and it's filled with cute guys, one on the sofa I don't get the name of, and Paul and his cuter than cute roommate, Tommy, who wears a simply spectacularly tailored pair of bell bottoms that surrounds a box which looks filled with the loveliest of cocks. They're all stoned on pot already, and a joint goes around so I can catch up, and Tommy gets smashed and sits on his piano stool and giggles and talks in his lovely British way, and Paul and he hit each other and give each other "these" looks, and I don't wonder that the thought to them in bed together would drive Joan up the wall. Her next door neighbor comes in, and she's really dreadfully ugly. The meat loaf is good, though indescribable, since it has so much in it besides meat, and the Sara Lee cake for dessert is good, too. Then we all turn on TV, stoned, watching Nixon's "state of the war" address, and he says nothing new, and Joan is determined she's going down for the Moratorium, and I guess I am too. Everyone has to leave early, and Joan's yawning, so I take the hint and leave too, getting to bed early.


TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 4. Keep on with the exercises, the second time atn level one, which is always such an easy delight, and then go over to vote for Lindsay, which was a reason why I absolutely had to be back in town on the 4th, and then decide since I'm in the neighborhood to buy ballet tickets, but I feel terribly stupid because I've brought the schedule along, but forgot to bring enough money along: shades of the times when I always had enough money in my pockets to do whatever I wanted to. So I dump one of the performances, but later Joe calls and says they're changing the schedule anyway, and I still seem to be seeing the two new ballets and Robbin's "Dances at a Gathering" which got such rave reviews from everyone, so I'm content. Arnie calls and says there's a sneak preview on tonight with "Putney Swope," so he'll be coming over in time for us to walk to the theater. He's really making quite a deal about our relationship, and since he's been more responsive, it's not been bad, though it was rather poor form last weekend, when he finally went down on me while I was coming (the only time), to creep back up my chest and dump my come into my own mouth, as if I wanted it. But then I guess he didn't want it either, and I just hear the strains of a new Broadway hit "Nobody Wanted My Come." Manage to get through the rest of the day before he comes, and we're walking to "Putney Swope," and there's a line, but we get in and get fairly good seats in the rear just in front of a large reserved section, which Preview-Goer Arnie says is a good sign. "Putney Swope" is good for a few jokes which had been detailed in all the papers, but then it disintegrated into a bunch of nothing, with not even cute faces to keep it going, and not even color to make it flashy. Rather drippy. Then there was a pause and the reserved section filled up with car salesman types, and the screen went blank and Stacy Keach's face appeared on camera, and it was the "End of the Road" which had just been written up in Life which I glanced through today, but didn't read. So I knew it was both "newsworthy" and unknown, the best combination, and it was uncertain in places, not a great movie, but a quite good one, and one I was just as happy I saw: would have been UNhappy to have paid that money to see "Putney Swope" alone, so it was good.


WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 5. Arnie's over to sleep, so we toss until about 4, so we don't get out of bed until noon, when I'm still determined to do my exercises, and I do them with him watching some of the time, and then I start getting some of the desk clutter cleared off by typing some of the notes I'd written at Bill's, anything to keep from talking with Arnie, which is becoming increasingly tiresome. But he agrees that he would like to go to the Moratorium, too, and will be driving me down, so he's worth putting up with for at least a couple more weeks. I'm still calling people I haven't talked to since the trip, and Allen is one of the last, finally getting him at work, saying that he'd like me to read his book, and we agreed that we'd meet tonight. Arnie stays around, stays around, and we have sex in the middle of the afternoon because Arnie says something like "I'd like to go to bed" in the middle of the afternoon, and I'm just slightly surprised, not that I don't know what it feels like to want it then, since I have, with Joe, and with others in the past, when sex just feels SO good, but I'm surprised that HE'S so anxious to have it. Then we're up and dressed and shaved and showered, and it's raining, so I call Allen and say let's meet for dinner, and he suggests the China Gourmet on 72nd, so we agree to meet there. I take my clear umbrella, which is completely ruined in one instant on crossing Broadway in the wind, so I throw it away and we get wet walking toward the marquee. The food, when Allen gets there, is pretty good, and the conversation is rather stilted, and Arnie completely refuses to have anything to do with any of the Jewish organizations that Allen's connected with and might be able to help him with. We adjourn to his apartment, again getting soaked, and he comes out with the banana liquor again, and we talk through the evening, comparing notes on Russia, and he wraps the book up in a plastic bag and we're off about ten. Arnie doesn't want to stay (or can't because he has an early appointment tomorrow morning), so I'm glad of a chance to sleep alone again, masturbating to let go the pressures that he manages to build up in me, but is so reluctant to release.


THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 6. I put all qualms behind and get out the stamp collection that I bought from Bill, and started tackling the enormous task of transforming two collections into one collection. I started with the catalog and both albums out, but later transferred the catalog to my lap for only occasional reference, and as time went on, I did it faster and faster, wanting only to be finished with the task. I'd also started with the idea of seeing how my original selection of stamps from the packets was, but that soon developed into too much trouble, and there was nothing to be actually gained from the knowledge that "In France I missed five, but in Great Britain, I only missed three." Joan dropped over from 1 to 2 between engagements, and I seem to remember that she was very depressed, getting no job offers, refusing to take a part-time job, quitting her waitress job because she didn't like night work and because Bonnie, who got her the job there in the first place, quit. Then I read parts of Allen's book, finding it very difficult to get into, but once I saw where he was, it became easier to read, and easier to critique. I saw that I would very quickly run out of hinges, so I went out and bought two more packets of hinges, and for the first time in memory the fellow DIDN'T finish by saying "You know, we sell stamps, too" because he was busy with another customer (which didn't stop him before, but this may have been a customer he was trying to impress). Then I got back to the stamps and spent the rest of the day on them, starting slowly until the practice in it built up, and then more and more effectively, as everything else was forgotten. It turned out that he gave me quite a number that I didn't have, and in some countries (like Liberia and Spain) he made major additions to my collection. Then, too, in the British Empire he filled in many blank spaces, and before the filling was over, I found I was down to fewer than 50 blank double pages in the whole album, which is rather close to where I was in an album about 1/5 the size only a year ago. The purchase was really a good one, and I began to settle in and enjoy the melding process, getting many new packets of duplicates.


FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 7. The impetus from yesterday lasted all day today with the stamps. I had bought packets of hinges 10 and 11 for the collection, so that when I finished the tenth packet, I knew I was reasonably close to putting the 10,000th stamp into the new album, so I counted every stamp in the book, and was within 100 stamps of 10,000, so I counted out the proper number of hinges, and then carefully took hinges from the packet if I were doing something like trading a mint stamp from Bill for a used stamp which was already in, therefore counted, and I knew that somewhere in Liberia I put in the 10,000th stamp. The actual one is recorded somewhere, but I guess the next landmark I'll look forward to is putting in the 1000th United States stamp, which should come sometime next year, what with a new desire to fill up some of the US spaces, and new issues, it should quickly climb above the almost 900 I have there now. The 1000 for total US-UN was reached sometimes during my inclusion of the big purchase of UN while Rita was here (later this month), but since it happened before I counted, I really can't be sure. The only sad thing that happened, as I got my collection into better and better shape, was that I became more and more concerned about something happening to it: a bomb blasting the whole building and the collection all over the landscape (all over what's left of the landscape), a thief who enters while I'm gone, sees the bulging item, and understands its worth and takes it, a fire breaks out downstairs, and it's burned, or, even more poignant, I die and the thing is sold at auction with the rest of my junk. That's the trouble with possessions, particularly when you're fond of them, and work on them, and devote a lot of time to them, they begin to exert a hold on you. At various times I thought of selling the whole thing, or giving it to Greg, but the stupidity of doing that just AFTER I bought Bill's collection was too great, but as time goes on, I'll only be MORE attached to it, have invested MORE in it, and that more can never get less, so I'll have it around forever. Not unpleasant, but a type of millstone which gets heavier and heavier, imperceptibly, over time.


SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 8. Arnie called sometime during the day and asked me to spend the night over there, so I finally got my head out of the stamps and decided to fix the place up a bit. Sweep for the first time in a couple of months, and put things away and sort through more things, and now I remember that it was "Makbeth" by the Performing Garage that he wanted to see, that he had tickets for that one of his girlfriends didn't want to see, and he invited me to; it was a preview. He drove past and picked me up about 6:30, and drove down to the Village, where he said he wanted to take me to a Polish restaurant. We parked down near Tompkins Park and it was very cold as we passed a couple of steamed-up places which he said were pretty good, but there was one place he wanted to take me, and I agreed to go. Everyone who was sitting at the tables in the back was speaking Polish and had the bulbous noses, soft faces, small eyes, and large bodies of any number of my relatives. I was facing the kitchen, and there was an aging old cook in the antique kitchen who reminded me very much of my father, not so much in the face, but in the way he moved, the way he handled himself, his obvious knowledge and unconcern with what he was doing. There was a cat wandering in and about, searching out food, using his entrance through the fan vent into the back yard. Sawdust on the floor added to the look of the old grocery store, and the casual service, coupled with Arnie's constant grating conversation, made the evening rather uncomfortable. He ordered the beef stew, and one order of the Polish potato filled dumplings or knishes whose name I can't think of, and we shared them, the dumplings heavy and tasteless filling spaces in the stomach which would have preferred something tastier. We were getting late for the show, so we had to leave quickly, and the whole meal came to about $2.50. Back to the car, looking into shops that he remembered, and over to "Makbeth" to find they'd gotten "as much as they wanted from the preview audiences," so there wasn't one tonight, so she promised to give Arnie two top-price seats to a regular performance. We went to his place to watch Rod Serling's "Night Gallery."


SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 9. We got into bed at midnight and sexed until 4, then woke and sexed a bit at his insistence, then I dozed back off and we woke again and had sex some more, and by this time I was getting into the habit of whacking myself off, while he held me close and I strained, because I was tired of getting excited, yet getting no jetting relief. Out of bed finally at 2 pm, and I wanted to catch a double feature I'd spotted in the Times, so I took the subway in to the New Yorker and saw "Accatone" which was rather dreadful because all the cute Italian guys did was sit around and say how terrible it was to have to work, and then moaned because they had no money, but even the cute ones had budding pots which would be dreadful by the time they got older, even though they were sexy enough as they were. For an early Pasolini, it was interesting, but like early anyone, it looked awfully dated, handheld, and muchly black and white. The other was "La Guerre est Finie," which got such good reviews with Yves Montand as an old Spaniard fighting to "free" his country from the "yoke" of its oppressors, and the whole thing was rather senseless, like young kids playing at cops and robbers, meeting strange people, getting arrested and killed off, having to tell each other they were arrested and killed off, having long involved conversations about how they would pull "just one more caper" and quit, and how silly it seemed to others looking at them, and to many watching the film. But it was too long, and I was tired after I left. Got home and settled down to read a couple of chapters of "Quantum Mechanics," but it very quickly got heavy and began to be boring, so I reviewed some of the other stuff from former textbooks, and read bits of Gamov's books again, and then got tired enough to stop, watch the Forsytes, eat dinner, mess around, and then get to bed. It's terrible not remembering what happened during most of these days, and even more terrible when I think that probably NOTHING happened, and there's nothing to write about the day, it's just lost, past, not to come again, and what I didn't or did with it is of absolutely no importance now, just letters filling out a typed line.


MONDAY, NOVEMBER 10. Someone on the Film Festival line mentioned how much some old movie star looked like Paul Newman, so I watched "Tombstone," which had him in it, but he was far past his prime, going to seat and pot quickly, and it looked more like a spoof of old westerns, where the camera would graciously look away until he was safely mounted on the horse, but they couldn't think of any way to avoid showing him walking, to see how overweight he was, how stubby he was, and how unlike a romantic image he looked. But dreadful as it was, and though I'd proved to myself he didn't look like Paul Newman, I watched it through to the end, which was typical in that none of the good guys got killed or missed a shot. Then there was another double at the Riviera, or some such theater just north of the Symphony, of "DeSade" and "Wild in the Streets," and so I dressed warmly and walked up Broadway. There was certainly a lot of activity on the streets, and I again reminded myself that I could do worse than simply taking a walk on the city streets each day to see what was happening. Little old ladies with their entire wealth in heaping shopping bags, tramps both male and female, beggars, drunks, cruisers, hustlers, pimps, school kids hurrying home after classes, young guys with nothing to do but walk down the street looking sexy, mothers with baby carriages and beautiful fathers, all the people of the city, as if no one worked at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, and everyone was out seeing what was passing on the streets. Got to the show a bit early, and sat uncomprehending through the end of "Wild in the Streets," and enjoyed "De Sade" only for the blue eyes of Keir Dullea, though I really don't understand how the reviewers who said nothing happened could say it: there were tits galore, orgies with feathers and whips and wine, a grand scene of them wrecking the castle, a good bit by John Houston, and some good fantasy scenes as the girl he loves appears and disappears. But he's terribly broad of beam, shows no cock at all, and has unpleasantly feminine chest lines, so he's not my ideal of sexy. "Wild in the Streets" good, rather gay, but the bit of the old folks on LSD was a bit extreme. Wrote a long letter and check to Bill.


TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 11. Had called Norma to arrange for lunch today, and then since Arnie had expressed interest in the Playboy Club, I decided to take the both of them there, especially since it sent me $4 worth of tickets for free spending. Met in the building and looked about the new reception area while waiting for her to appear, and quickly over, where we got seats in the bar and got drinks (tomato juice for Norma), and the two of them chattered away about their own private lives, without really opening themselves up for anything, or giving either the idea that the other might be attracted to them. To the dinner, and I was still hungry after I was finished, but they were both rather charmed by the place, and we wandered around the other floors, looking into everything, and then down to the street where we crossed to look into A La Vielle Russie. Hazarded guesses on prices of tiger-eye and malachite boxes, and then we decided to go in, where a snobby but kindly lady took out a number of scent pomanders and boxes to show us what they were like, and Norma admitted to being in packaging, but still lent enough elegance to the odd threesome that we were shown every kindness and many of the Fabergé trinkets. Time passed and Norma had to get back to work, and Arnie followed me back to my place, and before there was much said, we were in bed, and that was that. I'd called Herman also this week, but we never did get together for lunch. Arnie left, arranging to meet the next evening at his place in preparation for going to Washington, and I'd called Paul to make sure everything was OK with him, and to ask him to make reservations for me at the Library of Congress to show Bill's manuscripts. I probably spent the rest of the day with stamps, not bothering yet to pack, checking to find that the check from my latest sale of stock, which I had to pick up before I went to Washington, would be available tomorrow, so I made plans for the next day and for about a week away in Washington, and finished by clearing up some odds and ends around the apartment, also washing clothes sometimes in here, which isn't terribly important to tell, but necessary to do, as all know.


WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 12. I guess I DID have lunch with Herman and Joan down in their area, and they liked their job enormously, and Leigh Power had joined them, I learned that he had a kid already, that Miriam Kaplan had quit her job to do something of value for the peace movement, Joan was working with a committee to get busses down to Washington for the Moratorium, but there was the nasty rumor that the drivers weren't going to show up, and there would be no large-scale way to get down at such a late date. A quick dinner in a lousy diner, and everyone was happy to talk to everyone, I to Joan about writing, Herman to me about how much work has to be done to change the government from inside, Joan about how great it was to work there. Then I bought some United Nations stamps at a place which sold some issues for only a penny over face value, which struck me as a bargain, and then down to 2 Broadway, where I looked out over the harbor and got my check, then hurried back up to the bank, where I deposited what I needed and took out the cash I needed, and then, or some time like then stopped by in Marlboro's and picked up some records that I wanted, and did some shopping at the new Record Hunter on 57th, but they really didn't have too great a collection, at least they never had the records I wanted. Back home to pack for the trip, and decided everything would be in layers, since I didn't know how cold it was going to be down there, and I had to leave lots of room for the manuscripts, and I took along a book in case there was time with nothing to do, though I would expect Paul to keep the schedule busy. Then took the subway over to Arnie's, we had dinner there, and lazed around the apartment having sex for all hours, though about this time I started feeling tired, and letting him do most of the rubbing before I would reluctantly consent to do him. He always put on the jungle noises in the evening, and the surf in the morning, and with the large foam bed, the adequate covers, and the foil ceiling above, and the low lights and his every-moment efforts to make sure I was contented and comfortable, made staying there somewhat a treat.


THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 13. Up fairly early and out to get Danish in the Heights, then down the Belt Parkway, with a spectacular New York skyline receding behind us, then over the Narrows bridge into Staten Island, and over the Outerbridge into Jersey. There was little traffic, though we saw a few hippie-type cars being harassed by police at the roadsides, but there was an awful lot of lane-switching caused by ostensible road works, but most of the stanchions had nothing doing within them, no works visible, and there were so many of them we decided it had to be something the Administration recommended for the harassing of people coming down for the Moratorium. We talked about it, and I got more and more bitter about the situation. We got into the city in good time, and he had ideas of eating at Jennie's, which he said was very good. There was no place to park, so we drove around large blocks, looking at all the organizing hippies all over the streets, and parked in a lot, and were the last customers for a Korean beef dish which was very tasty, though somewhat tepid, and a huge Chinese soup bowl filled with everything, but mainly tasty fat noodles. They began piling the chairs up around us and swabbing the floor with disinfectant when we left, so it was too late to eat. Drove up to Paul's, using the almost-to-Paul's map we got at a station which didn't want to give us two, and thankfully he was there, so we sat around and talked for quite awhile until Kone got home, then Arnie went off, giving me the numbers he could be reached at until the time he came back to Paul's on Saturday late afternoon. He said nothing about wanting to attend anything, which made his "regret" that I didn't call him when I went on the March Against Death and to the Moratorium on Saturday rather enigmatic. Paul was delighted to see me, we got busy fixing up the water filter system on his aquarium, and then he was fussing around the kitchen getting up a very good supper, and he and Kone showed they were completely at their ease with me by having a tiff about the kinds of food Paul was forced to cook and which Kone would accept to eat. But it was pleasant, and I was tired enough to enjoy going to bed early.


FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 14. Paul was gone when I woke, and Kone told me what bus to catch to the Library of Congress, and when I was getting on, discovering that I just had a $20 and they demanded exact change, there was Kone, waiting for the bus, and HE gave me the change, what a happenstance! Down to the Annex of the Library of Congress, and up to the second floor, to the Oriental Division, and was referred back down the hall to the Near East Division, and about a dozen people in all looked at the things, gave various accounts for what was what (see the copy of my letter to Bill about it), and referred me to the Smithsonian, asking me to send them a letter if I ever found out what it was. Across to the Smithsonian building, and there was indexed over to the Museum of Natural History, where I had to tell a guard where I was going, and found a bemused old man rumbling about between waist-high filing cabinets setting up indexes on some new acquisitions. He took me down to a library and gave a few people to me, most of whom weren't very helpful, but a colored fellow sort of took an interest, let me browse around in the stacks, offered suggestions, asked other people in to see it. By this time it was past lunch, and I was hungry, so I got directed to the lunch room, which was quite a deal to get to through halls filled with wooden racks filled with junk whose labels told me were skeletons and parts of skeletons, and bits of flora, fauna, impedimenta, and dejecta of many cultures. The lunchroom, fully automated except for a laughing colored girl who gave change, filled, and quipped, was fun, and I got back to study. Then I had enough, went back to say goodbye, and met a lovely fellow from Yale, who took an interest and photos of the things, and we talked about his digs in Egypt, his trip to Katmandu, and other nice things. Very cute guy. Out in the pouring rain to see a sodden section of the March Against Death, agonizing at the unconcern of the general populace, then caught a bus with some of the medical section, all smiles and good cheer and love, and got back for another dinner, and a long talk with Kone about the chances of his getting a good deal by studying Programming at Federal City College.


SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15. About midnight I walked through Dupont Circle and coughed and sneezed on the tear gas so recently laid down against the extremists who wanted to hit the Vietnamese consulate, and walked over to the Arlington Bridge, where I was tremendously impressed by the number of people, the number of smiling family groups, the quantity of things being given away---PLEASING to be taken, the organization of the whole thing, with the sequence of four huge tents, the frequent and effective pleas for money, the distribution of the name cards and candles, and the instructions for the march. The lovely family behind me and I exchanged lighted candles a number of times, and then I got wrapped up in the beautiful Marshals who were half-frozen but game, cheering everyone on, wrapped and swathed in blankets, but generally gloveless and hatless. There were trucks going around with tea and other hot things, and I was only a little tempted at the request for more marshals to meet at the church afterward. The walk was terribly cold, but there was enough to see and be amazed at, so that it seemed to pass by quickly: always something to look forward to: the shouting of the name at the White House, the placing of the name in the coffin at the Capitol, getting back to watch the line in front of the White House some more, the temptation to stick around, love the people, light their candles, try to give my candle away, but then I felt stupid and tired, and so I walked the long walk back home, getting to bed at 4:30. Up at 11, and Wes drives his black friend and me to the Moratorium, but we split, and I enjoy the crowds, get down the hill to stand on top of a bus to get a pretty good look at the speakers, wander over to the Lincoln Memorial to look at the crowd, then get a ride home in a Cadillac from Virginia who didn't enter the march but "wanted to help." Arnie OK'd the gay evening, so we ate poor steaks at the Plus One, then agreed to go to Wes's party, but we couldn't find anyone home, there was no address, no one to phone, so we ended up at Bob's for more cocktails, as the evening had started, and I was getting very tired, so I was very glad to get to bed.


SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 16. Up rather late for breakfast, and Paul wants to shop for some fish supplies (including fish), so we're finished with breakfast and Paul drives us up through Rock Creek Park, which is very pleasant, even though the leaves are all down and it's rather stark. Stop in some suburb and there's an import shop that we go into and browse through like children looking at a candy-shop display, but no one buys anything, we only want to look. Next door to the small fish shop, and Paul talks about prices and comes out fuming because they're so expensive. Drive a number of miles further to a bigger shop, which we have to ask directions for, and it's busy, some of the customers are terribly cute, there's a good variety of fish, but even with all this, Paul takes too long and Arnie and I are out to the curb to talk while waiting for him to buy his three varieties and six specimens. Back through Rock Creek Park to pick rocks out of the creek in the park, and home to find the fish dreadfully inert at the bottom of the jars, and put them into the aquarium before the water has become dechlorinated, but one dies anyway. Then we drive into Maryland to see Paul's grandmother's old cottage, and we find that the pier is terribly expensive, North Beach has gotten very gay with transvestite shows, and we're along further to Wesley Stinnat's for a rather breezy dining room with terribly provincial customers, and Paul recommends the rockfish, which I find dreadful, the baked potato is cold and hard, but the hot fudge on the cake is out of this world, and everyone tastes it and agrees that it's very good, so there's something good about the place even though the waitress can't find the brand of the chocolate. Drive to Bob someone's, who's Paul's friend and CPA, and we chat for a bit, then drive back through the countryside that Paul's even debating moving into, and get back at 10. Paul is tired from driving, and goes to bed, and nothing Arnie can say about how wide awake he is will change my going to bed early, since I'm really not caught up from the Saturday morning walk. Sex is pleasant, though I have to do it all myself, and we manage to get both of us to come and out of the way before falling asleep well before midnight.