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1972 6 of 8


DIARY 3255

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 1. [My God, the first day of September and I STILL don't have a job, and I'm STILL not through with the list of things to do with the new apartment!] Wake logily at 7 and start playing with John at 7:45, culminating in his orgasm after I finally moisten his cock and use a firm pressure (I don't think ANY of the other mechanisms would have caused me to come---at least in a reasonable amount of time), and we're out of bed at 8:45. I'm very conscious of not having exercised for the past two days, and resolve to exercise three times, or at least twice, today, but I only manage to do it once, to at least KEEP only two days behind, just before lunch and the call from someone whose name I didn't catch (because I was breathing too fast from finishing the exercises before answering) from Harcourt saying that sometime in the middle of next week she'll send me a mathematics answer book proofreading job, also adding that I was very highly recommended, which makes me feel great. John's been out to get the window blinds finally, and they fit at last, and I keep working on the sills and floor in the central hall, and many of the paint splotches are UNDER the wax, which means I have got to get down through a number of layers, and then after lunch I get back to the task, finally finishing the hall just as it gets dark. Also finished "Sirens of Titan" in the morning, the first thing that I did, which got me into the mood to skip breakfast again. Then at dinner (when I finish the duck-in-duck) we talk a lot about Mattachine, and John manages to rekindle my interest in helping out the organization, and I start typing two suggested sheets for the Director's meeting on Tuesday, and then I wash dishes and we go over to watch the Olympics at 8, but it's a fair bore, so we smoke, then I shower at 9, and we smoke again, and he turns channels and I shut it off, putting on music, and I lay on the bed, feeling nicely passive, so John comes in and starts playing with me, and I with him, and at times I'm terminally hard, but finally go down, and end up struggling to bring myself off, and he lets himself go down, and he falls asleep at 10:30 while I brush my teeth and watch "San Simeon," and get into bed next to him at 11, feeling tired from only five hours' sleep the night before.

DIARY 3256

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 2. We're up and out of bed about 8, and I'm over to type one diary page, then get back over to the old apartment to keep on working on the hall floor, which is the most difficult of all, and I'd called Julian in the morning, and he said he'd be taking off tonight, and then when John and I try a large number of people to get them to come to dinner tonight (and I make up a "phone and letter" list of people that I have to bring up to date with my new address---to add to the "Do in New Apartment" list and the old "Gay-Job" list), and finally John invites over Arnie and Norma, and when Julian calls back about noon, I invite him over, too, and then get back to the old apartment after lunch. (I exercise twice today to try to catch up, but fall behind AGAIN by Wednesday.) I get the first three squares of the FRONT area cleaned when the buzzer goes, and I greet Julian, who's brought the two bottles of rosé, as ordered, and a bottle of John Begg for himself, and we sit down and talk for a few hours from his entry at 3:30 until 5:30, when I go over to shave and shower, and then Arnie and Norma arrive and John goes into the kitchen to continue cooking. There's a one-dish thing of chopped meat and lots of other things, and then a salad which Arnie has a plate of without salad dressing, and ice cream with maple syrup as a dessert. Julian gets into a political kick, talking about the nominations and Florida scandals and how things SHOULD operate, so I don't feel that I have much to add to the conversation, except to remind him that it IS 8 pm and he has to catch a plane at 9 (no, the dessert was Norma's special Desserta and strawberries and saccharine dessert of lady fingers and pink fluff), and then the four of us go over to my apartment, which they like, and I put on the windstorm and talk to Arnie while Norma and John go back to their apartment to get ready to leave, and they leave about 11, but we're too tired to even go out for the Times, and we flop into bed, John with a sherry, taking up a habit he hasn't been doing for a long period of time, and I'm still wondering why I'm feeling so tired, hoping that the energies I'm putting in the floor explains enough about my lack of pep, hoping there's nothing wrong with me, but I haven't had a blood test in a long time, even though I haven't been doing that much, but I should.

DIARY 3257

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3. Up, possibly even to sex, and I'm out to buy the Times and milk for breakfast, and read through the usual sections until 1, when I go over to watch "Tin Pan Alley" with lunch and the puzzles, doing both of them with little difficulty, and the movie's just awful, with Alice Faye taking some sort of award for copeless acting. John wants to use my vacuum cleaner, but it doesn't seem to be sucking, and I take it apart to find a lot of stuff clogging the innards, and when I try it a final spin, I stick my thumb (already abbreviated at the nail from the constant scraping at the floor to augment and localize the too-scratchy action of the scraper) into the roller and give it a painful zap, which I jam into my mouth and suck on, and it looks like the upper third of the nail will go black, and I have a blood blister that throbs continually right at the tip of the thumb. Finish the rest of the paint off the floor, using the left hand entirely, and John cooks a simple roast chicken for dinner that we both love---and I don't bother to say that it's almost as tasty as the simple roast chickens that Joe Easter was such an expert in. Want to do something tonight, and I suggest the "Gang's All Here" at the New Yorker, so we drive up there (I'd done dishes this morning from last night, and will do them tomorrow morning from TODAY) at 8, and the print's in perfectly mint condition, with brilliant acidic reds and blues and magnificent clarity and sharpness, and though the banana number is over-rated, the lights and the other production numbers, particularly with the neon-hoops in reverse photography, are up to the Busby Berkeley standard, but the leading man was SO poor that he rated only third-string billing. The final effect of heads, perfectly lit, in stars, was striking in its idealization of the eyes and expressions of the individuals in the center. Then at 10:30 (after the cute cartoon of Susie, the tiny car) we went up to the Eagle, and John was again in his element, and toward the end even I got tired of voyeurism (see next page). Though there were eyes swinging back and forth in the crowded New Yorker, there wasn't really any action, and I didn't get anything at the Eagle, so bed at 1:30, depressed.

DIARY 3259

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 4. The weather was supposed to be awful today, but as the morning wore on and I puttered around the apartment, John said that we should go bicycling, and I agree, though I'd rather finish off more items from the apartment list, having spent the morning working away on the floor with the paint remover to take up the glue from the tiles. Then about 2 we're off, and John had no ideas, didn't like mine, but when we get down to the street, I'm to lead. Decide to follow the coastline of Brooklyn, so we're down under the Belt Parkway, then along the old dock areas and President Street, then out onto docks for a startlingly clear look over the far hills of New Jersey and the buildings of Manhattan and a close Governor's Island, and continue down along docks and wharves, seeing boats, the US Hyde, landfill areas, the Bush Terminal area, and along the Navy Terminal to 62nd Street, when we both finally agree to being tired, and peddle home through the center of Brooklyn, getting back at 4:30, and I finally call John Connolly at 6, and he's just finished eating, having called at 4, and agrees to come over in an hour. John fixes dinner and I finish up in the bathroom, and then start vacuuming, but his bag fills up just as I'm starting the bedroom, and then the bell rings, so I scrape up the fluff with my fingers and get over to them, and we sit around and savor John's chocolate soufflé for dessert, and after John talks against Mobil as being Rockefeller-owned, we all agree to go out to the Promenade. Gawk at the cruisers, look at the stars and the buildings, and walk back to the apartment about 9, when the three of them have to get back because Ivan's up at 5 every morning, and we get back up to wash dishes and get over to look at Mark Spitz win the seventh gold medal, and we smoke, having nice sex when the television program's over at 11, and it feels still very good to be able to watch the TV I want and STILL be able to go to bed with John every night without wondering what apartment we're going to stay in: but the morning NOISE: lead-foot upstairs, low-flying planes, garbage collecting, children screaming, the refrigerator rattling now that John's put it on (for poppers), the muffled rumble of the subway underneath, horns EVEN from the front, is really SAD!

DIARY 3260

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5. Decide I MUST do something about cashing in my stocks, since I'm not going to get enough money to pay the rent, and look through my Dreyfuss stuff and figure that I have not QUITE twice out of the market that I put in, and phone in to get the prices, and he says I should get there by noon, so I shower and dress and get into town, deciding on the subway to continue up for other interviews, but forget to bring along all my clippings. Warren welcomes me, takes down my new address, saying he's selling Stonebury, and if I want $5,000 I should sell it FOR him, so I get four brochures from him (2 for Elaine, one for John C, one for me) and am delighted that Listfax has gone up to 7½, much better than a previous 3½, so I sell 100 shares of THAT, grateful that I have something to sell besides IBM, and catch a subway uptown at 1, buying a Times to see if I'm reminded of more names of ad agencies, and it's only by looking at the Sunday ad section in one of the offices that I'm reminded it's Mary Diehl (see next page). The prospects look VERY bad, and I've "saved" the day by stopping in at Bookmasters and buying four more Vonnegut books and a large $5 Steranko history of the comics which covers mainly Captain Marvel, which I'm happy to learn about, and stopping in at the Mexico Government tourist office to pick up some of their poor brochures and find out (or try to) about automobile rentals. Then home to find John depressed from his first full day of work at DTW, and we chat through dinner at 5:30, and I'm off to the Mattachine Board meeting at 6:30. Guy who wants $5 for candy for Riker's Island takes 45 minutes, then we talk about secretary, and I decline their offer to become it, appointing someone ELSE to the board. Meet John at 7:45 at Christopher and Hudson to zoom uptown and park at 8 for the George Faison Universal Dance Experience dress rehearsal for Central Park at Madolyn's place, and he has very fast, zippy choreography that reminds me of Africa and John of the Broadway stage: and the dancers are a marvel to look at: short sassy gals, a long-limbed DeLavallade type who can do no wrong: a tiny-waisted guy, a beautiful PR-looking type with NO idea of selling his sexy body, and a remarkably ugly person and someone else. Out at 10, home and bed early.

DIARY 3262

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6. Wake early and start on John with the vibrator, and he comes nicely, and then I take to myself with the vibrator, too. He leaves for work and I have breakfast with the cereal he bought yesterday (though we need milk now), and I figure I'll see the Brooklyn Heights temporary agencies today, but want to look through the Comic book, so I'm over to my apartment and read and jerk off over the sexy cover, coming soft since I just CAME this morning. Shave and brush my teeth and over to phone Earl Resnik (from when Arnie called me last night to tell me Naomi Auerbach talked to him) and he's great over the phone, even to saying "Call me when you're about to send the first bill and I'll tell you how much you can pad it." He does everything but PROMISE me that I'll have something to proofread from McGraw-Hill in the next two weeks. GREAT! Then Pat Goett from Harcourt calls about noon, saying that the answer book will arrive tomorrow by Special Delivery! So I have lunch of toasted oatmeal bread with cream cheese and bologna with week-old soup that I finally got the chance to clear up, and then dress and out at 2:30 for the Brooklyn Heights agencies (see next page). Back at 4, stopping at Arnie's to find him not at home, and at the cleaners, which I'll never use again, to pick up the expensive shirts and the pants they cleaned and the white ones they DIDN'T clean. John's back already and I send out six pieces of mail, getting out to deliver them (which does no good, since they pick it up LAST at 6:30 pm, and only at 11:30 in the morning), including two applications for jobs: one tech writer, another proofreading, which thankfully is in the VV again THIS week. Exercise, tired at level three still, and eat a fairly ordinary chicken-noodle casserole with lots of spices, then do the dishes and over the watch "The Overcoat" with Bykov, a young fellow acting like an old one delighted, then robbed, then maddened about his new overcoat, and John smokes, I smoke when I finish showering, then we watch Rod Serling, a bunch of garbage, and I smoke again, finally getting high, and start playing with John while watching TV, then into bed, sucking away, and he comes with GREAT gasps and prolongations and seizings of my hand, then does me, and I've come THREE times today! Sleep at 11:30.

DIARY 3264

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 7. The alarm's set for 7:30 for some reason, and there's the click of the offed-clock when that time comes, and we're up somewhat later. John's out and when I check the mail at noon, there's no answer book to proofread. Phoned Creative Book Service from the ad in the VV, and say that I'll be in at 4 to take the proofreading test. Type 8 pages to catch up with almost a week of behindness, then write change-of-address letters to Cyndy, Sidney Porcelain, Norman Pittenger, Marion Vallish, Grandma, Helen and Jimmy, and Rita, and answering a large part of my correspondence pile with three of them. Then have lunch, phone John to say that I won't be here when he gets in, and feel cramped because of the exercises I did this morning for the first time in a long time. Out at 3:15 and get to Creative just before 4, and it's a hectic office which finds difficulty locating a place in which I can take the test. When I get into it, it seems to assume a knowledge of type fonts, and they use a "b/b" (which means baseline-to-baseline, and she admits they invented it) and a clc (which means caps lower case, which I should have known) and points and picas which I don't get, though I can see some inconsistencies from page to page, but there are so few actual PRINTING errors that I feel very uncertain about the test: also there were no hyphenation mistakes, which I bothered to check, and the test took about an hour and twenty minutes, which couldn't be very fast. Go over some things with Betsy Feist, and she says she'll be in touch with me. I bet. Out at 5:10 and buy a paper to get change of a quarter so I can call Dorothy at Olsten, but she can't find anything for me for the ENORMOUS amount of money I want, which is a too-little $2.75, which only comes to $110 a week! Get to the office and read the Times, finding one ad for a technical editor which I'll apply for, and then it's 6, I play back the messages and John says I should call Olsten again, and they AGAIN say that they have nothing for me. Quiet night at Mattachine (see next page), and home at 9:55 to cook hamburger on MY stove and watch "Covered Wagon," highly over-rated, lousy print, and John's in and we're to bed at 11:45.

DIARY 3266

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 8. Wake and maybe even have sex, but the last few days have been so hectic I don't remember rightly. John goes into the other apartment while I exercise, and then I'm in to have breakfast, type two pages, and finish off my "letter list" with notes to Dick Hsieh, the Seavers, the O'Sheas, Lisa Malsin, Bernie Mazie, Claudia and Stu, Elaine with a folder for Warren's house, and a job application from the Times I bought yesterday. Joan's to arrive at 1 for a picnic at Jones Beach, and I get out with a shopping list of fill with hamburger and fruit and muffins for dinner, a hibachi from the Variety Mart to cook it on, then I finally drop off all the letters, and buy a gallon of Hernandez for $4.27, dropping the kitty down to little more than $1. Back at 12:45 for lunch, Joan calls to say she'll be late: I've been working on the kitchen again, bringing down Mrs. Johnson on my head because I've been cleaning the kitchen window nude, and I KNOW I tried to ignore the people upstairs, but they chose not to ignore ME. Long talk with John about it, who thinks I was imprudent. Then I'm over to shave and shower while John gets the picnic things ready, and Joan still isn't here at 2, so John goes downstairs and I sit around the apartment in case she decides to telephone, and we're out at 2:25, and the traffic is already quite heavy on all the highways, even the Meadowbrook to Jones Beach. Finally arrive about quarter to four, and we trudge over the strangely-matted sands from seaweeds and high tides and sun, spread out the blankets and provisions near the dunes, then go down to test the water, which is very cold. Back to find John missing, and tell Joan about the bushes, and she and I go back and sit on an iron settee and smoke, bringing on one of the most pleasant evenings at the beach yet (see next page). We leave about 7:30, back at 8:30, and Joan's up to love the apartment, and I play some music and she has to leave just before 10, when the "Star Wagon" comes on, and I forget it's Maxwell Anderson, but it's very wordy and out-of-date-flamboyant, about Dustin Hoffman as a dolt sponging off his friend Orson Bean (who sings a mean "The Holy City"), who try a time machine, then cut back to their old life, saying "Didn't this happen before?" Bed, tired, at 12.

DIARY 3268

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 9. Today is the day of the movies! John's up before me, leaving me to make the bed alone. It's probably TODAY that I work on the kitchen, not yesterday, and get down to the Museum of Modern Art just in time to get onto the line for "Show People" that stretches to the top of the stairs, and surprisingly most of the people actually get IN. The "cast of stars" is grossly misleading, since Charlie Chaplin, Doug Fairbanks, and John Gilbert appear in only the briefest possible ways, and though Marion Davies is certainly a PERSONALITY, she's not beautiful, nor is she a good actress, though I was fairly convinced of HER conviction she was spoofing the silent-film conventions of the time, particularly in the "She's not much" lip-reading when she was shown "Marion Davies," and the "You can all go to HELL" that no one caught when she was spritzed with seltzer. Out into the garden to sit and watch the people, and Edgardo Cavazasi thinks I'm stoned, but follows me out, and we misunderstand that I'm going to his place, and he agrees to call Monday at 10 (he calls at 9:30) and I take the subway down to Hing Hing at 6, but John and I go uptown to the Dil Mahal for Indian food of great goodness, though I wouldn't rank it as high as Nirvana. Out in a rush at 7 to catch the earthquake in "San Francisco," and we see most of it, then watch "Cain and Mabel," quite a funny piece with lines to make the head spin, with a production number of "singing you a thousand love songs," using the ever popular---I forget!---that Busby Berkeley ALSO used for a grand number, but the gondola on the water, rising to organ pipes of chorus girls in Radio City Music Hall Finale costumes, with enormous draperies and wedding cake figures, was truly mind boggling. Sit through most of "SF" again, finding that the "inside-opera-house" scene was cut from the quake, as were other things of people leaping across gaps in the street. Out at 11, and home at 11:20 to guy the Times and call Marty to drive him around tomorrow, and turn on TV at 11:30 to watch a mumbling, eventually bloody and battered and swollen Marlon Brando as the sheriff in "The Chase" for an adorable Robert Redford, with book by Horton Foote and screenplay by Lillian Hellman for an ugly study of Tral (?) County Texans who throw flares and burning tires into the wrecked-car area in the final scene. Shower and bed at 2:30 am!

DIARY 3269

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 10. I'm tired but cuddle anyway, and we're up just after 8, I read the Times to see what I'm missing today, and leave at 9:50 for Marty's after having gotten gas and driven out of the garage for the first time. To Marty's around the tip of Manhattan, see his tiny apartment with the working fireplace he required and the "bed-closet" where he's building his bookshelves, and listen to some affected Nana Mouskouri, then to Jerri's for the 60 records that he's taking to Brooklyn, on our way there at 11, past the tip of Manhattan to the Brooklyn Bridge and into Marty's old neighborhood, while he tells me about his computer dating girlfriends, his troubles with Diane who might want to leave her 48-year-old husband for him, and his possible job at the Library of Congress. Get to Brooklyn to lay down the records and pick up the turntable, then back to Manhattan, and back to Brooklyn to drop him off to see his mother for the holidays, and get in at 12:50 to a waiting lunch, and take off on bicycles for a great trip up the coast of Brooklyn over the bridge into Queens, looking at Manhattan across the way, finding an incredibly-placed restaurant at the foot of Borden Street, but not finding the bridge to Welfare Island, and back by way of the Brooklyn Navy Yard and the warehouse area between the bridges, getting back just before 5, quite exhausted, particularly from biking up the hill to the Heights from the Bank level. Start working on the puzzle, and read some of the sections of the paper, and we eat the leftovers from the spaghetti at 6:15, and I do the dishes while John gets ready to go to the movies in the Heights, and I'd said I might go to Man's Country, because I felt like wild random sex, but figured also there wouldn't be anyone I'd like there, so I wasn't decided. Shower and shave and brush my teeth and smoke, and get VERY stoned and wander out to the baths, passing someone equally stoned tripping along in his silver high heels, pay my $2.75 for a student entry, looking hard at the single quarter I get back in change with the bills, and then enter into one of the most incredible finales for a beautiful weekend since moving to Brooklyn Heights (see next pages). Bed at 2:15!

DIARY 3275

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 11. John's out of bed at 8, but I lay, exhausted and stiff from sex last night, until 8:30, then put the shades up and make the bed and get in to type 9 pages of diary to catch up, and write a short note to Mom, sending her a copy of the Heights map, and since Edgardo called at 9:30 and said he'd be here at 1:30 after an hour and a half subway ride, I figured he might be here as early as 1, since the subway was direct from Mt. Vernon Hospital to Clark Street. So I shaved and got into the shower and as I was soaped and rinsing, the door buzzer went. I rinsed, buzzer sounded again, and dried somewhat and buzzed him in, then dried more to met him at the door, then wet myself to get all the soap off, dried, and greeted the cutie who awaited me with an arm stretched out to my shoulder, then he went into the john, and came out and we fell into an embrace. Sex started almost immediately (see next page) and ended about 2:15, interrupted by the buzzer again for the special delivery package of the answer book manuscript. Over for a salad lunch, which he couldn't finish, and started talking about America's changing, her effect on the world, people who couldn't make up their minds, and capital punishment, among other things, including personal histories, lover relationships, and Mattachine talks. Then out to take a look at the Promenade, to the post office to find to my delight that they have a philatelic window with a GREAT supply of recent (for the past two years!) stamps, and then to the supermarket where he can pick up a pack of desperately needed cigarettes. Back to find John at home, but it seems he isn't taken by Ed, so I call Arnie and go over there to pick up lots of stuff, including a lent copy of "Mexico on $5 a day," and Ed leaves at 6 after getting suggestions for the 21-day fly-anywhere trip across the U.S. Back to John, who's eager to see Ed again, and have dinner. Think to go to a movie, but "Slaughterhouse-Five" hasn't started yet at the Olympic, so John decides to smoke and "go to the Promenade" (and ends up at Man's Country, to sleep for an hour between 8:30 and 11:30), and I decide AGAINST a TV program to get into proofreading the Answer Book, to FINISH it by 11:30. Bed.

DIARY 3277

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 12. Up at 8 and type one page of diary, and call Langley and arrange to call her sometime around 10-11, so that we can set up a possible afternoon meeting, depending on my work schedule at Creative Book Services, where I'm starting my first day of work TODAY! Get there just before 10 and Betsy introduces me to Nancy Doctor, who's the Production Editor, and she gives me a run-down on what I did right and wrong on the test, and I didn't actually do very well (missed collorary for corrolary, they didn't like labelled, and the measurements WERE right in many cases). But she patiently explains the IBM MTSC machines, their b/b measurements, picas, points, and the use of the HAY-burr-rule. I ask lots of questions, then phone Langley and she says she wants to eat by 2 pm, and then the tall British gal shows me their system of shelves and diagrams and schedules and time-and-work cards, and as Nancy feared, the "information overload" sets in and I'm feeling chock-full of information, not knowing really what to do. Get started on the Sethi International Multinational Multireprinted book, but it's quickly 2 and I punch out on the time clock (having punched in at about 10:36, finally, for about a 3.4-hour day) and dash down to the Doral Park Hotel in the muggy heat to meet a tailored, coiffed, and eye-lined Langley who still hasn't learned how to wear contacts without blinking, twitching, and rolling her eyes. She wants Armenian food, so we go to the Ararat, where we have passably good meals after Bloody Marys to start, and she flabbergasts me by not fighting at ALL when I offer to pay her lunch bill, so that's $12 shot to hell, and we're out at 3:15 to walk across the sweltering town, talking about her opera group, lettuce and grapes, and the business and lots of other things, getting home at 4 to show her the apartment, then we drink Cointreau and talk with John, and she leaves at 5:30 and I get ready for Art's advent promptly at 7 for a bass dinner (see next page) which we "joke" about the head and bones and mustardy dressing throughout, and then I'm off at 8, passing up dessert, to get to the Mattachine Open House, already in full swing since 6 (see following page), and out at 10:10 to get home at 10:45 to find Art still here, we're out to sit on the Promenade until 11:30, and we're finally home and I'm VERY tired into bed.

DIARY 3280

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 13. Up to wash all the dishes from last night, and talk to John as indicated two pages previously, and get some paper work out of the way, which means I call up Nancy and say I'm not going to be there at 10, but at 11, and actually get there at a few minutes of 12. Get introduced to more of the people, and I settle down into Sethi (having had lunch at home, since it was going to be so late that I was getting in), working on it solidly until 5:30, when I feel I have to get back home to get ready for dinner with the Harmses. So I've worked about a 9-hour week. Back on a crowded subway, so I have to find some other way of going at a different time, and clean myself up in time for the Harmses to arrive, and I make us frozen daiquiris, and the first set comes off perfectly, and the second is more liquid, and then we're over to the next apartment, where I spread out all the bed coverings, show them the silk and the kaleidoscope and all the other souvenirs, and we're over for the roast chicken with spinach stuffed into it, and the platter is passed and passed around, and soon Ben has the whole carcass on his plate, picking away at the food as we talk about the LaRues, our trip (and I bring over the pornography from Khajuraho and Konarak and the books about Konarak) and we're into many long stories about the trip, interspersed with THEIR adventures in various places, and we have more wine and then the fruit-vegetable salad, and then on to the ice cream with maple syrup, and we're talking away about lots of things until they finally decide to leave at 1, after nodding away in my apartment listening to Marty's tape of Wagner's "Liebesverbot" which they enjoy listening to, but John and Lucy are both nodding on their arms-lengths on the sofa as Ben smiles and taps away to the music. Leave everything on the table just as it is, and get ready for bed, feeling that we're constantly entertaining, but all to a good end, Since John's talk with Art yesterday was a grand success, and the dinner tonight was thoroughly enjoyed by all, even though they WOULDN'T be able to join us for the week at Hemlock Hall because of their rehearsals and performances. Bed, again quite exhausted, at 1:30.

DIARY 3281

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 14. Up AGAIN to do the dishes, and after John leaves I look at my calendar, now knowing that we're leaving for Lewisburg, tomorrow morning, and see that I wanted to go to 80 St. Marks! WANT to catch up with the diary, but WANT to see the films. Can I? Call Pat Goett at HBJ and she says the manuscript should be returned ASAP, so there's ONE who can't be forestalled. Call Nancy and she reluctantly tells me that CBS won't fold if I don't come in for the next two days, but they WILL be open on Monday, and could I please put in at LEAST 16 hours in a week? Finally, I phone Burt David at Hadle and find I can come in for the interview any time before 1, so my schedule for the day is now laid OUT!! Get into the last of the proofreading, transferring the marks to the second set of galleys, and have to let the diary pages go COMPLETELY. Work through until about 11, figuring I've ACTUALLY spent 4 hours and 20 minutes on the job, which looks TOO small, and figure I should say I spent 6 hours, increasing it by 1/3, and then gather everything I need for the evening together (except I don't have time to shower), and get out at 11:15 on a slow subway (walking all the way through the Borough Hall station to get to the Lex, and it must be easier to walk ABOVE ground than below), to HBJ before 12, to an empty office, and Pam is duly impressed by my blue flags, most of which she agrees with, and she STARTS by saying she might bill them for more, but ends by saying it looks about right. Dash up to Hadle and I HADN'T registered with them, so I do so, and talk about a job I'm supposed to interview for in the Village on Monday, not saying I don't want to work steady, and out to eat in Longley's restaurant in record speed, but the "beef stroganoff on buttered noodles" is awful, and the iced coffee only passable for a $2 lunch in 15 minutes. Onto the local subway down to 80 St. Marks, in about 1:30, and "Flying Down to Rio" isn't Busby Berkley, but Bobby Connolly, and the final flight-number is only five minutes. "The Barclays of Broadway" is great, with Ginger Rogers going into her Bernhardt "Marsaillaise" with unconvincing fervor. Out at 4:45, looking like rain, across to leave my suit jacket in the office and around to eat a hamburger platter at Five Oaks, then to Mattachine (see next page), where Edgardo joins me at 9, and we're home to John and sex (see following page).

DIARY 3284

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 15. John goes into the other apartment at 8 and Ed and I cuddle until 8:30. Then he leaves and I start packing and eating breakfast and clearing up little things, and we're about ready to leave at 10:30, but finally drive the car away from the garage at 10:50. West on 1-9 and 22, and leave 78 in Pennsylvania to drive along a small road and get out of the car to have a picnic lunch in a field alive with flying insects and, John insists, too much poisonous vine to eat under the shade of the trees. Back into the car through pleasant back-road farmland, though not as meticulously tended as they are further south in Amish land, but at 3 find that there's 60+ miles to go and John wants to be there at 4. So I'm driving, and go onto interstate 80 up to 61, but that route goes through all the towns from my childhood: Shamokin, Mt. Carmel, and Sunbury, where I make one of the worst mistakes ever while driving: I come to the walled bank of the Susquehanna, get a direction from John, and without looking coast into the intersection about a half-lane before jamming on the brakes in the face of fast heavy traffic coming from the left! John says testily, "I guess I'll drive," but I keep the wheel and cross the river and go up 15, where he directs me the rest of the way to the house at 5. Greeted by Topsy grown young for a moment by John's greeting, a Kathy prettier than ever for a fluffy hairdo, which comes in for large conversation later (see next page), and a more mature Alison and a more trumpet-voiced Becky. Inside, later, we meet Esme, red-medicined on her matted white coat, where just last Thursday they did a huge exploratory operation, concluding the possibility of leukemia, and left the poor creature more dead than alive. Tom's home and we start talking, Kathy starts preparation for the dinner, we're settled into the upper room again, and at 7 Joe and Suzy Juhasz arrive, both quite attractive and vivacious, and we've been through the plum wine, a vodka and tonic, and with three wines at the prickly peppered-steak dinner, the conversation swings to modern living, sex and children, music, colleges, and to Kathy's conversation about permanents. Marvelous talk and inside to bed at 1:15.

DIARY 3286

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 16. Wake about 8, having been roused during the night by dogs from somewhere barking frantically through the rural silence, and we cuddle into satisfying sex, considering that the kids might burst in at any moment. Downstairs at 10 after John's been cooked breakfast by Kathy, and she cooks ME the eggs and sausages and rolls, which she can't toast because Tom's fixing the fans from the flood and is turning off and on the electricity. Then he's to school and John starts cleaning his bike, and Kathy and I talk along about Krishnamurti and her home life (see previous page), and then it's 1 and time for lunch, and she has to take the kids next door for an "ice cream and cake" birthday party, and Tom's staying on campus, and John WANTS to bicycle, so we have BLT sandwiches for lunch while she tells us about her adventures with the Great Flood (see next page), and then at 2 we're out on his and Tom's high-seated 10-speed (with 5 out of commission because of a rub in a gear) bikes, to get immediately onto rural streets, north and west with the brick tower of the prison as a fulcrum about which to rotate, and the day is bright and sunny, the milkweed is just ready to burst, some having been cut along road margins being dry enough to wave like ejaculating fluffy banners, and the bikes are so good that it seems about 4/5 downhill, and we hit top speeds of 32 mph. Past city houses and suburban houses, farms of farmers and of the prison, with enormously-yielding fields of red plum tomatoes being picked by mostly black inmates. Onto route 15, getting tired, and back to the house at 5, to clean up and read the rest of "Player Piano" on the porch, and then Kathy's out with sauced chicken to broil tastily, and just as we're sitting down to eat, Frito calls from Sunbury, and she fills us in on his meannesses and serum-shots to make him achieve puberty at 18, and he arrives with long blond hair and a sassiness which isn't entirely unpleasant. Then the four "children" drive out for a hectic hour at the Carnival, riding on Ferris wheel, mix-up, merry-go-round, pony, train, eating popcorn, then Alison is so het-up she cranks before sleeping with a VERY patient Kathy, then we're out a bit to a party, but I don't care for it, even talking to "the town beauty" who wedded the head of the English Department, walk home in the pleasant evening, and they're all home at 11, and we flop, exhausted, into bed again.

DIARY 3288

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 17. Wake at 8 and laze until 8:30, then shower and get downstairs for breakfast, and it's a bit more hectic than before, so that we're eager to get upstairs and pack and leave at 10:30, with everyone waving goodbye to us from the front steps. The road we want to take is closed, so we're back to 15 and down the main road to Sunbury, then continue down 61 to the main highway, and the roadways are very pleasant, and in the coolness of the air and the few patches of yellowing-leafed trees on the hills we're convinced that autumn is actually coming, and John laments that he REALLY didn't get a chance to appreciate summer, even though I remind him that it seems like a LONG time since we were last up to Hemlock Hall on May 19-22. Down to Shartlesville at 12:30 and into the hotel, which has been enormously expanded in a sad plastic way, with neon lights and almost windowless rooms in contrast with the bright windowed smaller place I'd eaten in with Miriam years before, and John's turned off by the table-full of people interminably passing food up and back, though since we're at one end, we only have to worry about GETTING the food, rather than PASSING it from one end to the other. I think it's great, but he seems to have little appetite, so I chatter away to the people about the Vallishes of Mt. Carmel and New York, and eat a bit of almost everything, ham and tapioca and stewed tomatoes particularly good, and end up absolutely stuffed. Back to the car at 1:30 and zip back along the highways, driving for a bit, in the increasingly hot day, and when we stop for gas it feels like summer again. Leave John off at the DTW at 4, when his Board of Director's meeting is, and home at 4:30 to find that Edgardo's been taken to the country, against his planning, so he won't be in this evening, and I dash out to buy the Times, read LAST Sunday's Times first, even to looking through the ads to find a Tech Writer's job that I'd missed, and then looking through the NEW Sunday Times, not feeling like eating at all, and John returns to want to go out, but I tell him about "Goldfinger" at 9, and we watch it until 11:30, with great scenes at Fort Knox and marvelous car episodes, and we're contentedly to bed without sex at 12.

DIARY 3289

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 18. Depressed at the thought of going to work, but the subways are uncrowded because it's Yom Kippur. Woke reluctantly at 8, across to send off a few job applications and phone to see that a part-time interviewing job at $4 an hour is at least 30 hours a week, and call Hadle to find that Burt Davis isn't in, so by the time he doesn't call by Thursday at 9:30, I assume I'm not getting a chance at that Tech Writing job in the Village. Shave and get out at 10, getting to work at 10:30, and almost no one's there, and I continue on Sethi, asking many questions of Nancy, who's also the receptionist because Leslie's out, too. Decide I WANT to see the movies rather than go home and work, so I telephone John and he says we should meet at Cleopatra at 6:30 to get to the movie at 8:30, and I subway around and do that, and we're both disappointed at the lousy service and small portions of not-so-spectacular food, so I can cross it off my list. He insists on driving from 96th up to 106th, and looks around for a tiny parking place, and we're in halfway through "Slaughterhouse-Five" and the star coming down to get Billy Pilgrim and his dog, getting brighter and brighter as his face lights up, and waking up on a bed in a resplendent room on a planet with a magnificently starred sky, with invisible voices telling him that "he's something special" is so MARVELOUSLY trippy that I figure Vonnegut and the director must have shared the same acid trip. The pictorialization that "each moment is here, now" is grandly done with moments of his past, present, and future life melding together with similar movements, and his look of blank wonderment turns out fairly effective. John realized that the plane-crash scene wouldn't do me any good, and it didn't, far more "personal" than the much more common traffic accident scenes. Since I'm reading "Mother Night," the Campbell character is much more understandable. Then "Groundstar Conspiracy" starts with great special effects of frozen-frame explosions, a gory mutilated Michael Sarrazin, a properly computer-like George Peppard, and good deja-vu scenes, for a great double that the tired John sits awake through, and we're out and to bed at 12.

DIARY 3290

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19. Even more tired at 8, laying after John gets up, and to my desk to type 8 pages at a very slow pace, since I'm so far behind, and plan what the day will be, phoning people to tell them my new phone number at the office, and not even eating breakfast because there isn't any milk for cereal. Decide I can pack tuna and a square of brownie for lunch, since I won't want to take the time to go out for a sandwich as I did yesterday: expensive cool fatty pastrami and some milk for about $1.50, and I have only $2 until John's going to the bank on Thursday, and cash is AGAIN a problem for me. Finally leave at 11:30 and get to work just before noon, feeling logy through the day and having awful second thoughts about working (see next page), but as yesterday reading about International companies the flick of "Goldfinger" moved through my mind, today some of the scenes from the two movies last night drifted through my brain, and I felt that I was living a rich life though I was merely sitting at a desk proofreading. Nancy said that I COULD sit in the proofreader's room, but then she said I could stay, and I didn't go through the "what do you REALLY want me to do" scene and stayed. Leave at 5, having been able to get into a "type 2" reading job, which I just scan, and I feel difficult about it, and get to 6th and 42 with my bag of empty tuna and brownie that I ate at 2:30 at my desk, looking at the tall tight-corduroyed blond applying for a job, and down to Mattachine at 5:20 to chat with people and sit for an hour for the meeting (see following page), and then leave at 6:15 to subway up to Times Square then catch the RR across to 5th and 60th, and the evening air is quite cool on my short sleeved arms, so I trot up to the baronial American Academy of Sciences to be the fourth person into the Society of Technical Communications meeting (see subsequent page) where I meet Mary Malone, who'll hopefully do something for me, and I leave during the lecture at 9:30 to subway home at 10:05 to meet Ed for another evening (see next subsequent page) at 10:10, and have a muffin, then try to have sex, John's in at 11 from Balasaraswati, and there's great awkwardness, and I finally get to sleep somewhat after 2:15 AM!!

DIARY 3295

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 20. Wake with John, feeling not so much tired after the late night last night as numbed, and he's off to work fairly quickly, and Ed and I slouch around the apartment, I have breakfast, we talk, he calls a friend and arranges to meet at a museum, and I type one diary page and then get into a long talk with John about Ed, and he says that he really feels left out of our relationship, but what bugs him most is that I'm devoting all my time and sex to ED and not to HIM. Loretta calls and says she'll deliver pages for me to proofread at work, thanks to John's suggestion, and John and I have lunch (before he goes off to the library, as I recall---no, that's NEXT week; this week he stays home to work) at noon, and I'm into the office at 1, and Nancy doesn't SUGGEST it this time, she SAYS that there's room in the proofreader's room, and that I SHOULD go in there. But there's something nice: Elizabeth Gillett teaches me how to read input from the MTSC, and it's much easier and more pleasant to read than page proofs, and I have a ball trying to decipher the red marks, and make up a whole list of questions for David Ramm (who I think is the CUTE bearded one, but find out that he's the HOMELY bearded one) and talk to him about them, only to have Nancy storm out and say that he's an "income producing" person, and I should ask the questions of her, because she's overhead. Work through to six and get home, finishing "Mother Night" on the slowish subway, and eat hamburger before taking the car to the Brooklyn Academy for the Rumanian State Theater in "The Dybbuk" and it's marvelously old-fashioned and trite, with very stereotyped acting and directing, and everyone in the auditorium, it seems, including the fellow whose voice is coming over the headset, asks me how I like the translation, how it compares with the original Yiddish, and his or her history of coming to see the play. Gratified that this horrible production is "the best of the five or six" that some "Dybbuk" nut has seen already, and we get home at 10:30, and I think we're heading for sex, but John seems tired so we go right to bed, and I don't have a chance to show him that I'm interested in HIM as WELL as in Edgardo. Next time.

DIARY 3296

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 21. Do John in the morning, though I'm not the slightest bit up myself, and note that he has a pimple on the end of his cock, and I think again of the possibility that I have gonorrhea of the mouth, with my various tooth-hurtings and gum-bleedings of the past week (and it lasts into this week, too). But John seems a bit happier, even though Ed's due over tomorrow night, when John's arranged to meet his friend Hoffman. I get directly to the typing, not even bothering to have breakfast, but can get only 6 pages done by 10 am, and it seems to go VERY slowly, but at least, I think happily, I've finished typing Tuesday, if not the four additional pages I've referred to on Tuesday's page. Tomorrow should bring me back to date; which is ridiculous, since not even a week's enough to get me back to the typewriter at ALL. Get to work at 10:30, and go from glory to glory: first the page copy, then the scanning, then the input yesterday, and today Elizabeth decides that I can start working on some final pages, so she shows me how to use the eraser, and I rub it over the letters a few times before Nancy, where I'm working again, since the room is filled again, tells me that it'll smear, and I finally DO get to the point of smearing it. But that work rather gets on my nerves, and the number of implements is so many: the blue pencil for marking the mechanicals, the felt-tip pen for writing the flags, the tape and the flags themselves, the red pencil for writing my name on the corner, the eraser and the razor blade and the exacto knife, which I find convenient, though I think of what Nancy says, "I feel like a dentist." Out feeling highly gratified at 5:30, but Betsy and Nancy argued about how I marked too much, and I resolved to ask Elizabeth about THAT. Subway down to Mattachine and meet Don on the way down, and he says there's supposed to be somebody there with me tonight, and when we get up the steps at 6:05, there are BOTH Vincent and Robert Burdick, and the evening is just GREAT (see next page). Out at 9:30 and home to eat, John's still out, so after I read the mail I start proofreading at 11:50 pm, finishing at 1:40, taking 1 hour, 50 minutes for 9 galleys, figuring charging for 3 hours, and then read for a bit in the other apartment before John gets back at 2 am!

DIARY 3298

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 22. Up at 8 as usual, though I probably lie a little bit longer and have to make the bed myself. Have breakfast and obviously do SOMETHING in the morning, but I don't know what it is, and get into work at 11:45, back in the proofreader's room with more input, and the day passes quickly. Out at 5 when practically everyone else has left and Marty has arrived. Leslie was out of the office when the messenger from McElwee came in, so he didn't get my first batch of work, and I had two stacks to carry home with me. Out about 5:15 and home just before 6 on the crowded subways, and Marty enjoys the apartments, but there seems to be nothing to talk to John about, and when we sit down for dinner at 7:15 there are awkward silences, and twice when I say to Marty: "Tell John about---" John says he doesn't want to hear it: the plots of "Deep Throat" and "Les Mammelles de Tiresias." Marty has to leave at 8, and we drank lots of the half-gallon of wine that he "got" for us under our direction, and Edgardo comes in on the dot of 8, bringing in some cakes, which John anticipated by buying cannoli for dessert for Marty and us, so that we really don't feel like MORE cake. John's agreed to go over to the next apartment, but he's on the phone for awhile, and then other things come up, so the whole thing is rather awkward when he finally leaves about 9. Then when we start having sex, Ed wants the lotion, but I really don't feel like going over and getting it. We quickly smoked, and had two pipes-full before Ed gets out the fantastic chocolate-covered cream and cake confection that he'd brought three of, and I have a marvelous fantasy that it's an enormous piece of candy, and it's very sweet and most high-making, and we roll around again on the bed, and he's getting VERY soupy, and I'm fearful about a tearful finale when he leaves in a week for his trip around the U.S. Then we're finished about midnight, and into the apartment where John's sleeping so Ed's into bed and I'm into bed next to John, wondering how I can make up my "faithlessness" to him, how to get him out of thinking, as he says "I never have anything to say 'Thank you' about, it's always ME who's doing the favor for YOU." I feel guilty as hell, rightfully.

DIARY 3299

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 23. Sex again this morning, and John's added a strange ridge on his cock to the pimple on his tip, but no amount of friction seems to annoy him, and when I mention it later, he merely says he had one of the most botched-up circumcisions ever, and that nothing's been bothering him. We're out of bed about 10, fantastically late after the good session, and I have breakfast and fuss around with various things before settling down to the McElwee proofreading at 11:30, working to 12:15 and lunch, with more talk about Eddie and us, and then work pretty steadily through until 5, when I'm finished, but still have to check through for form and put all the marks onto the other set of galleys, and figure out how much I'm going to overcharge. John said that tonight would be something special when it came to sex, since I unilaterally asked Eddie over on Friday (Hoffman was Thursday, and he merely went to a Dunas dance performance which was a bore, then to a party in a Soho house with an enormous garden, and there was no sex in the whole evening), but we ate dinner, then I did the dishes and went back to proofreading from 8:15-9:15, finishing up 5 hours for the last set, and 6 hours, 50 minutes for the whole thing, and I swallow my fears and charge her 12 hours, figuring I have to hit the TOP limit fairly soon. But John doesn't want to smoke, he just wants to take a walk on the Promenade, so we go out with jackets on, but it's quite warm for a sort of Indian summer day after the extreme chilliness of September 21, the first day of autumn. There's not much doing on the walk, and we watch people, and people watch us, and John strikes up a conversation with someone, but nothing comes of it, and we're back to the apartment at 11 to think we're going to smoke, but John merely says that he's tired, even saying that he wants to visit Azak to get a blood test to see if there's anything wrong with him, because he's tired all the time, and that's one of the reasons he got so annoyed with me about Ed, too, because he just felt that he didn't have any strength at all, and wouldn't accept my argument that, once NOT having sex, it's as easy to CONTINUE not having sex as it is to HAVE sex when you get into the cycles of HAVING sex. So we're just to bed, and I feel guiltier than ever, resolving to make it up to him.

DIARY 3300

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 24. Determined to get to work on the diary, but first want to read the Times, and get involved in the puzzle, and then sift through the want ads, and then John wants to get to work on the storage room, so when he asks to start on it after he's brought in the lunch at 12, I decide I have to satisfy him, so we wade into the mess, and lots of things go onto lots of shelves, and I start by saying we can throw out all the egg crates except two, but then I figure there's so much closet space and so much shelf space in the storage room that it'll be quite a while before I need anything big like that, and when I need it, I can get it again, so out they ALL go. John finally decides that the coffee table would make a good plant-planting area, so all the pots go under it and all the supplies go on top of the plastic pieces from the bathroom ceiling (false) which goes on top of that, and we stick the old bed of mine into the closet, save the lamp by putting it into the closet and throwing the shade away into the egg crate we're keeping in the center of the floor for that reason, and I put away the last of the dishes and get rid of the old dryer and decide to discard the old side table that I had in the bedroom, and get into the box dilemma and put most of them into my closet, move some things into the other apartment, and John gets rid of some of his stuff, and I even contemplate getting rid of the milk cartons, but even John says that's going too far. Finish up about 4, and then get back to the Times. He's out to the buffet at the bar which opened up at the old Chinese restaurant in the new buildings, but I want to watch the "Out-of-Towners," script by Neil Simon, played to idiotic perfection by Jack Lemmon and Sandy Dennis and New York City at 9, and watch the "Violent Universe" about quasars from 5:30 to 7:30, the end of "Code of the Sea" with good silent special effects of waves and shipwrecks, eat from 8-9, after shaving and showering, then movie to 11, and John's back early, saying that there was spaghetti and a salad but no one special, and we're to bed just after 11, feeling rather distant from each other, and Eddie's coming tomorrow at 8, again, when John has a Director's meeting at DTW at 8 pm.

DIARY 3301

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 25. Out of bed at 8 and I make the salads because I want to leave so early, but by the time I get everything together it's after 9, and the subways are pretty crowded as I ride into work at 9:50. Margery's there, and we have a long talk about abortion legislation with the skinny gal, and there are very nice people at work. Working on input again, which is fun, and it goes so fast that I don't even mind if the radio is on. Lunch and out at 2 to subway down to the Elgin for "Pierrot le Fou" again, and it's even more boring the second time than the first, and I desperately look around for someone to have sex with, but the lone guy in the corner looks ugly, the others strung across the back don't seem to be interested in sex, and when I sit down in the corner seat nothing at all comes my way. Don't like the way the corner's lit up with the lights, either. Out at 6 after a disappointing "Mouchette," which never seems quite to come off, and she's so homely you don't really care what happens to her. And all the other characters are so poorly drawn it's hard to tell one from the other, so there's little possibility of even FOLLOWING the plot. Copy down the list of the great films of all time from the outside billboard (see next page), then home in the chilly breeze to have dinner, John leaves for his DTW meeting, and Eddie comes in way before 8, again, while I'm showering. He's more light-hearted this time, which is fine, and we grope for a bit without either of us really getting hard, then he asks to smoke, and the music's better because he brought a Carole King record which he likes very much which I play about three times with Janis Joplin, and still the evening is upbeat and sensual, and in an intermission he wants something to eat, so we're over to get some cake, I put the screen on the TV and we sit and watch the patterns, then start in having sex on the rug, then he wants wine, which I trot over to get, and I want him to leave when we're finished at 11, but he says he's tired and will leave when I get up at 7:30 the next morning, so I pull out the bed and he goes to sleep with the light for John to see by still on, but he's in just at midnight, just after we're in bed, so it's all fine.

DIARY 3303

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 26. Up early and out quickly to get to work at 9:10, the earliest yet, because I'll be leaving early to go to the movies this afternoon. Do some crazy page proofs for a children's book teacher's manual, and stick the thing all full of flags with things to change for the final send-back to art and composition-room. Leave at 1:10 to take the stuff that I proofread back to Harcourt Brace, and pick up some new stuff, and get to the Museum of Modern Art just before 2 for a fairly crowded auditorium for "The Student Price" in a silent version by Lubitsch (with one marvelous scene, where they walk past brick arch after brick arch, then the camera pans to the next arch and they never come out, and the audience laughs, then a dachshund comes from the other direction, pauses in the middle of the arch, does a double-take at the unseen couple behind the bricks, and trots back in the direction from which he came. The audience broke up. Norma Shearer is a silent-star glitterer ala Gish and the gal in "Birth of a Nation," and Ramon Novarro looks like any popeyed swain from the silent era---where did he get his romantic aura? The flower-studded tree in a flower-studded meadow under a star-studded sky got an audience guffaw, too. Out at 3:30 and home to finish reading "God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater" on the subway, read the Times and throw it out, or do whatever it is I do, probably finish reading the Village Voice and looking through Life and New York, one of which has John's letter, and we're out to The Atlantic restaurant to eat, and John leaves a large tip for $11, and the food's pretty good, but a direct steal from Atlantic House. Outside to meet an elderly couple who talk lengthily about The Queen, we tell them about the Mexican place, and we compare notes on Szechwan and Chinese, and talk about how nice Brooklyn Height's getting, and then we're to walk on the Promenade after smoking when I realize I left my jacket on the chair, so I walk back in my stoned state, feeling paranoid, and get lured up some stairs to get sucked on, but I don't budge, feeling VERY strange (after John and I held hands going down Henry and Hicks, pleasantly in the autumn twilight), and home to bed at 11, not indulging in sex, but feeling very tired from working anyway.

DIARY 3304

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 27. Decide to make today a long day at work, since I want to see some movies tomorrow afternoon, too, and get in at 10 and work through until 5:30, but my eyes are beginning to feel the strain, and I have to shift and shift around to find a comfortable position in my seat. Margery is looking at me longer and longer with her clear eyes, patting me on the head as she passes, not talking much about herself. Out at 5:30 and home to eat dinner, then shower and get out late at 7:30 to meet Arnie and another John and drive into Manhattan for the first Tsi-Dun of the new year. The host meets us with pink shorts on, and lots of people are sitting around the apartment still clothed, until I start getting out of my clothing, and by the time I finish, everyone's naked. Get a beer, quite warm, and out onto the enormous balcony that surrounds the fairly small apartment on three sides, looking at the far-away few windows which are on a level with our 17th floor vantage point. John gets out his pipe and the four of us share the smokes, and then I'm inside to get chattered to by both Henry Messer and Carl House about how absolutely dreadful, without any redeeming value of staging or cuteness or singing or book or crotch or acting, is "Dude," and funnily, Edgardo calls me the next night at Mattachine, having seen the same show the night following the Mattachine Theater party, and he said that he didn't think it was quite finished, but he liked what he saw and thought it would be good when they finished with it, and he wanted to see it again when he got back from his trip. Others pass me by and everyone seems to want to know how my summer was, and I really can't think of anything to say, so I get another beer and see that there's nothing really going on the bedroom way, back to sit in the chair and listen to the music, and then some more pleasant people come in, and I'm into the bedroom again, and things start happening (see next page). People start leaving about 10, and we're about the last to leave at 11, convinced John's gone, but the car's still there and John comes running back: he'd been on the ROOF having sex, and he thought it was a fabulous party, and Arnie wasn't saying much at all. Bed.

DIARY 3306

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 28. Up fast to make the salads again and go off to work, getting in at 9:15 and still not getting to the FORTRAN IV copyediting, and Tom's harassed by his tasks, saying that he won't be able to get anything to me until Monday, and that leaves me only 10 days to do the whole book. Work through until quarter of 1, punch out and have lunch, then subway up to the Thalia, debating whether the whole thing was worth it, to see "The Sicilian Clan" and "Rider in the Rain." The "Clan" showed that the French are capable of making as slick and fast and colorful and expensive a super-heist movie as Hollywood, with an elaborate escape with a screwdriver-drill through the bottom of a prison van, dozens of scenes on an airliner, including a hokey landing on the Long Island Expressway by a 747, and lovely rosy filmy shots of French jewelry at the Pitti Palace, which has an alarm triggered off by the movement of a watch's second hand hidden in a catalog. "Rider in the Rain" happens so fast I really don't see it, but Charles Bronson is undeniably still terribly sexy when he finally takes off his shirt, and the heroine is quite a good actress, going through dozens of emotions with perfect conviction. There's even, surprisingly, some action. The back row is full of awful old men, so I sit three rows from the front, and a crotchy black sits behind me, attracting an intense-eyed, frowzy-haired hippy with a peasant shirt and a rubbed crotch, and when we exchange glances, he comes close, starts feeling up my hand, then moves over and I feel this hard curved cock, take it out, he puts my hands on his tits, I play and play, and then go down on him for instant orgasm, and we're both terribly pleased, and he leaves having seen about half of one movie. I get out at 5:15, rather dazed by the action, pleased by the movies, and down to Mattachine, again seeing Don as I'm about to cross to the office (is it possible he's checking up on me, seeing WHY no one wants to work on Thursday night?). Again the library takes up most of the time except for counseling a couple (see next page), and with talking to everyone I leave at 10, getting home to eat and do the dishes by 11, and John's watching "Pigeons from Hell" on "Boris Karloff Presents," and I accuse him of watching ANYTHING on TV, just to watch it.

DIARY 3308

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 29. Again up and to work, back in the proofreader's room, and still Tom Charlton hasn't gotten anything finished of the Murrell FORTRAN IV book, so I'm reading stack of input all day, awful stuff about how bankers in Central American can now make lots of money because the people can make loans from the bank to increase their standard of living now that all the United States companies are going down there because of the cheap labor and even cheaper national resources that the country will no longer have once we take down the forests, strip the mines, export the minerals, and pollute the waters with our wastes. Work through until 5:30, reading as usual through lunch, and get home before dinner at 6:30. Yesterday I missed the sangria and cake farewell for Carol, the homely gal from the Philippines who always worked at the desk Fred takes in the evenings, and today was the farewell for Ginny, the fat slovenly gal from the art department (and the shuffly fellow all in white with the orange socks had been fired on Monday as an after-effect of about a hundred pages of some book being misnumbered by one), and we all gathered in the back room, hoping that Dinwiddie from the Washington office, the bane of Harvey Sussman, the Manager, and Nancy Doctor, the Production Manager, but even Betsy Feist and Leslie joined in the sangria, and the sexy compositor seemed to enjoy filling up my glass, and John Pavelko argued with Ginny who argued with Harold, who seems to be the only fellow left in the art department, and news came that Fred was leaving NEXT Friday, and there's a new Margery, hideous with running nose, beady eyes, blue socks under a red dress with a green coat and frizzley hair, and pretty soon I will be one of the old-timers with the company, except for Ruth who shares Betsy's office, and Tom and Elizabeth, the only two in the proofreading rooms who have desks which are THEIRS. Back to tell John about the day, then get in early to the Utah Repertory Dance Theatre at Hunter to exchange some tickets, and I buy a single for Janet Baker, and the dancing is good but the choreography is pretty bad (see next page), and we're out at 10 to get home, just missing the end of "Phantom of the Opera," and I believe we smoke and have sex at last, but I'm not sure.

DIARY 3310

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 30. Probably didn't have sex, since I think we have it THIS morning, and I want desperately to get to the diary and to things in the apartment, but the first thing I do is turn on the TV at 9:30 to find that the movie I want to see is on at 10-11:15, and it's "Have Rocket---Will Travel" with the Three Stooges, older and not as frenetic, and even the blurb in the Times was wrong, since there WAS no Martian subtitles, only Uni the Unicorn, the 6-armed robot, and an intergalactic automobile, and some DREADFUL acting: imagine, also, being only in the dance sequence as an extra in the film! Take the books off the bookcase while the intermissions permit me, then rearrange the shelves as I first plan them, with two shelves of smallest books, but then I put the bottom material on the shelves, I find I need ONE more notch of shelves, so decide to make THREE shelves of smallest books, so John helps me by watching the shelves after they came crashing down once empty, knocking lots of little chips out of the wall, and once with BOOKS on a shelf, knocking a BIG chip out of the wall. Finally it's all up, meticulously measured, and remarkably EVERYTHING fits in JUST RIGHT, with even a few spaces for the current Vonnegut. But all the EXPANSION space is gone, though I admit I CAN remove the WFF and Proof games if I need to. But ALL the shelves are filled, and EVERYTHING IS ON THEM. John brought over lunch when I was only started, then he went to the store, and I finished about 3 pm. Then in to type diary pages, and actually finish with 10 pages before dinner, getting through with last Sunday, so I'm only a week behind, which isn't bad, and I have hopes of doing another 10 tomorrow, and getting up to date WITH the job, which will be a new thrill. John's made pot roast for dinner, but it isn't finished by the time we have to leave for the Utah performance (see previous page), so we go, talk to Marcia Segal, who's now resigned to John's having the party for her after she thought his New York Magazine letter slighted her, and drive her back with us, but she's had dinner, so she can't share the fabulous pot roast with even more tasty rice with pork and sauerkraut juice for an incredibly flavorful dinner. Watch Karloff in "The Predator" to 12. Bed VERY happy.

DIARY 3311

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 1. [At LAST I can tear off the calendar sheet, delayed for four days, and turn the calendar page, almost FRAYED from being turned back and forth so much.] Wake at 7:30 and shower and shampoo and leave for Beth El Synagogue in Spring Valley New York at 8, almost running out of gas before finding a station, and getting in for a remarkably child-oriented session (see next page). Through prematurely at noon, stop on the way back for loads of plants for John (half from him, half from the kitty) and a gourd for the tabletop and sweet corn for dinner. Down into town and he drops me off at 1:30 at 57th and the river, and I walk over to the MMA through the sparkly-sunny streets, almost warm in just a sweater. Lunch in the member's penthouse, almost empty, for a bargain $2.30 because I only have $3 and have to subway home, and read "Monkey House" while waiting for the 3 pm showing (thank goodness I had no trouble getting seats for both at 1:30) of "Two Tars" with Laurel and Hardy, which has THE classic car-line-wrecked sequence, and "The Freshman" with Harold Lloyd, which is really fairly bad, and he just doesn't seem to last as well, though the cat sequence was funny, but the hero's dash for the touchdown was just too obvious. Then work out the crossword puzzle of the New York Times Magazine that I also carried along, and waited for 5:30 and "The Champ," the long-awaited tie for an Oscar for Wallace Beery, and he must have gotten the award for making an ass of himself, because as a boxer he stank, and as an actor Jackie Cooper stole the show, particularly his marvelous facial expressions with his sickly-sweet half sister. Home at 7:30 for dinner of hamburgers and corn, great, then over to watch McGovern in a glossy half hour until 9, then "Love Story" on TV already, not as bad as it could have been, Ali McGraw pretty good, but not a trace of a tear at the 11 pm climax. Lay awake after getting to bed, worrying about how to work tomorrow, and get up at 11:30 and work till 2 am proofreading galleys 31-57 (+44A for 28 of them), and at 2 I can't hold my eyes open any longer, it's really becoming a chore, so I'm back across the cold hall into the chilly bed, and John said he'd just waked up to go to the john and didn't know I was GONE until the door opened and I walked IN. Ha.

DIARY 3313

MONDAY, OCTOBER 2. Wake at 7:30 and cuddle, maybe having sex (NOT having sex, since Arthur M. called last night, and he's coming over tonight), and I'm back at the proofreading desk at 8:20, finished about 9:15, when I call Loretta McElwee and ask some questions, finding out how to put the marks on the author's copy of the galleys, and finish about 11:15, for a total of five hours, and I charge her for 9 hours, for an effective rate of $6.30 per hour, which isn't bad, and I hope it can keep up, though she's not happy about the fact that I'm leaving all next week. But when I get to work at 12:10, lunch in the bag, and the messenger comes, he has something NEW for me as I give the old stuff to him, so there's MORE to do: three chapters worth, and at THIS point I haven't done them yet (9 pm, 10/4), and have to do them before FRIDAY! Talk to Betsy and Tom about the book, but Tom STILL isn't ready, so it's only at 2 pm, after I have lunch and read some of Burr's input about the Cuban Missile Crisis, that they turn over, not Murrill, but KREITH to me, to look through author's corrections on this Heat Transfer text! Tom looks on the verge of collapse, and when Betsy says she doesn't want to leave at 5:30, I talk with her and she says I WILL be making at least $4 an hour on copyediting, maybe to go to the $4.75-$5.50 range they USUALLY pay for copyediting if I work out OK, and Kreith was given to ME because I was thought to be the only person who could HANDLE it. Nothing like praise! Home at 6:30 on the dot for dinner as ordered by John, and regale him about my advances at work, sorry that I didn't have the cash with me to buy champagne to celebrate my raise at the end of three weeks! We have dinner and I finish reading "Welcome to the Monkey House," read the Times, and have just one Vonnegut left to read, and wash dishes and fix up the bed in the living room for Arthur, and settle into typing, since Arthur called at 9 to ask directions, but he's in at 9:45, and I've only typed 6 pages, about half as many as I needed to finish, and it looks like I'll NEVER catch up, except I HAVE to before Hemlock Hall on Friday! Sex (see next page) and he leaves at 11:10, very reasonable, and across to neck with John and bed at 12.

DIARY 3315

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 3. Up at 8, but John seems to think I didn't come last night, so he's eager for sex, and he straddles me and plays with me, and I play with him, but finally, about 8:30, it's too much, so we both grab our own cocks and whack them into orgasm, yet with togetherness, and dry off in the towel, kissing lightly, and I dash for the salads and shower and get out at 9:30, to get into the office at 10 to work on Kreith for a few minutes, but ask Betsy about Murrill and she decides I start on it NOW, so I get it at 10:30, and we go over it, and I start looking at the art, and it doesn't seem to be so difficult, and I even get to the text before the afternoon ends at 5:30. She's very pleased with what I'm doing, even though I feel like a lost child, having to go from Fred's desk to Elizabeth's desk when she goes to a funeral in the afternoon. Out at 5:30 and walk across to Times Square, buying four books (Watts, Vonnegut, "Slaughterhouse-5," and "Lost in the Funhouse") before catching the subway up to 61st and John in the lobby of Amrep, and we're up to the small Hospitality Suite and a crippled Mr. Vaxler, who bends our ear for about 20 minutes about Rio Rancho Estates before letting us get out for the buffet dinner of awful meat loaf, only passable frozen green beans, and fairly good cake, and I got the only two quarters of tiny tomato in the whole entire salad bowl, and they even gave us two glasses of Coke each. Then the movie went on at 6:35, and went to 7:20, at which time I said I had to go. Mr. Vaxler said "Aren't you ashamed?" with what seemed like genuine disappointment, but we laughed as we saw three OTHER people following us out: the single guy and two black women, leaving only four others behind us. Onto the subway and down to the Mattachine Board meeting at 7:45 (see next page), and out at 10, cursing because it was so late, and subway to John's, reading "Word Play," and again he's watching TV. But it goes off at 11, and we're into bed to try to make up some of the sleep we've lost (I'VE lost), and I tell him that I've been feeling VERY good recently, and last night before drifting off to sleep I said "I love you," and it felt so natural and meant, and he accepted it so well, it was awesome.

DIARY 3317

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 4. Up feeling marvelously relaxed at 7:30, and get out of bed before the woman upstairs makes me miserable. Onto the subway during the rush hour, and it's dreadful, so I resolve never to try to get to the office at about 9 am. In at 9:10 and start in on the text, going through many pages while sitting in Nancy's office, except that I took some time out to regale Margery with tales from India, and she said "After I pay all my dentist bills, I promise I'll think about India." Keep working and Tom seems on the verge of a breakdown, and take what I've done to Betsy, but all she can say, having listened to Tom all day, is "I'll take it home with me this evening and bring it back tomorrow," calling me a rat when I say I won't be in on Friday. Out at 5, since there's no sense working longer when I don't know how I'm doing, and get home to start sorting through things I have to do before I leave Friday, finish "Word Play," a book of word puzzles, a gift from Arnie, and phone Joe Elkins, Eddie Jiminez, and John Casarino to halve the phone list, and before and after dinner type 10 pages to catch up to date, a triumphant feeling, and then I launch into the proofreading of galleys 57-73, or something, while John leaves, saying that he's going to the Elgin to see the films there. But at 11 he comes in, with the place a mess, and I say "You're back early" and he says, "C'mon in, Brian," and a broad blond enters my doorway, and he's from Sydney, Australia, working for 12 months in some Brooklyn hospital where he doesn't have a telephone, so if he's going to see us again, he has to phone us. John instead smoked and went to the Promenade, then brought him back here, and I talk while proofreading, John gets me some orange juice, and then he goes to bed at 11:30 and I still slog along, saying that I'll be through in about an hour, and finish at 12:15, taking 3½ hours and charging them 7 for it, doing a little better than 3 galleys per hour, which sounds good to me, seeing as it's mathematics all the way, though the printer has done marvelously good work with endless tables of numbers. Then into the kitchen to read up the dishes and wash them, then carry everything over into the dark apartment John's sleeping in, wash my teeth, and warm up the blanket to slip into the comfortable bed about 12:45, exhausted from a HARD day's work.

DIARY 3320

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 5     . Out of bed at 7:15 when she starts walking around, shower, rather hoping to get back into bed with John, but he's up when I get out, so we make the bed rather than rumple it, and I go over to see how many letters I have to write on the trip to catch up, and stamp envelopes, and make up new lists of everything (throw away the "phone and letter" list because it's down to so few that I can put it on the general "to do" list, which is surprisingly short at 12, and (would be even shorter at -2) make up a new "apartment list" so that I can add new items, getting from 10 to 13 in no time, and the phone rings from Loretta, saying she has MORE stuff for me, and she's so disappointed when I say that I'm leaving tomorrow that I say, "Send it to me, I'll get it back to you tomorrow." Phone Betsy to say that I'll be late, and she answers with dread in her voice, thinking that I might tell her I won't be in TODAY. Over to Arnie's to give him the keys for watering, buy a can of tuna at the deli that's ridiculously expensive at 75¢, having taken a can opener for it, and get into work at 11:30, to find that Betsy has re-edited Murrill rather heavily, and I'd goofed by not spelling out "vs." and "%" in text, by putting periods at the end of sentence fragments in figure legends, but she's misunderstood computer technical language (like "accuracy") in some places, so I have to correct HER. I/O causes a problem vis-à-vis input-output devices, but both remain. Lousy bickering among me, Betsy, Tom Charlton and Nancy Conboy about spec sheets, and I breeze through the rest of chapter 2, giving the whole thing to Ruth to mail out, and Betsy and I agree on a fixed price of $250-$300" for the 360 pages, which would take a $5/hour expert who can do 7 pages/hour for technical stuff and 10 pages/hour of regular stuff $260 worth of effort. She leaves at 5, so I do too, getting down to Mattachine at 5:30 (see previous page) and leave at 9:30, reading "Slaughterhouse-Five," and dine and wash dishes and change three MORE sex-addresses and mail out six checks to NCBW and type 3 pages before John comes in at midnight, having been to a play, then the Eagle, then the trucks. Bed, delightfully weary, at 12:15.

DIARY 3322

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 6. [Wider space necessary with John's wider-spacing typewriter.] Debated taking my little portable on the trip, but at this point I was more familiar with John's than with it, so when I went back upstairs to pack, took this one along. Up early to start getting ready for the trip, including doing the last two diary pages to keep up to date, and pack and pack until it seems it will take three trips down to the car to get everything in. All the clothes into one suitcase, all the writing, copyediting, reading stuff into the canvas bag, boots and overshoes and raingear into the knapsack, and a separate bag for the hibachi, coats thrown into the back, and salads made for lunch on the way. All into the car at 11, having called Arnie one last time to tell him to save me copies of the Sunday Times. Up the East Side highway to the GW Bridge and the new 25¢ toll for the bridge, and onto the Saw Mill River Parkway to route 685 and 85, and foolishly follow the signs saying "To 91" and get conducted through Hartford, and up 91 out of Connecticut and into Massachusetts and pretty far into the north before we finally find a rest area at 2:30 where we park and go down the hill to overlook a green valley with a very few changed leaves and have lunch of sherry and salad, and then I drive up to Newfane about 4, when John wants to get there, and north through the crowded village to Townsend, where we find the River Bend Inn, and John gets a room for $16, saying that will be as good as we would be able to do on this Columbus Day weekend. Room is nice, then we go through the ball field down to the edge of the clearing, where John's sandals can't negotiate the slope, and I wander the dry creek bed, looking at birds and the sunset against the hillside, and go back to wait for him to get back from his walk across the road, then we sit on the porch and drink sherry, then change and drive to Newfane Inn. It's filled and service is poor, the strawberry soup is filled with dried-cum-like gelatin bits that I think are farina, and tastes rather like the goop from a frozen-strawberry package. His brains in capers and my liver in a wine sauce are good, the French fries are VERY tasty, but the frozen banana cream pie is too frozen, and I have to wait SO long to pay the $24 bill (with an $8.50 mediocre Chateauneuf du Pape) that the whole thing seems not worth it. Back at 9:30 and smoke, having good sex in one double bed, and going to sleep about 10:30 in both, VERY stoned on poor grass.

DIARY 3323

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 7. Wake about 7:30, John saying he wasn't able to sleep, and we putter through little side roads until we get to the river, where we stop in at some dreadfully bare little coffee shop for good bacon and ham omelets, then cross the river into New Hampshire, and spend the whole morning driving through a gentle downpour through back country roads. I suggest at one point that I wouldn't mind stopping in a small-town library to read, but John says he's enjoying the autumn countryside, not being able to imagine how the colors could be brighter under the sunlight. I can. Get to Franklin Pierce's homestead, built in 1804, but it's closed, so I poke my nose into the austere-looking rooms from the side windows, and the barn, with old sleighs and posters, looks by far the cheeriest part of the homestead. Back into the car and locate the Bear Brook State Park on the map after stopping in a meat packing plant and getting 1¼# hamburger for 95¢, and at another place for muffins, then stop and walk over the locked gate to the shelter, wet from the windy rain, and John spreads the tarpaulin and starts the fire, and we stare out at the needles falling in the rain, looking at the birds hopping about, both reminded of the similar pine forest in Manali. Eat two burgers to John's one, then pack up and back to the car about 3, driving the last bit to Durham through the University of New Hampshire, and get to locked Mary's to read for a bit before she gets back from the wedding reception with her cello, saying that EVERYONE had to play, and we're in to the study-packed house where we drink cognac to stave off the evening's chill, talk about her operations and efforts to keep Durham livable, and then we're out about 7 to the Asia Restaurant in darkish Dover, where the sweet and sour shrimp has a good texture but a lousy taste, the pork specialty is awful feeling and tasting, and the beef and black mushrooms are barely passable, and she regrets that the only good restaurant in the area suddenly seems not so good. Back to talk and drink more and talk about her moving to Hartford, about all her books, the awful occurrences in the hospital around the woman who WAS dying of Hodgkin's disease NEXT to her, and I'm totally depressed by all the talk, John goes up for a bath, I chat to 10:15 and get upstairs to find John in bed, so I climb in next to him and fall quickly asleep, thankfully NOT to sounds of stereo from the fraternity houses, NOT to SAC planes landing at the nearby airport.

DIARY 3324

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 8. Wake about 7:30 and do John quietly, then in to shave and wash while John's downstairs to start breakfast of toast and butter and honey and coffee with Mary. She shows us around the house, then John goes to do the laundry and she and I drive toward Dover to get four lobsters for $7.55 for lunch, since I don't want to stay another night, and the day is so transparently clear that Mary says it's the kind of day everyone says they'll go to the mountains, but very few people do. To her mother's to pick lettuce and tomatoes for the salad and strawberries for dessert, and pick up John to fold the laundry and get home to make the salad and do the breakfast dishes, John fixes the berries, and we're down to eat the lobsters (which has awful gritty shit right at the tail of mine) all but the last tail, and into the car at 2 to drive north. Lines of traffic finally solidify into solid unmoving lanes just at the entrance to the Kancamagus Highway, and even though we've always been that way, we turn of it to avoid the traffic, which the next morning we hear was 20 miles of SOLID cars. The Highway isn't so bad, particularly since it starts clouding up. Still, it's crowded, and John's immediately worrying about a place to stay. Turn north on the little road to Bartlett, and the trees are at their height here, and try the hotel, but they're full, so they recommend the Chesuncook (or something) Hotel down the block, and we see a towel-wrapped nice back disappear into the house in the rear, and agree to a room next to the shower there. For only $12.60 a night, too. Into the tiny bare room, and we shower and I get downstairs to read the Times, which we got in Durham easily, and John's out to watch the people, and I close my ears to the old 78s on the record player by three old-timers who finally leave me in peace. John's back about 5, I finish through to the puzzle, and we try the recommended Hansel and Gretel's, but find they just have sandwiches, and go to the Bartlett's Hotel, where the two hikers from across the way come in in lovely blond hair and beautiful tanned bare legs under torn shorts, furnishing much too much fantasy material for the evening. Have mediocre ham and turkey for $8 including John's beer, and back at 8:30 to smoke and try sex, but the shouts of people in the hall, the clump of people upstairs, the squall of kids, turn us off, and I put in earplugs and fall asleep at 9:30, waking about 11 to hear it quiet, remove plugs, and wake at 5:30---dreadful.

DIARY 3325

MONDAY, OCTOBER 9. John and I wake about 4:30, probably overheated by the fantasies about the couple next door, and we have frantic sex where I have to finish myself off, and then we doze off until dawn permits us to leave at 7:30 and drive through the gloomy morning. No traffic at all, and the woods are so pretty that we drive back down through the park. As we get to the tops of the hills, it begins to rain, and then the rain gets thicker and thicker until it starts plopping mushily against the windshield, and then changed into actually visible snow, piling up by the side of the road, covering whole areas of stone and leaves, and when we hit the Crawford House and see about breakfast, it's actually covered the ground. In at 7:30 and wait for the 8 am breakfast, looking at ALL the people from the tour talking about their reactions to the snow, and into the enormously-ceilinged dining room for the buffet breakfast where I have about three scrambled eggs on a slice of French toast, sided by about 6 slices of bacon, 3 sausages, muffins, butter, apple juice and grapefruit sections, and lots of coffee. The guy DOES charge us $5 for these, but they were definitely worth it. To the john and souvenir-gather, and out to the car in the stopped snow, getting to the Aerial Tramway up Cannon Mountain and deciding to stop for a glorious trip (see next page). Down and through the Old Man and Indian of the Mountain country, getting hung up in traffic at the OTHER end of the Kancamagus Highway, and off onto side roads headed west toward New York State. Breakfast was so big we decide we don't need lunch, but I want "something" so we stop at Carrols where I have (in Rutland) a tripleburger and a shake for 80¢ and John has coffee and coleslaw, and we continue west through Vermont and into New York State, where I forget to direct him the best way and we go about 5 extra miles on the Northway, then through the mountains which look about as bright as New Hampshire, but trees still seem to be green, so I figure the season is NEW, but when we get to Hemlock Hall at 4:50 we see that the maple has already lost its leaves, so the season, from what they say, seems to be LATE. Into the cabin to have the heat and light go off, so we sit at the view-window and drink sherry, then up to dinner at 6 in the dim twilight and lamb and apple pie, to meet a delightful professor at the Institute of Advanced Studies at Princeton, then back to smoke in the cold, watching "burning arms" in the fire, with "singing mouths" and warm blankets to take to bed with us.

DIARY 3327

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 10, Lights came on at 11, but still the heat was left off, but John graciously got up at 7 and started the fire anew, and I got up at 7:30 and dashed to the fire, then dressed and went down to the dock with John at 8:15, where we again greeted Mrs. Professor, and then up to breakfast, where we were delighted to eat at the center round table (last night even had the largest table set up in the living room, with an obviously capacity crowd, but at dinner tonight only one small table was outside the dining room, and the next night it was down to only the five in the dining room) with a family of four blacks "the Dorseys from Rochester" and delightful conversation, and then we took off about 9:50 for Ampersand, getting to the parking lot at 10:55, and we walk through the forest path dappled with leaves of gold, brown leather, crimson, chartreuse, yellow, and green, and then we started seeing snow behind the trees, and then I picked up a leaf which showed that there are STILL things to be seen here, depending on the season, that are marvelously new, such as the ICE (see next page). Soon the path itself is frozen, and we rest and make our way higher and higher, and in the steep parts I feel very much out of condition, but we rest again, climb, get to two or three plateaus, and reach the top in under two hours. Look around at the marvelous view, and then John's stripped and lying in the sun, and I gingerly strip next to him, finding that the direct sun is, indeed, hot, and then he shades part of my body by playing with me, and he starts sucking, and I come, then I work on him, and he smiles at the end "That's called 'sex on the mountain.'" There are sonic booms, sounds of work at Ampersand Lake camps, and many jet trails in the sky, and we stay up about an hour and a half, then down in two hours, picking up leaves and looking at the trees, and then get gas, shop for popcorn and tissues and marshmallows, then back at 5:30 for John to shower and I to go down for the sunset, which isn't very colorful, and when the sun's gone into clouds, it's dark and cool enough for me, so I'm up to find John's ordered milk for me, we chat pleasantly with two other couples over the pork and ice cream with chocolate sauce (which the sick tiny high-voiced wife of the big-handed, looks-younger-than-he-is Marcy climber didn't even EAT), and I smoke and John doesn't, and I play listlessly with his cock, but we don't get excited, and get to bed at 9:30, not feeling like popcorn, not knowing what else to do.

DIARY 3329

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 11. [And the LAST page, thank goodness, since this typewriter is KILLING my wrists and shoulders!] Wake at 7, having no trouble, it seems, sleeping VERY long hours. It's warmer because we left the heaters on all night, and I dress and get down to watch the sun come up, pleased to be there when it does at 7:45, flooding the area with light, and then through the ghostly clouds of fog rising from the waters glides the boy from next door in his marvelous canoe, and I shade my eyes from the double sun (one in the air, one in the water) to watch him cutting through the wood-shaving curls of smoke from the warm lake water. Sun-blinded, I wave back to someone from Lakeside (which is where we're staying next year, at the same time as the Griswolds) and then go up for breakfast, and we're sitting with someone from Los Angeles who lost pool water from the last earthquake, and we talk about dance and India and I tell John that I must be mellowing, but I LIKE the conversations at the dining table more. Down to the lake to canoe, but it seems to be getting windy, so I suggest Buttermilk Falls, and the falls are full and pleasant and foamy. We watch them for a bit, then continue down the road to Forkèd Lake, where they aren't home, so we take out a canoe and stop at area 60 and try for another hour to make a fire with newspapers and John's glasses, but it just DOESN'T work. Back against the wind, naturally, and by 3 I'm tired enough of rowing to not want any more. Up the other road, a disappointment after a nice introduction, being only a rundown settlement by Racquet Lake, and back to see that the arts center is in fact closed, and then back to the cabin to read on the porch from 4:30 until I finish "Slaughterhouse-Five," and then inside to finish the crossword puzzle, and up to dinner of chicken and chocolate pie, again with the mousy woman, but including two other couples in same-color (white hair with blue clothes, blond with green clothes) outfits, and I talk about Columbia and computers and Eastman Kodak with the former engineer from there, and AGAIN it's nice talk. Back to read more, smoke, and we start necking on the sofa (the cabin's toasty WARM, lovely), and get VERY involved with sucking and Baby Magic, and John comes to exhaustion and really never DOES finish me off, and I come for the next half hour while he makes popcorn, and I crow: Good Eating, Drinking, Reading, Exercise, Love-Making, Fire, Popcorn, Grass, Vacation---what MORE could a perfect evening offer?? Bed at 11.

DIARY 3330

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 12. Wake at 4 am to the sound of distant thunder, and go to the living room window to watch lightning light up the frozen landscape, and then go back to sleep until 7:30, when I crawl in with John and neck for a bit before he gets up to start the fire again. Up to breakfast with the professor again, and the woman who waved to me from the window yesterday morning. Rain through breakfast, so we decide that today is the day we see the Adirondack Museum, so drive up and pay the $2 and get into the first hall, and that could take all day, things being very nicely arranged, but gradually get around to all the exhibits, including writing in the privy and the garnet boulder, see all the photographs, learn a lot about this history of the area, and stare over the fog-shrouded landscape from the various terraces and the snack bar, where I have a brownie at 1 pm. Out, finally, exhausted, at 3 and back to the room where I finally get to the typewriter, difficult though it is, and type 8 pages, getting up to date without even having to make up a list of the foods or people or activities for my guidance. Wash and get up for dinner of corned beef and cabbage with a huge lady from White Plains and her friend, and a quiet couple from Princeton originally from London, and we talk about the war and travels, and leave fairly quickly, before the woman at John's elbow completes her seeming plan to seduce him with her 200 pound pressures. Mrs. Webb goes around announcing a slide show at 8, and I read for awhile in the Vonnegut book, which is lousy, and then smoke just before 8, going up pleasantly stoned to sit through a set of terribly mediocre slides, with the audience trying desperately to react favorably to the commonplaces being shown them, and I leave at 8:30, telling the newcomers that "Oh, they're showing slides in the bedroom," and wander down to the cold dock, treading on the cold edge of drowning in my stupor to look at the cold sky, then back to the apartment to stoke up the fire and start playing with John, and play and play, and he seems to be enjoying it, but he works on me until I decide I have to do myself or I won't come, and do that, and then he doesn't want me to do anything more. Later he said he didn't feel like sex at all, and I should have asked him, since I felt guilty about his not coming, and was pleased to find that it was his doing, and not mine.

DIARY 3336

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 13. [And not a SINGLE person mentioned the fact of Friday the 13th.] The weather's cloudy and uncertain, and we figure: it's nice, we climb Blue Mountain; it's cloudy, we go to Sergeant's Pond. But though it's due to be nice, when we get to the Adk Museum parking lot to see the first of the 200 antique cars gathering there for lunch this afternoon, there's also a group of high school students from a bus, 30 strong, about to climb the mountain, I stand shaking my head "No we don't" and John's reluctantly back into the car and we're back to HH and trek through the valley and along ridges to the 4.5 mile distant Sergeant's Pond. The weather's warm, so there's no ice, yet the sun doesn't come out fully except in patches which makes all the remaining leaves very yellow, and we're rather tired of the whole thing, too, as noted on page 3331. In about 1:30 and read for a bit before I go to see how it would be to get to MIDDLE Sergeant's Pond from Upper Sergeant's Pond, but I'm dissuaded by the time and fatigue. We start back, John laughingly babbling his fatigue, and we're returned at 3:30 to flop into comfort: I to write 2 pages, John to read, and we build a fire and then I get into a number of letters to Claudia Bernstein and a few other people including Laird Ward and Don O'Shea, but don't really get to the necessary ones before I'm lured into finishing off the second half-gallon of sherry for the week and looking at the fire. Up to dinner to fish and ham and lemon meringue pie, and we talk with more people, maybe including the guy who's written about 70 children's books about adventure and travel, and I hate him very much. At one of the last meals, also, was someone we were there with three years running, and we launch into another large-scale talk about the trip to India, so I may be confusing meals, too lazy to check back to see what DID happen. Back to the cabin and there's a full moon reflecting off the water, and the fire is pleasant, and it seems I work on letters more and smoke more, and we probably have sex, but it's been over a week since it happened, and it looks like I'm not going to get much up to date at this point either, since Marcia Siegal's party's starting.

DIARY 3338

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 14. Wake and pack before breakfast before a roaring fire, and we've cleaned out the space beneath the cottage from smaller logs, which were always wet, anyway, and were the last to burn, severely depleted its stock of large topping-logs, and left just the first-fire's kindling in the basket beside the fireplace. Up to sit with two couples who wandered around the Finger Lakes region and had boats on some small lake near Rochester, and pay our bill (after John angrily searched through my books to find the last-year's calendar and the blank check that I thought I'd left at Mary Rasmussen's) and take off about 10 pm. Cloudy as we skirt along the Fulton Chain of Lakes, stopping past Inlet to get gourds, pumpkin, apples (good Macouns that they'd had at HH), Indian corn, and cheddar cheese for the party for Marcia, then drive through the hilly upstate New York area, John falling so in love with the place that I feel it necessary to inject my thoughts that we should start leavening THIS retreat with some OTHER retreat, since I surely wouldn't want a "second house" in THIS area, since I think of a "second house" as one in which I'd live after leaving the FIRST house, and the second WON'T be in the Adirondacks. Stop at Pixley Falls, pretty but not worth $1, though the valley it's in is special with colored trees and shaped slopes. Down along the top of Oneida Lake, onto the highway for a bit, then through colorful towns like Cato and Euclid and Plato and Challenge and Victory to the shores of Lake Cayuga, and the sun comes out in patches, making the bowl-shaped 100 miles around the lake look like it's nestling on the INSIDE of a hollow earth, rather than on the OUTSIDE of a sphere, and we drive down the coast past marvelous old and new farms, and finally reach Joy and Fran(cis) Bowell's place, along with her brother, a lovely blond John, and huge "Saint" Willy, who sort of monopolizes the conversation for a long time, until we get dressed for dinner at the Ithaca Tower Restaurant, where we have to be handed jackets, and we pay the almost $40 bill over their protests, then go in the drizzle to find Jane Fonda and her crew (see next page), and that affects the whole rest of the dreary evening.

DIARY 3340

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 15. Wake about 8 and dress and pack and have breakfast with all four men around the table, and Joy just cooking and serving until the men are satisfied, when she can sit down and we talk about their trip to England for a month and ours to Asia for four months, and at 10:30 we're talked out and ready to leave. Joy wanted to embrace me, but I held back, and I'm sure Fran wanted to be hugged, too, and even John looked unwillingly out of it down at his car in the driveway. Back through Ithaca and east on small roads until we decided to get onto 17 and speed it up, and the sun came out more and more, making John love the area more and more, and it WAS more colorful along the southern tier, and we wondered what the northeast corner of Pennsylvania, just south of us, must be like for vacations. Drive and drive and drive, stopping to piss and change drivers, not for lunch, talking lazily about what a second house should be, and get into the city just after 3, not much traffic over the George Washington Bridge yet, but still a five-minute line, and get into Brooklyn to find stacks of mail from Arnie, a copy of the Times, and lots of things to put away from all the baggage, including mopping up some blue laundry soap when the bottle fell from the loosely-tied knapsack and spattered on the tile hallway floor. Everything together by 4:30, when we're back into the car to get to Sergio and Kenneth's for dinner, and they now have THREE cats, a cute brown-black Angora named Minu being added to Tadzio and whoever. The paella is full of rice and mussels surprisingly tender and plump, tough shrimp, tasty chicken, and good spices. Wines go around and we talk about the trip and dancing and the cats, and then we're into the car again for "The Dancers of Mali" at BAM, a good crowd with many natively-dressed blacks enlivening the audience, and the dancers fulfill Sergio's prophesy that they'll sweat and give off an awful stink, because it happens. The lighting is dreadful, the dancers are merely practiced amateurs who display their hearts out for us, but don't really astound us, except for the floppy-lipped wiry boy who plays and sings and dances up a storm. The masks were misplaced on the program, causing a confusion, and the bra-less dancers jiggled amazingly: good, only once. John lets them subway home. I get to Arnie's for keys and the NEW Times.

DIARY 3341

MONDAY, OCTOBER 16. Wake and read all of LAST week's Times, including doing the puzzles, all except for the ads, and John leaves and Eddie, who was supposed to arrive at 9 and who wasn't at the hospital after his return from the trip, comes in at 10:30 (see next page). I'd already called CBS to say that I'd be in at 1, and called HBJ in response to Loretta's lovely letter saying that she liked my work so much I could finish the rest of the galleys early this week, so she should send it to the office after 1, so I knew I had a busy week ahead of me, since I didn't do anything on Murrill during the vacation, and it should be finished by Friday. Eddie and I leave here about 12:15, and I haven't had breakfast yet, and I get to work to worry Betsy because I haven't started yet, and I feel that Harvey gives me a LOOK when he personally delivers the HBJ package from the messenger who left it with him, though John says that he'll REMEMBER me and be IMPRESSED by me because of it. Tom launches into a dreadfully self-excusing tirade about all the work he's had to do on Kreith, how In-Text was such a bastard company to work with, how good he was if he just had his OWN job to do, rather than have to take "moral responsibility" for everyone at CBS, though he had no ACTUALLY responsibility for anything. I longed to take the work home so I could work undisturbed. Leave at 4 when I have all the information I need (mainly that there was no response from the author about my editing of the first two chapters, so that I was doing OK), I get home and start immediately going through all the mail, getting to the bank to deposit my check, hoping to beat Mrs. Johnson's check to the bank, having dinner, and then starting on the Harcourt Brace last galleys for the statistics teacher's guide, feeling like it's taking an age, and I finally finish it about 12:30, exhausted, but happy that THAT'S out of my hair, and I can devote the rest of the time to Murrill, which is horribly late already, since I have about 50 hours of work to put in in only three whole days, which doesn't sound too reasonable. Can't really sleep from the tension in my body and eyes, so I get up and smoke some, worried that because we don't have a constant harvest that there isn't going to be enough this winter, and then fall asleep with no trouble.

DIARY 3343

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 17. Up at 8 and pack everything up from HBJ, calling her to say she has to send a messenger, which she does, and I wash dishes for the scraps that are there, John makes lunch and leaves, and I sort through letters and decide I MUST write to Elaine, so I send her a four-page letter (based, in fact, on the good sex we had this morning), and I finally get down to Murrill at 11:15. Talk to Azak for a time, and Joan calls, too, and then work straight through until 3, when I have lunch while sitting in the green chair and looking through the old Life magazines, and then back for an hour's work until John comes in, and at 4:50 I have to leave for a Mattachine Board meeting. The meeting starts on time, but Mike Christian is unbearably coy about reading his Secretary notes and announcing anything, and I begin not being able to bear his "my investigating skills" and "my connections" and "my experience with GAA" and "I don't want to take time to say this, but" habits. Mark talks about somebody Moss, who wants to finance the Mattachine Times, but it's suspected he's a front for Mike Umbers, who's shithead #1 in gay circles, and Mike talks for ages (for what reason I can't decide, does he want the board to underwrite his lousy waiter's wages?) about the bar-boy guild, Alan retorts with the awful hold the SF guild has over Sir, literally forcing that organization to lobbying FOR a bill outlawing cruising on streets (so they'll have to go into bars, or lose all their advertising revenue), but Mike assures us that WE'LL control THEM (isn't that what they ALL say when Frankensteins create their monsters?). There are reports about the Sixth Precinct police talks, the Riker's Island talks, ways of raising money by leafleting, requesting donations at open houses; and then finally talk gets around to priorities, and the whole thing is very busy but I still don't feel that I CONTRIBUTE anything (except the thought that can't SOME of the rent, at least for the Counseling Offices, be taken off our income tax as charity, squaring our debt with our nonprofit sources?), and state I WON'T be here another year on the board, and feeling I could be doing so much MORE good working for the organization DIRECTLY, like getting new workers, leafleting, or even working with library books. Home at 9:30 to eat, wash dishes, Mike Shamus and friend over to look at apartment, and work 10-11:30, AGAIN dead to bed.

DIARY 3344

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 18. Wake at 7:30 and immediately get over to the desk to get away from the goddam bounding cats upstairs. Work from 7:45 to 10:45, doing 21 pages for a rate of 7/hour, but I typed the style-sheet in that time, too. Then have breakfast, and work from 11-2, doing 41 pages in that time (though many of the pages were simply illustrations, which work will have to come later), for a rate of 13½/hour. Have lunch, relaxing over more reading, and back to work 2:45-6, doing 57 pages for a grand rate of 17 pages per hour, making the day's totals 9¼ hours worked doing 119 pages, an average of 12 3/4 pages per hour, which I'm very happy about. Called in once yesterday, asking about how to use flags, and using them, and once today, saying that I probably WON'T be finished by Friday, but being told that Tuesday or Wednesday would be fine, since it only has to be checked briefly and put into composition on Monday the 30th. Feel both very tired from the long day and very good about the productivity, feeling that I'm really LEARNING about copyediting, though I'm starting a list of things that I only really LEARNED how to check about halfway through the book, that I'll have to go BACK through and check out completely. Then we eat, John lovingly taking care of ALL meals at this point, except that I have to do the dishes, which I do before we leave for "Yerma." I thought I'd hate the hoked-up version, with translators, on a trampoline, but the LANDSCAPE furnished by the silver-black material is convincingly bed, house, outdoors, tent, orgy-hillside, and dream-area. Espet is marvelous with bared tits, lisping Cathtilian Thpanish, striding legs, and tortured eyes and thin lips, and the SOUND of the language is good, and the translation, though flowery, FITS with the idea of childbirth and desire, though the end, where she kills her husband and KNOWS she won't fuck again, is SO Spain as to be a turn-off. But the transitions in the playing-area are breathtaking, the nude orgy on the straps marvelously exciting with the devil and his wife writhing in naked beauty among torn-work-clothed extras, and we got back at 10 with Arnie and Norma to get to bed early, resting up for another day's work.

DIARY 3345

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 19. Elaborate sex this morning, which means that I get back at the book at 9:35 after breakfast, working 3 hours to 12:35 when of all people Madge Mao calls to say that IBM's starting to farm out fixed-price job-shop programming and proposal and documentation jobs to former employees. I tell her to surely put my name into the pot. She talks about how she's still Staff Programmer after 4 years, leading the Aquarius project on which her subordinate copped all the praise and the "Outstanding Contribution" award for HER ideas, and how Cathy Harlin was suffering for her family, getting in with misunderstanding managers, still not being above Staff Programmer, getting apathetic and thinking of quitting or transferring to another division. Chat about Herman, my trip, her having children and "spoiling" Werner; the family returning to Hong Kong to try to get her a servant, the perfectly behaved granddaughter, my new job, and numbers of other things before I hang up at 1:45. Over to lunch, and Mary Malone calls, saying she's been trying to get in touch with me for a couple of weeks, offers me a job in Jersey which I refuse, says she'll look for freelance for me, will send me her brochure, and keeps wanting to keep contact with me. Madge Mao Meyer and Mary Malone in one hour is too much! Finish lunch and reading and get back to work at 2:45, finishing the book at 5:15, 90 pages in 6 hours, on a day average of 15/hour, and though I'm still by no means finished, I'm feeling very good about it (though fatigued), and my hourly rate is pleasingly high. Then Cy Moslin (another M!) calls to offer me a fulltime job, and I say I'm freelancing, and take off to Mattachine (see next page). Back at 10, eat, and Herman Washington calls (W upside down is M?) to, I fear, get me into one of these pyramid clubs with someone called Alexander turning him on to seven levels of consciousness, and I'm doing dishes when John gets in, and we talk, and get to bed about midnight, cuddling but seemingly not very interested in sex. I feel not like sleeping, so I fondle myself teasingly until I'm burstingly hard, which hasn't happened in ages and feels great, come, dry, and fall asleep.