Santa Cruz, California 1972


I want to tell you about Chris Frazier. I wish you could see his face. He’s so pretty! Whenever he walks by, that’s what all the people say. But I hear the bagpipes playing. I’m going to go see.

They just stopped. Where are they? On the field of Folk-Dance. The people all danced in a circle to the bagpipes. “Is there any basic motivation to it, or is it just that you want to write?”

Channa’s in love with him. (No, just gone on him.) Why not? He’s 24 years old, he’s been in the Navy, he’s beautiful, and he came here to “pick up on all the little chickies.” Now Channa doesn’t want to be one of those. But can she find the real man at the heart of the boy?

“I need a love to make me happy,

I need a love to make me happy . . .”

Are seeing-eye dogs blind?

Jeremy. Lobotomies.

I came here to work, to study, to do well at chemistry and start to become a doctor. But like I might’ve predicted, I became a socialite. They say, “You know at least 200 people on this campus,” or “You’re a fast mover,” or “You seem to know all the girls in this place, why don’t you introduce me to some?” Yeah, they all want something from me. But I tell you, to date (3 weeks on) I’ve slept with one chick. Linda, the urban fuck, is becoming (“becoming” 3 times already?) my good lady. Why? How’d that happen? When I first came I wanted to fuck every chick on campus. It’s possible, I thought. But then I saw there were so many.

Right now I want Diane. Diane, the dancer. Last night I looked into her face and knew that was it. (Yeah, a line, I know.) She told me I was a Virgo, and she was right! Born seven days after me. And on the seventh day he rested, alone in the maternity crib.

I’m always too impatient to take a shit. That’s what I’m doing right now. I want to get off quick and go off to new things cause Santa Cruz, I tell you, makes all things new

This is all written in an effeminate and childish style because I got stoned a little last night, and always the next day I’m totally fucked up. I should’ve stayed in my room where it was begun. Thoughts recollected in tranquillity. But I’ve got to live with this manuscript book, that Channa gave me, for a few days. Get easy with it.

I’m going to play flute w/Marjorie. She’s 18 and fucking pretty and

The way a man looks when a beautiful woman is looking into his eyes—kind of helpless, and caught, and happy, and what-am-I-gonna-do—is what I just saw in the vending machine room. This girl from the 3rd floor of my dorm who is so fucking beautiful that when I saw her the other night and talked to her and looked into her eyes—well, shit. As they were leaving the VM room just now, he said to me, “Automatically.” I said, “What?” and he said “Automatically.” “The door,” she said. “It opens automatically.”

Back to Marjorie. We’re going to play again tonight, Quantz and Boismortier and some other shit. What do I feel about her? What do I feel about anything today? Five hours of sleep and too many cigarettes. I think I’m worse off than yesterday. No brain left.

Marjorie Marjorie Marjorie.

A light breeze blew in the window.

Marjorie just called in the window. “Not for a while.”

“What?” I said.

“Not for a while. I won’t be there for a while.”


Helpless! I’m helpless. (Without Janet) Ha!

Pen. Urban Pen.

Urban. Urban. Urban.

Rural. Rural. Rural.

“I’m always in a hurry
I never stop to worry”
Oh, yeah?

The endemic ludicrosity of Nancy Barnard.

Yeah!

The endemic

The endemic ludicrosity of Nancy Barnard.

jeremy
ginzberg

The endemic ludicrosity of Nancy Miller.


She said, “Do you have a knife?” I said “Yes.”

“Do you need it?”

I looked at my tray and said, “Uh, no, I guess not.”

“I can get you another knife.”

“No, you don’t have to.”


Where the broom does not r

By the stars where we lay
I took you for my own
But I didn’t want you at all

That’s the last time you ever walk out with another man
But now I’ve been freed from you so
You might as well . . .

I’m goin’ home darlin’
I’m goin’ home

Don’t walk away Eric

Puerile, juvenile writings

One evening I had just entered the dinner line when I looked back and saw “the Berkeley chick” with her blue eyes outside the glass wall. The eyes looked uncertainly at me for a moment, and then I smiled at her and she smiled at me. We talked about art museums on the line and at dinner and I didn’t think for a minute anything would come of it but when we went to my room after dinner and listened to Eric Clapton records I got a good long look at her body in its tight shirt and cutoffs, and it wasn’t long before we were kissing and all and in about an hour after I met her we were in her bed in Morison. Now I don’t entirely see these quick jumps into bed and so I wasn’t Don Juan at first. But this “meaningless relationship”—as I described it to several people—went into days and then into weeks (3) and so now I’m almost in goddamn love. The fucking got better and better too. She has a cunt the size of Lake Michigan*—I remember the first nite when I first put my hand down there, she was standing up, and she was still big and open and soaking wet

Her “oh, fuck” sounded so juvenile outside the window just now.

Why doesn’t she come in, the stupid cunt? Wayne and her puts a bad taste in my mouth.

Who’s next?

Who’s who?


Always before me I saw that face,
The eyes of a child, the

The face of a flower
She had
How do you describe
The sexual nature of an ink cartridge.
More good things
More women

It’s like trying to start a car. You keep coughing out little
half-finished
(truncated) -begun sentences, but no flow develops.

NO FLOW DEVELOPS

x: {women, computers}

bullshit < bullshit < bullshit


Green dark green blue red dark blue valley Marin County Santa Cruz County valley green dark green dark blue wet

I looked up at the hills, like a dream, flat on my back, with heat, a fever surrounding me (immersed in red heat)

Dark green wet red

My eyes felt like glue. I peered out the window. Dawn was breaking, and little clouds of steam drifted across the eastern horizon, high above the redwood forest. A poorly timed promotional campaign had prevented me from reaching the window at the precise time of daybreak.


I’m euphoric

I’m happy

BOURBON!

Sometimes it happens that you know people for just a little while and then they’re gone.

LINDA!

As I look around my room I see all kinds of shit on the rug, garbage from “parties” in my wastebasket. Every nite now my room is filled with people going a mile a minute, drinking beer (I drink bourbon), the stereo blasting. I sometimes can hear the music clearly several buildings away. Bill instigates many of these things,


Notes

*Lake Michigan has an area of 22,300 square miles, with a maximum depth of 923 feet, so this statement was not literally true. (Linda was from a suburb of Chicago; hence the reference to Lake Michigan.) And, in fact, this statement is incorrect in a more important way: she was tight, not big. What I was trying to express back in 1972 was this sense of overwhelming wetness, overwhelming openness to me.
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Page revised July 22, 1997.

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