Friday the 13th, February 1981

I wake up this morning and Simone says to me, I wish I didn't love you. Last night she said we could sleep in the same room whenever guests, like her friend Luca from Italy, are staying here. Her little mind is still at work trying to get what she wants. You haven't given up, I say to her. There is a twinge of anxiety about continuing to fight against this. What a drag. She accuses me of trying to find things wrong with Michael. He finally confessed to having people over to her house, after denying it twice. I have the same suspicion about her car. The front door has a new dent. The registration has been taken out of its envelope and something done with it. As though the car had been in an accident and someone had to present this information, either to another driver or the police. But on the other hand he keeps asking her to trust him no matter what. I have the paranoid idea that a court summons will appear for her some day because the car was involved in an accident. She thinks its only my jealousy. I think you doesn't pay enough attention to what's going on. Have I seen it right? At the moment I am not aware of jealousy. On the one hand I certainly say good riddance if she goes back to him. It won't get any better. They are both swimming in poison. He won't really expose himself, and she doesn't want to see what it means. They are like little emotional time bombs. Each of these un-admitted and unseen traps. I get furious at myself when the opportunity to really show myself passes. Next time, I think to myself. But the same happens again and again. A vulnerable feeling, jealousy, rejection, fear, pops up in me and the opportunity to say how I feel is there, but .. and then the chance is past. The feeling subsides. The situation changes. The opportunity is lost. Enough of this. I just can't say it right. Everything comes out of me so contrived. I have to stop and think of each sentence. What is it today? Its a little bit about the lack of money even though I've just deposited almost $1300 in a new personal account. Joe could make over $3000 today and I kick myself about not doing the work to get my seminar ready. Fantasies about buying a blender, one of those tooth irrigating machines, and a washing machine. Imagining the house we will live in one day. A dream about Adele and Cheyenne last night. Its a birthday party for me. We are trying to arrange some chairs around a table. There aren't enough. Its very crowded. There are ropes or strings hanging down from the ceiling. Don't remember any more. Yesterday was my last day at Sturbridge. The first bus back went by without stopping. A second bus rerouted to get me. No seats. I have to stand. It makes me a little self-conscious. There appears to be a seat next to someone. For a moment I wonder if its a child covered by a coat to keep warm. I get warm and remove my coat. Then ask the person next to that seat if I can sit there. Its only a coat and a bag. Standing was uncomfortable. But it was a struggle for me to ask about the place. It seems so stupid. I might have ended up standing all the way to Boston. But some sort of strange fear of speaking up made me stand there for some amount of time. All the while struggling inside myself about asking for this seat. It seems crazy to have been so anxious about such a simple situation. It seemed as though everyone was staring at me. Why not just stand there and pretend nothing is going on. They'll stop and then I can do something. But no, it doesn't work that way. I want to sit down. Something is poking me in the ass. Its uncomfortable. So I use some sort of what seems like a trick to get the seat. Taking off my coat, putting it on the overhead rack. Somehow I believe this will make asking about the seat ok. There is some peculiar quality about what I've done that is familiar, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is. First, it isn't possible for me to ask directly. Its possible, but something, a feeling inside me prevents it. And second is that I fake some other behavior, something that I believe other will see ask ok, to get to what I want. A very simple thing, a seat! But why so complicated? It feels stupid even to write about it. But I see this sort of thing so often in myself. Why do it? Searching my memory evokes this same feeling from any time in my past. I've always done it. And always been very conscious of doing it, but at the same time powerless to stop it. I sit here thinking about it but am stuck as to its meaning. Its one of those things that will go to the back of the mind. Sometimes it will come out directly and I'll think about it. Maybe the answer will suddenly jump out of wherever all the facts have been hiding.

Sunday, February 15, 1981

There is something going on. My asshole has tightened up again. Sometimes there is a little blood in my shit. Simone thinks its just a hemorrhoid. Maybe, but those, for me, always come from tension. Once, several years ago, when Adele and I were going to meet in Harvard Square, and several days before it was to happen, the most enormous hemorrhoid suddenly developed. It was almost like a balloon. But the day after the meeting it was gone! Its painful. I can't seem to get it to relax. Not even tightening up and relaxing helps. My mother called yesterday. Happy birthday, she says. Things are going well for her. But my sister has presented a problem. She is not letting her children visit their grandmother this summer. She's done so for the last 8 years. Not the right atmosphere, or something like that she says. Simone has just called from Inman Square. She, Daniel, and Joe are having a pizza. She invites me to join them. Later. Joe and I go to the office. Something I've just realized: people that Simone and I know are fucking with each other more than Simone and I. Lois with Dana and Joe. Joe with Roberta. Or not fucking. But she thinks about it as Gordon would be terribly hurt if she did something like that. She doesn't think he's the one as he is not financially secure. Simone thinks the same of me sometimes. Also, that I am 36 and almost 40. She thinks more of leaving me and going back to Michael, but he won't have her. Michael and I talked about her smothering quality. How she wants to totally consume and surround someone. She then says that any reluctance or resistance to this is a fear of getting close. Maybe, but if someone doesn't want then its stupid to push for it. I got real mad at him for the thing with bringing people over to the house. But then we talked for some time about Simone and problems dealing with her in the present. I told him he has a lot of dirty laundry that he hasn't cleaned and that the way he is dishonest with her is poisoning their relationship. He stays cool and rational all the time. I raise my voice and get flustered at his non-response. Later Simone tells me that he was livid. Only holding back his real feelings. She confessed to me last night. She tried to make me jealous by leading me to think that Phil, the man who helped her make my cake, wants to have an affair with her. The confession came after we were lying in bed and I noticed how one of her legs was very nervous and jumpy. With her this always means something, like a thing she hasn't told me is bothering her. Last night we went to Jean and Toni's Valentine's Day party. I took some polaroid pictures. Dana wouldn't let me have the one of him and Suzanne. It enraged me. I felt vulnerable and helpless. It was the sort of situation where I seriously considered responding completely out of proportion to the incident. It was like suddenly being dowsed with cold water, except the external physical feeling was one of great heat. My face was very flushed. I could not look at him directly. It was like something cold and hard had just grabbed and squeezed my heart. I was like times in my childhood when someone who is bigger takes my hat and then won't let me have it. Or maybe two people throw it back and forth and keep it away from me. It was exactly that feeling which came up. After it was over I spent some time thinking of an elaborate explanation of why he shouldn't do such a thing. For example, that it caused this in me and does not give me a good feeling about him. That we want to live together without doing these things to each other. And so on. But there is something wrong with this. Its like closing the barn door after the horse has escaped. Why didn't I see what he was doing? Why did I let myself fall into that state? What he did had little importance in relation to what it caused me to feel. And it was only evoked by some small part of the situation. Now it is possible for me to realize that he was only playing. That mood was present in his tone of voice. At the time I did not hear it. But my response went on for some house that evening and for a little while this morning. Until I realized what was being made of this. Namely, something from almost nothing. On the other hand I enjoy playing this sort of game with people. Usually I get called a trouble maker. But there is something very exciting about causing this sort of trouble. As a boy, in school, in Burlington Wyoming, some of the older kids would pay me money to shout things in public. Who knows what it was now, but they wanted it said. They paid me and I would yell it in the general direction of whoever they wanted to hear it. Mostly it was out the window of a bus. The culprits wanted to be able to get away from the scene quickly. Simone's old boss at Mass Mental took a poll of some 20 people to see how many wanted her to live with me. Two, Lois and Ann, voted for me. Lois knows me best of all those people. Ann hardly at all. Simone has started asking all her friends the same question. Almost all of them say she shouldn't. You will only be hurt in the long run, they say. It seems as though I'm writing more about other people or things outside myself. Me gets to be more and more like a greased bean. Lots of little things are going on, but I keep trying to see some pattern or make some sense of them. Lee, in his last letter about what I wrote while on FH this Christmas, says to tie it all together somehow. It can't be. Everything changes everyday. One conclusion can be turned upside down the next day or the next moment. It seems like something is clear, then I learn some new fact and don't know what is going on. It seems as though he says to build some sort of system out of all this that can be packaged and used by others. But the package is constantly bursting at the seems. It constantly changes shape and size. Sometimes I think about writing a moral or conclusion to everything that I've written, but then something else changes and I'm no closer. In a bookstore today I see a book about writing to develop one's self. Then I think about giving up on this whole venture. Its already been done. But reading some parts leads me to think that those people aren't really writing about what's going on inside themselves. I sit here struggling with myself to see if this is also a fault of mine. Is this really what I feel and think? Often its not, but from time to time I have the feeling of exactly hitting the bullseye. Often others who read what I write say the same. Sten has been particularly encouraging. He says it may be my form of the SD, in which case its not bad. He says its very good. Judy has recently told me how something written about my relationship with her explained it exactly. Enough praise. Why am I feeling so hot in my face? The stress from the last few days has caused some bug(s) to get the upper hand. I cough a bit and have a slightly sore throat. Ron and Ellen have broken up. Dana immediately took credit for it. But it may come as a surprise that people only use others as an excuse for ending a bad relationship. The new order often turns out to be only the lesser of two bad deals. And that reminds me, Simone has a new deal for me. You can have your own room if I can have my cats, she says. Still up to getting her way. But Dana does not wants cats either. What will her next ploy be? Why is my face so hot? It happens when I feel shame or am very self-conscious. Am I feeling this or a little sick? The rest of me feels fine. I have the sort of cough that indicates my mini-cold is going away. What was the pattern I noticed about my health the other day and can't remember now? My ears are also a bit hot. I don't feel nervous or agitated. Maybe something to do with the struggle to let out what is inside. I'm trying to put it to paper, but nothing stands out in my head. Simone is trying something with Michael to get him to move. Not from where he is, but emotionally. She wants to improve her chances with him should she decide to end things with me. First she will talk mostly about him and his work, agreeing with most everything he says. This goes on for about a month. Then she springs the trap after he has stepped in and exposed himself to her. Its not clear exactly how this will work but she makes a lot of plans of this sort. It never works out. Too many things happen before she gets to the end of the plan. Then a new plan has to be made. So it goes with all my planning and fantasies. A month ago I could never have anticipated the situation as it exists today. What can I say about one month from now? Probably far too optimistic. My fantasies make much faster progress than my facts. I am thinking, why not send a copy of these notes to Michael? It will certainly stir up the pot. Do I want to make more trouble? YES! You can't make muddy water without some mud. If there is anything to stir up then do it. That was not as clever as I'd intended it. Something about mud, clear water being deceptive, and what happens when one stirs up the bottom of the bucket. I'm chomping at the bit to stir something up with Dana and the redhead. They were here for awhile this morning but didn't have much to do with us. A very proper couple. Handsome and well dressed. Very polite. Would I like to know what's really going on! Dana keeps her away so nothing will happen to alter the romantic and mystical view she has of him. But I will look for the chance. Then zap. It seemed I had it for just a moment this morning. I could have made something of a short time when kissing with Simone. She came out of the bathroom and saw us for just a moment. Hesitated for just a moment, then turned and went to Dana's room. Or was this just my imagination? But for just a moment there was something in the air. Just now Dana comes in the door. I get a little seflconscious about writing this. Quick, hurry on to something else, another topic, like bats or computers. Its also time to get ready to go to that fancy French restaurant where Simone is taking me this evening. One can get there only with an appointment. Here I am all dressed up in this monkey suit and she still has left her place. Back to the keyboard. Thinking about writing for reading, or am I writing for writing? Often who will read this influences what I write. But Sten says to write only for myself. I think about it and write about it and it all gets confused. Don't know where I am. It was a lot easier writing on FH. I had no intention of letting anyone read my writing. That has changed drastically. There is the possibility of making this whole think into a book. Then I get all kinds of advice about how to do that. How to express this frustration about writing, but not that, about saying something of myself. LIke a problem in school. One thinks and thinks about it, gets frustrated, cries, gets mad, throws things, gives up or finds a solution. This thing is impossible. It goes on forever. Every solution leads to a better question. Every new question leads to more emotional rummaging around in the past, present, and future. Why not just stick to a presentation of what's happening as best I see it? Why this constant searching for resolution of my difficulties? Why not indeed. The moment the question is presented an answer appears. So who wants all these difficulties? One moment it looks like clear sailing, the next moment is in the middle of a tornado. Over and over again, the same predicament. I can't explain it. I try to explain it. I get frustrated. Then It seems I've written to much nonsense that this makes me feel like a fool and even more frustrated. Here I sit arguing with a piece of paper. It takes everything I throw at it. Makes no difference. Sense or nonsense, its all the same to the paper. It throws it right back at me. You said it, buddy. Not me. Is it possible that other people find themselves confronted with the same sort of nonsense inside their heads? Somehow I find it impossible. It makes me want to laugh. Could anyone else ever get themselves so caught up in such a mental mess, a self-made spiders web. Like a person who goes to relax in a hammock only to find themselves thrown to the ground or hopelessly tied up in a thousand strands of endless rope. And the best solution is to do nothing. Its not really there. There isn't anything here. Its all fabricated from a million little prune pits somewhere deep inside my brain, and all controlled by little pokes from the past, or fears from the future. In a way it feels as though I've just battled my way out of a hole. Dana comes by to ask if anything has been written about him and Suzanne. Yes, I say, but its still going on. You can have it when I leave. Its all in the notebook. This next part is interesting. I thought about writing it for writing first. Then I thought about writing it for reading. But I did think about just writing it first. Does that make a difference? Here it is: the sexual situation has been sporadic. Last night nothing. Night before was very good. The night before that was probably one of the best times I've had with Simone. In the beginning I was not horny. Hadn't been all day. That was Thursday. The bus ride to Sturbridge does it. So we are laying in bed. She wants me to feel her. Time to go to sleep, I say. No its not, she says. Finger me, she asks. No, maybe tomorrow. She begins to play with my prick. It soon becomes interested. The rest of me continues, however, in the same vein. Roll over and go to sleep, I say. She starts to breath harder. She starts to masturbate. The prick gets more and more interested. The rest of me goes out to lunch. And so this goes on for sometime. She is now very horny and won't take no for an answer. But she gets it anyway. Now she's on top of me. The rest of me decides to follow the prick. We turn over and I am on top of her. We fuck. She raises her legs and ass into the air. She is almost bent over double. Her legs are out to the side. I am inside her and moving up and down. We both feel connected. More so than many times in the past. She almost, or maybe has her first orgasm with me inside her. It is very good for me. I know exactly when an orgasm is the best. My prick stays enlarged after I come. It is not very hard, but is larger than normal. A difficult or forced orgasm causes my prick to shrivel up and feel uncomfortable. The rest of my body will have a nervous spasm now and then. Later we both realize it has been one of the best sexual times for us. I tell her about my plan to resist her advances the same way in the future. No you don't, she says, and whacks me one. So that's the story.

Monday, February 16, 1981

Two dreams last night about taking some pills for my cold. Its a real cold now, not just a sore throat and some coughing. Each dream was a question. Had I already taken one of the pills? Should I take another. Another kind of dream. About Lou, Sten's girlfriend from before FH. We were in a bedroom together. We got horny. She takes off some of her clothes. There are pimples all over her chest. She has almost no tits. We feel each other up a bit. The bedroom is off the corridor or hallway of an office. It seems to be Intermetrics, a place where I once worked. We are worried that people will see us going from room to room half naked. A second part of the dream has me with Brit. We are going to fuck but don't quite make it. More discussion about cats with Simone this morning. She asks Dana what he wants. Dana says he does not want to live with cats. He suggests we drown them. Sure, I say, a bag, a brick, a cat, and over the side of Harvard Bridge. She tries to con us. The are so friendly and sweet, she implores. Alchemy just loves to play with people. No deal. Now she wants a new couch. My recent influx of funds has set dollar signs to dancing in her eyes. But I am more inclined to get a blender, water purifier, or things like that. Maybe even a new washing machine. But a couch is not on my list. Some interesting changes in Dana's behavior. I talk about it with him over breakfast. He has become more withdrawn. Suzanne has become more uncertain of herself. Her movements are not as forceful and definite. She is a little more indefinite with eye contact, and her speech is also more uncertain. Last night it seemed as though she was going to stay the night. Then, suddenly, she was all anxious to be off. Simone thought it might have been because we were in the next room. Only the sliding doors separated us from them. Dana is going through some sort of struggle. Maybe living with her. Simone says it is my fantasy.

Wednesday, February 18, 1981

Its a beautiful Spring-like day, and we've had several of them recently. I'm walking along the street. A police siren. I turn to look. They go by. Its not a regular police car, but like an unmarked, or plainclothes car. Just hen a fantasy pops into my head. The police stop. They take their guns and order me to stop. I put my hands up but they shoot anyway. I'm hit! Suddenly Cheyenne is there beside me. She screams and grabs hold of me. The wound is not fatal. Suddenly the one who shot me starts to scream. His skin is starting to boil and erupt. The flesh shreds. Blood is everywhere. It becomes putrid. The entire body resembles an enormous rotting and stinking carcass. I warn the other officer the same will happen to him if he shoots. That's the end. I go on and think about writing this little fantasy. Maybe it would make the start of a good science fiction story. Then more ruminating about the problem of writing without writing for someone to read. These fantasies of having enormous success through this preoccupy me a lot lately. Simone and I did not sleep together last night. She tells me of getting sick and vomiting this morning. I wonder if it isn't because of that. She and I and Dana talk about for awhile in the afternoon. She had a long talk with Carol last night. Carol is complaining again about nobody cares about her. Especially that nobody cares about her the way people care about Simone. But she doesn't do the things that Simone does. She never goes out of her way to do anything for anyone. She then expects everyone to approach her. Simone tells her how she sees the situation. She is constantly putting me down to Simone and wonders how she could possibly see anything in me. But poor Carol never stops to look and see all the things I do for Simone. An unpleasant situation. It stays that way because Simone is never straightforward enough or forceful enough to really make her think about what she is doing. And so she goes on moaning about her sad fate, consuming gallons of ice cream, exercising like crazy, staying overweight, hiding in her room, and still wondering what's wrong. Simone asked me to fuck yesterday afternoon. Ok, I says after we talk about it. We undress. She starts complaining about something, don't remember what, starts to have second thoughts about it. This makes me mad. I decide to get dressed and go back to work. I have the feeling of having done this to get even with her for interrupting the mood. It was not easy to change it back to something more pleasant. But we talk before she and Dana leave for their dream group. Last night I dreamed of being an on-call 24-hour a day plumber, living on FH. There's a call. Its from one of the Kennedy family members. One that nobody knows about. He's 61 years old. Lives in a suburban type house. Some pipe or hose is plugged and he's not getting fuel for his furnace. Its very cold. Suddenly the scene switches to a World War II tank battle. Then back to the blocked fuel line. I find the problem. It is only necessary to shake some part of the mechanism holding the fuel line and everything is ok. Then it seems that Dana has something to do with the dream. A tall blond man. It seems like Dana but not quite. The end. I have though of a number of things to write about today. In my head it seems perfectly clear as to what its all about. The problem comes for me in transforming this mental picture to the rather dimensionally limited world of word and paper. But it is certainly good exercise to try this. So, the first thing has to do with something as simple as a phone call, and what I noticed of myself. It comes at the end. It seems as though I'm there, but suddenly there is something like spacing out. It is as though I mentally hangup before hanging up in fact. I have a strangely mechanical and out-of-touch feeling. As though I break contact before it is really broken. The end becomes like playing back an automatic message. And then I become aware of this out-of-touch sensation. Usually it happens right after hanging up from a phone call. What is the meaning of this? What great secret is hidden in this obscure bit of behavior? Who knows. Other things noticed today? It keeps flitting in and out of my mind. Not there and then a vague impression of it. Concentrate. Try to put my finger on this elusive thing. Shit. Its like a mental mirage. Its like dropping a piece of paper on a windy day. Reach down to pick it up and its off again. It is going on in exactly this moment. I sit here trying to reconstruct what was thought of so clearly earlier today. Is it a fault in my memory? Is there some reason why I don't want to remember this particular thing about myself? Curse, curse, curse. I sit here fuming and cursing to myself. It reminds me of when my motorscooter would get stuck or wouldn't start. I'd be there trying to get it going or unstuck, and from all appearances, not being particularly disturbed by it at all. My mother or others would comment how calm and matter of fact I seemed to be about the whole thing. When in reality, if they could have heard what was going through my head, they might have passed out from the intensity of what was coming out of that young fellow. This was in my more religious days. I'd managed to eliminate such things from the view of others, but the same old shit was still there in my head, rotting and smelling away. And I still have not managed to remember this very interesting thing from earlier today. I have been rather subdued the last few days because of a cold. Haven't even had much desire to fuck. Haven't been as pushy or hysterical as normal. Something to do with that. Finished Simone's laundry. An interesting thing happened when I put it in to wash. Lots of underwear, slips, dressed, and other female apparel. Slinky, slick stuff. Two older women would look my way every now and then. Suddenly an anxiety attack. Very self-conscious. A fear of being seen by these women doing another woman's laundry. Was it a fear of being a sissy? That they might think the things were mine? Something from long ago. I remember the feeling from when I was a boy. Afraid the other boys would see me and make something of it. My mother made me wear diapers when I was in the third or fourth grade. She was trying to get me to stop wetting my bed. Suffice it to say that having anyone else know this would have caused me considerable more anguish. It was a shaming thing in any case. Something I devoted considerable energy to. Always worrying that someone would find out about it. Having to change my behavior or conceal certain things. Then the anxiety continued over to when I was supposed to be working on school subjects. Everyone else seemed to be more into it than me. I had to spend all my time being certain that nobody discovered me wearing diapers. Every kid there probably had something of the same sort. All that energy tied up in worrying. So a similar thing came over me in that laundromat. It went away, but out crawls all that new dirty laundry. I have it today. I was thinking of an incident with Adele in 1971. She was thinking of leading a Youth Hostels group in Europe during August. I encouraged her to do so. But at the same time another woman was of considerable interest to me. Rina was her name. Beautiful red hair and a very nice body. She like me. So Adele says to me one day: do you want me to go to Europe so you can have an affair with Rina? No, I immediately says. That was a lie. It prevented me from really doing it. I felt so guilty. Went to visit her one evening with a friend. She was tired. Laid down on the couch beside me. Very short dress. Her ass was nearly in my lap. Nice crotch. Her underwear seemed not to be covering what normally would be out of sight. My friend couldn't see it from where he sat. It seems to have been available only to me. It was impossible to do anything. I was to wrapped up in what-ifs. Margaret was another woman who offered herself to me. She was a student in one of my computer programming courses. Beautiful red hair. No sexual experience. She asked me one day if she should get birthcontrol pills. Don't remember what I said about it, except that I ignored the real message. She had me over one evening. It got late. We talked about how we were seeing each other rather late. She had to be at work early. Some other couple talk. I am at the door to leave. She rubs up against me. I keep my hands in their pockets. She wants something. Did I know what she wanted? Thinking about it now I have to say yes. Thinking about my state of mind then now, or now thinking about my now state of mind then, or then thinking now then about my state of mind…. Well, a lot of things confused me then. On the other hand it was not unusual to resist all sorts of opportunities of that sort. Ignoring glances, smiles, looks, faces, and other messages, was very normal for me. But it took a lot of energy. A lot of will power. I am feeling a bit agitated at the moment. It has to do with Ellen, who has left Ron. She wants to have an affair with Simone. Lets just do without this jealousy problem and get a place together, she says. Well, so much for Dana's explanation of why they broke up. On the other hand one could say that she is just beginning to learn new things about herself. She has found two other men she is interested in. She votes no on Simone moving in with me. We can get a place together and have our cats, she says. But my agitation has to do with wanting credit for her new found insight, incomplete as it is. By credit I mean what really happened and what provoked it. One could say that my provocative leading of the evening caused her to think about, and finally do things she has been thinking about for some time. Its easy to see why she would leave Ron. He gives the impression that he is constantly worried about her leaving him. He seems to get nervous about little things that indicate lack of allegiance to him, or proposing my own hypothesis. Behind it is the desire to want to be the real, although not yet known to her, object of her casting him, and Dana, aside. I say to myself, this interest in Simone is just to get her away from me. I am the real power behind the thrown. Her real difficulties and desires lie with men. Simone is just a temporary landmark on the way to her real biological destination. It is entirely possible that a few more evenings of talking and being with people in that way will point it out to her. On the other hand she may not be capable of dealing with her deepest difficulties with men. This is beginning to sound more like a limerick than serious writing. Me thinks thou doest profess too much. Now Jeff is an interesting case. Simone has a date for tea with him this evening. It will take 3 or 4 dates to get him back in good shape, she says to me. Yes, I understand exactly. Its the same with some of my women friends. They have to be coddled and have their hands held. Tip-toe around and be very careful or back to first base. Simone, and Linda a little bit, are the only ones I don't have to be so careful with. Then Judy and Jeanette would be the next least vulnerable to offense. And all the other get lumped together. Long talk with Michael on the phone night before last. He was really mad at me about the using Simone's house incident. But he stayed cool and calm all the time we talked about it. A roommate later said he was fuming. Simone relayed the same to me from a conversation with him. Then the three of us are on the phone. She feels uncomfortable. I want to talk more about what really was said and meant, about the house, and about Michael talking to Daniel. It was a rousing good fight. A lot of things got talked about. Later Simone said it was a very good communication. At the time it went on however, she was trying to make me out to be jealous, or have some other nefarious intent. Maybe so, but the result was the three of us talking about very important things. About why she still hangs on to Michael, why she keeps her foot in the door, how she's worried about being left by me. And I just wanted to talk about things without sneaking around. It always makes me feel left out. Like a third party. I don't want to be excluded. And there are many things of importance to all of us. I even suggested that Michael consider living with us for awhile. He said he would think about it. He doesn't want to see Simone for 2 weeks. I say how this doesn't seem to be what he really wants, but is his way of avoiding all the feelings he has over the situation. He can't admit to it. Even when I tell him what a fantastic woman Simone is. She is far more open and honest than anyone else I know. She is very spontaneous and eager to do all sorts of things. She is never afraid to experience her sexuality. Compare this with most of the women you know, I tell him. They walk around and avoid looking you in the eye. Afraid to say what their sexual needs are. Always waiting for the man to take the first step. Simone beat me to the punch on our first date. I was going to ask her to take me home that night. I wish I could take you home with me tonight, she said. We were having soup in the Turtle Cafe. She had another sleep over date that night. And would leave for a vacation to Italy in another day. So nothing came of it. But she did ask me before I got to it. And I'll have to admit to having some anxiety about doing it. But I couldn't resist someone who would really look at me. I met her at a party, at Nora's, on May 10th. She was the only woman who really looked at me. I had the feeling she was really open to me. Very straightforward. I didn't feel as though I was being looked through. I had gone to the party with the idea of pretending to be something other than what I was. For example, that evening was my brain surgeon and researcher on the influence of art and music on brain development. It swept her off her feet. Or at least kept her interested long enough for me to get her name and phone number. She was impressed that I didn't need to write it down. Its a good trick. Tell me your number. I'll remember it, I reassure them. Later, however, I always write it down as over time these things do go away. 

Friday, February 10, 1981

A new idea for writing. During the day I make notes about different topics that occur to me. This way, even if I skip writing for a day, there will be no shortage of topics. This feeling is causing a little panic in me, namely, running out of things to write about. I got a new name and phone number for my little green box today. This is for 3 by 5 cards with the name, address, and phone number of many of the women I know. Her name is Nina. She is subletting Linda's apartment until June. Very attractive. She was a dancer in NYC. Not much like Linda. Too subdued. I find myself attracted to her anyway. Linda told her to be careful with me, that I might ask her to sleep with me, but I know lots of people and am very interesting. She would not find me boring. Then I think to myself, is this going to be worth the effort to start a relationship with her? She's not very outgoing. Linda is likely to work at odds to me if anything gets started. But on the other hand there is a very definite desire in me. Why should such a thing cause so many rationalizations to rise up in me? Some anxiety about what LInda will think. Some anxiety about having some common contact. I think about it, struggle inside, and get paralyzed. Forget it and go to something else. 

Saturday, February 21, 1981

Recent events make me feel as though I'm only scratching my surface, that what I have been writing is superficial. The image I get is of a large open pit mine. The deeper one digs the bigger the hole gets. I have just been talking with Dana about an interesting self discovery made today. Walking down the street. A big fight inside my head. But suddenly I notice something completely different about it. Something I can't remember happening before. There are two people in the fight. There is a setting and they are fighting about something, what I can't remember now, but its not that important. There was my true character fighting with my false character. The false me being who doesn't want to admit to difficulties and problems in life, and the true character who is some part of these difficulties and all the things others say about me. The false character is always arguing and resisting these things said about me by others. Every now and then someone else would pop in the conversation, like Simone or Linda. They would say something to support the real character part of me. Then they would step aside. And the battle would resume with the two main protagonists. This is something very new for me. The last two days make my difficulties very obvious to me. Trouble with work, writing, other interests, Linda, Simone, medical problems. The false me does not want to be beaten by the real me. But there is something irresistible about this true character. Something not so bad. I notice that he is not harsh, not strident, not aggressive, very reasonable. He managed to parry every thrust. But the results were not disastrous for me. I didn't really get defeated. I have trouble making the explanation less abstract. The other side of me is what? Who was that? It seems to be gone now. But the impression persists. How to say all this without being mystical or spaced out. I have the feeling of being held by someone larger and warmer than me. A very comfortable and knowledgable person. But the old resistance came back eventually and overwhelmed the other. Linda and Simone have been fighting back a lot this week. This feeling of resisting comes up in me a lot as a result. Every little criticism evokes a denial and an increase of this internal tension. Sometimes I manage to accept it. Mostly it causes a flood of feeling. This afternoon I found myself suddenly wrapped up in the stolen battery story. A long time ago. I was 10-12 years old. Don't remember exactly. A family lived up the street a ways from us. The father made me mad about something. He had an old battery sitting out in his yard. One day I took it. Hid it somewhere near my house. Later, maybe a few weeks, I took it to a scrap dealer for selling. Still later my mother asks me, did you take so-and-so's batter and sell it? Why no, I says. She doesn't believe me. A big fight. She yells and threatens. The more she does this the more I resist. Finally it comes to getting a spanking. But still I resist. No way will I admit to this. I did it, of course, but it is impossible for me to admit this. The memory is confusing about what happened next. Did I lock myself in the bathroom, or did she tell me to stay there until I confessed? A day or so later she asks about John. I talked in my sleep and must have said something about him and the battery. Or this is what I remember. This whole thing doesn't make sense or have a good connection. The other day Simone made some positive comments about my writing. That it is less a recollection of what happened during the day and more about me and my feelings. Flashbacks are used very well to tell the story. Anyway, she says its getting much better and more interesting. But I find this to be interfering with what I write. Each time I try to write a sensitive story about myself and some connected incident from the past. Every critic sways my tone. Again I have this feeling of some insite and lack of ability to express it. As though I'm tied and gaged and trying to yell out some message to a passerby to free me. An interesting mental image to just pop into my head. There I sit on a simple chair, hands bound behind me, feet tied to the chair, and a gag in my mouth. How to get somewhere? Hop up and down? Fall over to try and roll somewhere, and possibly risk injury in the process? Or maybe sit and think my way out of this imaginary bind? Is any problem I have any more real than the one of imagining myself tied up? And first of all, who tied me up? I mean the whole thing took place in my head! There I was, just like that – bang! No fantasy about being robbed or anything. There wasn't anybody else, but me, in this fantasy. I just imagined myself bound and gagged. Is that one g or two? So anyway, and now I can't remember what I was going to say. Shit, another interesting idea down the drain.

Sunday, February 22, 1981

Another party last night. At Simone's house. 14 people showed up. We invited a lot more. Joe brought me over about 8:30. He got interested in Claire towards the end of the evening. About one in the morning he said goodbye, without looking at us, threw on his coat and left. Claire came into the front room and sat down with us. She and Joe had been in the kitchen. I asked her if she noticed anything about him just before he left. No, she said. I said that it was unusual for him to behave like that. Later I realized that his reaction was probably from having been rejected by Claire. He had probably asked to spend the night with her and she'd turned him down. George came about 9:30. He spent most of his time with Simone. She asked him if he was in love with her. Yes, he confessed. He also mentioned the article in the Whole Life Times to her three times, again! He seems to have some sort of fixation on me. I gave him some recent pages of my notes. Simone wondered if he would still like her after reading them. I said that if he didn't then he wasn't worth it. Jeff was there also. He managed to get himself in the conversation with Simone and George. He is still in love with Simone, but its harder for him to talk about it with others around. He had quite a time with her recently. It seems he took his pants down and showed her his dead penis. Look, he said, its completely dead. He can't get an erection with a woman. He paid $200 for two hours with a sex therapist, a two hour blow job, and he still didn't get hard. He is very depressed and feels that Simone is the only person he can really talk to. But he doesn't really try with many others. There were a few times on FH when it was difficult for me to get an erection, but never any other time. Simone tells me that I always seems to have an erection during the night. Sometimes she wakes up and likes to feel me. This morning it was especially true. I kept trying to wake her up but she had taken some pain killer for her tooth and it is also a sleeping pill. She finally woke up and we did something. Later she talked about how she has always had such wonderful orgasms with all the other men she's been with. Especially when she has been in love. Simone has just finished talking to Roberta on the phone. Gordon is with another woman today and she's feeling a little jealousy. This is a bit odd as she is avoiding anything more with Joe as she feels she must protect him (Gordon) from being rejected, or the threat of being rejected. Gordon can't seem to explain why he's with the other one except that she likes him a lot, and he doesn't see why he should disappoint her. So Roberta coyly tries to get Joe (and several other people) to have breakfast with her the next day.

MOnday, February 23, 1981

Suzanne called a little after two this morning. Someone was trying to break down her door and kill her. An exconvict, drunk, and living downstairs, didn't like her complaining about his playing loud disco music. The police came and rescued them before he managed to break either the front or back door in. So I says why not come over here tonight. She originally asked if Dana was with anyone as she thought he might be with Carol Davidson. A long story about the event. She is quite loud and I have to remind her to lower her voice several times. The whole incident reminds me of her telling about the sexual advances of her boss. The words say she doesn't like it or contribute to its happening. But her whole body and tone of voice says that something about her likes this attention and excitement. The killer story gives me the same impression, but more that she contributes to the rising up of violent feelings in a person like this. She denies it, of course. But one can detect an air of superiority in her when it comes to describing the kind of person it is and how he treated her when she confronted him about the loud noise. She is a great believer in good and bad spirits and psychic energy. She is going to call on all her psychic friends for energy and light. Best she should stop bothering mean and nasty characters. This is the third assault on her in as many years. Dana was feeling sick at Friday nights party. He and Suzanne left early. At one point I noticed how she clung to him and followed his every footstep. I said, don't trip over your umbilical cord on the way out. Next day he tells me the sick feeling is one of being smothered. Its beginning to overwhelm him. More and more things about this lovely redhead and coming out. And Dana, that lucky devil, is her new knight in shining armor! But something about me. Its getting to be as though my only life is chronicaling the lives of others. On the way to the party with Joe a feeling of doom, gloom, and depression suddenly overtook me. It was not till later that I connected it with an earlier incident. Sten is back from his three day trip to FH. He enjoyed it very much and didn't want to leave. He told me how Otto asked him to his room after the SD evening, and that Otto told him how he had developed a lot in the last year. This is what did me in. Otto didn't say as much to me. He didn't pay as much attention to me. Sten did better than me and so I get depressed. The next day it continued. Competition fantasies. In the beginning I am doing ok. Then things start to get out of my control. And this is in my fantasy! Where one would as least think me to be in control. But no. My cool gets blown. I get nervous and distressed. It happens to my body also. The fantasy spreads from an image in my head to my entire nervouse system. And soon I am pacing around, doing compulsive things, getting agitated. A realization about Dana and Suzanne. He has gone to visit his sister in the mental hospital. Suzanne went also. It seems that she dumps some new thing on him and he has to strike back. She is going to press on him till he can't stand it anymore, then poof, he will go away. Something about Simone: her voice has a different quality in it these last few days. She calls and I don't immediately recognize her. Or, a few minutes ago, she came in the door and said hello. I couldn't tell who it was for a moment. Yesterday she was in a bit of a wimpering mood. She often starts to yawn as a way of hiding a little crying. I point this out to her and she says that only her therapist is supposed to know that. It has been obvious to me for some time, but I never said anything about it till now. This happened with something right after I returned from Europe. We were sitting at the table eating and I started to mimic her eating a small piece of bread with two hands. She does it something like a small child who can't really hold something well with one hand. She asks me, why didn't you ever say anything about this before? Well, I says, there are lots of things to notice about anyone, and I've noticed lots of things about you. This one never really came up till now. And its the same with me. Sometimes I will become aware of some little thing I've been doing, in some cases all my life, and only then become aware of it. Like saying the same thing twice in the same sentence. I am a bit frustrated at the moment trying to hold so many things in my head at one time. Events of the last few days, things noticed about myself, and so forth. My ability to make sense of things is disintegrating. Definitely lightweight. So says Lee's latest response to a copy of my latest Cambridge notes. I die for just a moment. A horrible, failing, sinking feeling. Why so traumatic? Then I think, he's pissed at my last letter about his analysis of my Christmas FH notes. So for a moment I defend myself. But the feeling in my body persists. It can't be argued anyway. Why not read my old FH notes? Try to recapture the mood or method or whatever it is that makes them different. Obviously its FH, and I can't recreate it here. He's right. The weight is light. Continue to fight. Take a bigger bite. Keep revelation in sight. Try with all my might. I have fantasies about calling more of the women in my little green box and trying to start something with them. Fear or rejection. Then the idea to get a local contact to publish my book. More deviation from confronting myself. Things are so compartmentalized and people so separated from each other here. On FH everything seems to merge together, almost, and I hate to say it, organically. Socially organic development. You live, eat, work, fuck, play, sleep, and everything with the same people. No need to go somewhere else to get some of any of these things. Simone and I talked about bringing people together. Its so lightweight. So contrived. It has to be for some reason. This immediately puts limits on what will happen. Its ok to just put on blinders. No need to look at anything else. There is a jargon to simplify the already superficial conversation. The artificial boundaries will make sure that nothing will really happen. One gets the impression something is being done and that progress is being made. Everyone will participate and let out just so much. No more is necessary. Any more and the lid will be clamped on. But, again, I'm not really writing about me. Just complaining about some nonsense that is not more than a variation on myself. What am I doing sending copies of this to people? Bragging, trying to get credit?

Thursday, February 26, 1981

Judy reminded me of my days as an AAO maniac. I was visiting her the other day. Her dog Babe died. It was 9 years old. She sat in my lap. We cuddled. I began to feel very desirous of her. Not completely sexual. But one day last summer she broke down and cried about something that was going on with her. I felt very close to her. But beyond that there is still resistance. I wanted to know how it was that one could get closer to her. Was it me? Something I was doing? Carla visited me the other day and asked if I still thought those people were the answer to everything. This has set me off on some new thoughts about myself. Talking to Lotti the other evening about inspiring writers. Henry Miller, for instance, she says. But it seemed to me that such people mostly have inspiring ideas. Their personal lives do not correspond to what they say. They don't really live the way they imagine themselves to be. And this brought me to my own past. The time I was a draft resister. Carla was one of the people who really admired me. There were lots of others. But inside me it was not the same wonderful idea. Inside I was miserable. Lots of people were inspired by my example. They thought it was very noble. I think there must have been something very moralistic about it. But on the other hand I wanted to do some good for myself and others. I didn't want to be a soldier. I did refuse the simple way out. It was possible to have a job related exemption. Not doing this was a way of feeling superior. This is not sounding as good as I have imagined it just before writing it. Another example of my inability to match my self-expectations to what I can do. Earlier today I had a very clear idea about what to write. Reading it now I see that what I thought was nonsense or its being done very badly. I am caught in this crazy circle again of explaining what I mean and discovering that what I mean is not explainable. Its nonsense. It would be quite a thing if this state of mind were elucidatable. It continues to elude me. And everything else about false inspiration. Lotti related how she had read from Anais Nin about what Henry Miller was like in real life. She had to admit that his personal life did not match his spired ideals. One has to suspect ideas that can't be lived by their creator. It sets you to sailing in a false direction. One needs to find a true direction. I have followed enough of these other directions. The Mormon church, which is not to be singled out from all the others, MIT, Thoreau and his inspired life by Walden Pond (made simpler by sending his laundry home to his mom and sister), draft resistance, and more recently the AAO. Was I really such a maniac. Sandy, one of Adele's friends, thought it was a religious organization.

Friday, February 27, 1981

Walking down the street. Two fantasies. The first is on FH. I come back for a visit. I've been very successful. Well dressed, fancy shoes and a long green coat. Floppy hat and sunglasses. Otto invited me into his room. I pull out a machine gun and shoot him and the entire first bag. The second is here in Cambridge. I'm with Simone. I see someone beating up a small child. I yell at her to go for the police while I do something about the child. She hesitates. I return and hit her. Its to wake her up and get her going. I try to help again. She has to be beaten again. The end. Suddenly I become aware of this fantasy. Lots of low-level stress today. Some people for breakfast. Me, Simone, Gail, Lotti, Dana, and Suzanne. Pleasant enough but Suzanne has to relive her nightmare of some days ago. She is completely into it. Her voice and body resonate with the whole incident. A rising sense of something in me. This will be the last time I listen to the story. She stays in it by retelling it. The whole thing is disturbing. She is very good at projecting that quality. And does it as much as she says she wants to be rid of the whole thing. Do I say something this time or put an end to it when it starts again? Next time definitely. A funny thing just now. How to finish off the end of that last line. Should I start another line, or think of a good word that will fit? Writing to fill the page? Or filling the page with writing? Simone had a date with Jeff last night. It ended badly. She tried to lie to salvage the situation. Maybe Jeff should meet Judy, she says. Why don't we just forget about other people, she says. We have each other. I'll just concentrate on my relationship with you, Michael, and Dana. Well, thank you very much Simone! She is constantly making little digs at my difficulty in making progress with Judy. Its so easy for me to get a man to sleep with me, she taunts. You are jealous of my ability to do this, she says. Its true. She can do this more easily than me. But, as even Judy said, its much easier for a woman to do this. A man is looked on very suspiciously and as though he's on the make, by a woman. She realizes this and has never argued against it. But it has always been necessary for me to lie at the beginning of any relationship. Only when it gets more secure has it been possible to really say what's on my mind. Most of it would be to much for any of the women I've known. She knows she has to lie to Jeff. He could never stand to hear what she really things about him. On the other hand she really does like him. It makes her cry to retell the story. She will keep trying. And so will I. We both know its necessary to stay healthy. It keeps us awake and alive. The stimulation makes life interesting and in turn attracts still more people to us. Recently I've had the feeling again that it is possible to have a group of people to live with. I am still disturbed by Lee's criticism. It makes everything written seem distorted and crippled. Awkward and clumsy. Suzanne says my writing flows very smoothly.  But to me it seems like the jagged edge of broken glass. Like a fantasy I had often as a boy and adolescent. It started with an image of my arm. Then acid. The flesh would slowly be eaten away. Fumes and dissolved flesh float away. It began to resemble swiss cheese broken in two. The bone is all that remained. At some point I realized some connection with this fantasy and my life. It has not come about in some time. It seems it stopped around the time of the understanding of it. But exactly what I thought of it escapes me. 

Sunday, March 1, 1981

A lot of realizations come to me like this. But the summation of them all has not helped me much. Another one seems to be coming to me now, but its not clear yet. It has to do with the last few days. Yesterday David Wiggins called to say he had just come from FH. It stirred a lot up in me, as it always does, when someone comes from there. I have always had difficulties living with him. Especially when we were alone and trying to start a group after Otmar left at the end of 1977. But he seems to be less sad. His face is a little different. It doesn't seem possible that he could have lived there 16 months and not be changed. And the same for me. Its a completely other life there. Everything here is either superficial or deadly serious in comparison. Sometimes I think of going back. Not at the moment. Things are going very well for me at the moment. Business is very good. I feel lots of responsibility for the work and for the people working for me. Its a good feeling to take care of them in this way. It makes me want to work even harder so they will do even better from it. Simone has heaped praise on me for the handling of our relationship and how good she feels about me. At the same time there is some sort of undercurrent making me feel more restless, agitated, nervous, aggressive, and disturbed. But it seems easier somehow to see what is going on around me. Some arrogance the last few days. The Ellen/Ron/Simone triangle has dug up some more dirt. He had dinner with Simone last night. He revealed how Ellen had been a heroin addict at one time. That her current boyfriend is 65 years old. We also learned that he had an affair with Constance, Michael's current true love. And he learned that his therapist is sleeping with Ellen and separating. She seems to just want to have nothing to do with him. Ron says things were going so well. Not so, says Simone, and me. The contrary was obvious to both of us. He was not very well tuned. So he is going to off and get angry at his therapist. And ignore the real problem. Namely, himself, and his inability to take a hard look at what's going on. He remarked how everyone at the spiritual conference, which he'd attended earlier that day, along with Ellen, her friend, Michael, and Constance, and himself, seemed to be such hypocrites. This gave me something to gloat over for a few minutes. But invariably in such situations, something from deep inside me floats to the surface to remind me of my own behavior, and that the same affliction strikes me with the same devastating force. Blame someone else. Maybe admit to hypocracy in my head but not in public. And then struggling with the thing, like some kind of animal that one has to beat under the rug. One never seems to be able to quite kill it. It rests a moment and then sticks its ugly head in the way of something. Like a little demon inside me that won't let me forget it. One's conscience should look a little nicer, but this thing always seems to be quite nasty. It takes a lot of energy to keep it under the rug. Its like some crazy new material that no matter how you bend, distort, crumple, twist, or whatever, you do to it, always seems to jump back into its original shape. This conscience is like that. No matter how much energy I put into ignoring it or stomping on it, well the thing just seems to pop right back refreshed as ever. It won't go away. The other side of this seems to be when I get some sort of pleasure out of the misfortune of another person. I told you so. You finally got what you deserve for your stupid behavior. Or, eventually you will have to pay for this. And some more talk with Lotti about inspired writing. This time its Ann Rand. Anyone can solve all the world's problems in a book. Maybe her personal life is like what she writes, she counters. But to me it doesn't seem possible to rebuild yourself, or any part of the world, without other people. They have to join together. Simone tells me about the incredibly fat marriage counselor, who always seemed so very together, that she and Michael were seeing. She would comment on this to Michael, who would reply that Budda was also fat. But she was on the right track. Something was going on. He was just able to hide it. Lloyd, who borrowed some of my notes for reading the other day, always speaks to me in a way that indicates he admires and envies me for all the things I do. I get an uneasy sort of pleasure and feeling of pride from this. My immediate reaction is, oddly enough to want to counsel him further, be sort of guruish with him. To get him to admire me still more. But at the same time, to project a sort of false image of myself to him. I know its false. Its like an automatic reaction. It happens before I almost know it. I take the superior position. The position of one who knows so much more, and give him a sort of learner/student status. Its true he could learn some things from me but there is always this false aspect to it. Maybe false it not quite the right word. All of my ribs are a little sore. What have I done to cause this? I keep sitting here thinking about this false reaction. Also how I store up a list of wrongdoings, or so they seem, and say, soon I will start confessing them. But not now for some reason. There is always a current list. Some drop off the end and new ones get added to the top – every day it seems. I want to confess this and this and this. But much of it is so vague, just a guilty feeling. Anybody can write a solution to the world's problems. Or their own problems. And what is most inspired writing, but just that. Lloyd was with a gorgeous woman the other day. I just dropped in on him for a minute. He was nervous at the door. She was just that sort that wildly attracts me. Tall, blond, cool. Just the sort I never make any progress with. She will see right through me instantly. That I'm a jerk, just like Simone did. Dana will be the type for her. Tall, blond, cool. But it gets a try anyway. She may be crazy enough to try something. At least she gets invited to the next party. Will Lloyd give me her telephone number? Will he get paranoid? Dana has just returned. A moment of nervousness about if he will read this. It seems he does it to keep up to date on what's happening. Suzanne has found a place in Gloucester for $150/month. She is uncertain about taking it. I suggest he speak to her about us sharing the cost for the summer. It would be a nice vacation retreat. Sometimes its seems pretty trivial to write about such simple things. But this is what's always in the way of my trying to solve the problems of the whole world. Best to get these little things taken care of first.

Wednesday, March 4, 1981

Some unknown resistance to writing today, and the last two days. Feeling much better, though. Monday morning, early, walking to the office. A woman is coming towards me. About 50 feet away she steps into the street and goes past. I turn a moment later and she has walked back to the sidewalk. I tell Simone about this later. She says its because of my derelict, convict, dangerous look. Its that denim coat and candy corn hat, and several days of growth beard. Women would be afraid of someone who looks like you do. I know otherwise, she says. But someone just walking down the street doesn't. This reminds me of Vienna about 1969. She worked for the same project as me as a secretary. Very cute. I liked her. She complained about my clothes one day. The next week I bought a complete set of new clothes. It didn't help. She wanted to marry a wife-beater. Lately the same idea occurs to me. Simone talks about my not wanting to be a success. They seem to be related. My appearance and being a success. Certainly there has been plenty of chances to be a success. All the crazy projects I've been involved with haven't failed. Only my really taking advantage of one of more of them. With dress, and being attractive to women, I sometimes say, well, if you don't like me the way I am then that's too bad. This is a superficial explanation. I can't quite get the right words. On to something else. Simone had a Monday night date with Stu. She was with me till 11. She didn't want to go. We were having a very good time, just talking. She told me about my problems with success then. It turned out to be quite good. He was not pushy for the first time. Maybe it had something to do with his new girlfriend in Amherst, or his mother dying. He told her that is she moved in with me that he wouldn't see her anymore. But she pointed out that this was the case for all practical purposes. Laura, his boss, asked him to try and persuade Simone not to move in with me. She had a good time sexually. In the morning she went to see Michael. He told her to take a shower before she came into his room. This after learning she had spent the night with Stu. This also went well, until she was about to leave. He doesn't want her to move in till May 1st. Then the money fight starts. He does not want to let go of her. This move means the end of many of the little holds he has on her. They still have lots of things in common at her old place. Then the argument about not seeing her until March 23. It seems that Constance is monogamous and faithful and he doesn't want her to know that he's going out with Simone and a third woman. Simone then goes to Ellen's house where she has to take another shower! And we learn more about Ellen and her getting beaten up. She didn't tell the whole story. It seems someone in a car was driving by, tried to block her from her running, jumped out and then started to beat her up. Simone gives me the impression that we will learn still more about exactly what happened. Visited the dentist today. First time in over 2 years. Blood pressure is 115 over 66. Below normal, but that is supposed to be quite good. Blood pressure at the dentist's? The teeth were quite good too except for some plaque in a few places. My gums still appear to be receding. But its always looked like that. The hygienist suggested and gave me a soft brush. And some toothpaste to desensitize the area between gum and tooth. She was quite attractive. No overtly sexual fantasies about her but thinking – what is she thinking? Did she seem a little depressed? I've been thinking about women a lot these last few days. Judy, Roberta (Judy's friend), Bonnie, Karen, Eleanor, Colleen, and Linda. I want more contact with them. Then comes the struggle between work, fear of rejection, and how much trouble it will be. Too bad its not as easy for men as women. It was anxiety producing on FH to have a woman ask me to fuck, but it sure looks good from here. Sometimes about calling Lloyd for that woman Sybil's number. Went shopping. Forgot toilet paper again. I am cooking tonight. Simone has left directions. Some sort of Mexican food. Business is good. The weather has gotten cold again. What is this? Nothing but superficial chit-chat comes out. Very tired. Little sleep that last week it seems. Lots of things happening. Ellen was mad a Simone for telling Ron that his therapist was sleeping with her. It seems Ron was one of his few clients – at $50 per hour. He said he didn't want to see him again. The therapist, Marcus, calls Ellen and rakes her over the coals. He is also Ellen's therapist. Very unprofessional of him. Ellen says he doesn't want to see her again. And the same for that big mouth friend (Simone) of yours, he finishes. So Ellen blasts Simone for telling all. Ellen was sort of glad he ended it. He kept a lot of things from me, she says. I don't like to have secrets like that, she says. The night Ellen was attacked Saul was waiting for her. She sent him home and took the phone off the hook. Saul then goes to the open arms of Constance, Michael's true, monogamous, and faithful lover! Meantime, everybody has filled out and sent in their latest applications for weekend workshops on how to be more honest and open in ones relationships. Simone and I have a fine time with all this. She gets completely excited. Jumping around, hardly finishing one dirty little story before she has started the next. We laugh and shout over every little detail. We are like two naughty children who have discovered some very nasty things about the adult world. We also snicker and gloat about these things. The not so positive reaction to all these goings ons. It seems a little like an escape from our own problems. Not that it makes our go away, ubt that it puts them aside temporarily. But on the other hand it also makes them seem sort of irrelevant. They really aren't so bad compared to these people.

Monday, March 9, 1981

I'm an old cowhand
From the Rio Grande.
I won't get out of bed
Even if I'm dead.

I take out two pieces of paper. Feeling guilty about not writing for 5 days. Lots of thinking about it. Lots to write about. Lots of depression. Curled up in a ball on my bed. Simone comes in. What is it, she asks. Depression. Its your fear of success she says. Lots of reason for that. Over $500 in orders on Friday. So I'm immediately overcome with gloom. I won't get anymore. This is the last money we'll get in the mail. It turns out to be not true. But that's what I immediately start imagining. Immediately. Even before I have a chance to feel good about it. Immediately I think the worst. Positive comments about my writing. Fantasies about becoming a world famous writer. People flock to my spontaneous writing courses. Tv appearances. A whole new trend in self-development. Roberta tells me it makes her really feel things. Things that everybody experiences and feels. I've even made a list of things to write about. A head filled with thoughts. They all spring up at the same time. I don't know which one to start with. I get afraid the others will vanish. It seems as though I try to hold on to everything. Like someone with their arms full of small things. One falls to the floor. You try to pick it up and two more fall from your arms. But if this continues maybe one would have everything on the floor, and then it would be easier to pick them up one at a time? Maybe I don't really need to carry all those things around. It confuses me to keep track of all them. I suppose part of the reason is that I'm afraid there won't be anymore. It always feels like nothing more will happen to me. Sort of like a falling feeling where it seems as though any moment will be the one where I hit bottom. An emotional dead-end. Its like I can't dig any deeper into myself but more is there to be dug up. Like chipping away at something covered with a soft surface. Its easy to chip away the surface, but just under it is stainless steel. I can't get through that. One letter was from a person in a California group of several people who have a form of free-sexuality. He says my writing inspired him to try and do the same with his life. It made me feel good. He wants to trade notes. Simone read the letter and stopped when she got to the part about the sleeping schedule. Your not thinking of starting a group like that, I hope, she says. Who wants to create an egalitarian society where you have to sleep with someone? I don't know. At first all my objections about it come out. Who am I to say what they should do. It is interesting that, like FH, they have more women than men. Women seem to be better at these things everywhere. Two-thirds of the group leaders on FH are women. Two-thirds of the men at the bottom of the hierarchy is the norm for the groups, and FH. I can't imagine anyone telling Otto or Claudia who they have to sleep with on a given night. Although I do remember they talked about trying it as a way to discover more difficulties between people. It seems like the wrong way to go if one's goal is to feel good. Can good feelings be legislated between people? It seems to be better to try and get to everyone's true feelings at some moment. And you may not want to sleep with someone because of their behavior. Giovanni was always being rejected by the women because of his aggressiveness. It was a good way of getting him to change. The women didn't want to sleep with him if he stayed that way. Its ridiculous speculation on my part. But I can't help it. The FH model is so much more natural. There has to be something good about a spontaneous way of relating that results in people fucking an average of 3 or 4 times a day. It seems it would only be possible if you felt very good about your partner. How could you do it by a schedule. The best times for me meant fucking at least 3 times a day. But it was always a spontaneous thing. I remember the time in the computer room with Sabina. She came for a one hour course. We had a good time together. She started to seduce me as soon as we were finished with the course. I couldn't resist. It felt very good. Lock the door, she says. Turn out the light, she says. Do you have a rubber, she asks. Sure, I reply. Come here, she says. Ok, I says. So right there on the floor of the computer room, when I had no such intentions of my own, it happened. Not bad. Lots of times it went this way. I will have to ask him how things are during the day, and what the rate of sexual activity is. But it seems contrived. Like the idea of an egalitarian society. Only an idea. No relation to reality. I've seen any number of groups with this idea. The leaders secretly try to influence things while continuing to espouse the idea of egalitarianism. But everyone believes its a good idea and nobody points it out, or has the courage to point out, the contradictions in the everyday life. Who knows. It causes me to boil a little every time People start to talk about that idea. In fact they secretly believe they are better than others. I believe it about myself. I know who is better or not as good as me, and in what ways. But it seldom gets talked about. We all want to be equal. What it really means is that we don't want to be below anyone. We don't want things to be how we feel. I don't want things to be as bad as I feel sometimes. Shit, difficult to say anything about this without getting dogmatic. But I know these feelings of superiority and inferiority are in me. And I always try to avoid them by being equal. An impossible condition. I'm not the same height, weight, intelligence, ability, or anything else. But I want to be equal! I think its more that I don't want to be behind anybody. Who knows. But there is so much of this contrived behavior amongst people who want to be free. They enslave themselves as a way to being free. Total nonsense. Simone spent a day with an opening-the-heart workshop where people were forced by an arbitrary set of rules to do things that go against a more natural way of behaving, which it seems they all want to achieve. Why not just do it. Why a complicated set of rules to define what is proper behavior at any given time? Thoughtful sensitive people will pay attention to what they and others need. Those who aren't will reveal themselves. It will be obvious to everyone. I told her they seemed like new-age catholics. She said they had some connection with it. I mean it only as a joke because of their rigidity but it seems like it may be true. Dana and I spent some time talking about following ones feelings. Can compulsive behavior, continuing with something because of a rule really be following ones feelings? Sometimes I feel like a party theoretician when writing things like this. But the things are in me. I read some of my old writing and cringe a bit. In fact it was the last day I wrote something, the day I began to write my old notes from FH on the typewriter. They are all handwritten now. Today I had the idea that this might have contributed to my depression. I have a difficult time when thinking back to those days. What would Otto do in this situation, I often ask myself. A dream several nights ago about being back. Don't remember it now. Yesterday I went out the back door, onto the back porch, to shake a dustmop. Left the door open. Dana and Suzanne were sitting at the kitchen table. Its right next to the door. Dana says, there's a draft, or something like that. Not till a little bit later did it occur to me that this was a mistake on my part. I left the door wide open. He did not say it directly, but later I realized what was the meaning of his tone of voice. He meant to say I should have shut the door. I can now imagine that he and Suzanne exchanged some glances over this. It does not contribute to a good social situation when I make mistakes like this. Something else like this, but it escapes me now. In any case, all the time I make little failures like this. It makes me paranoid when people do similar things to me. And probably the same for him. We are running into some problems here because of the difference in trust between me and Simone, and Dana and the two of us. We say more to each other than Dana does to either of us. In the last few days he has been complaining, and mostly to her. But some of the things have been about me. He is not as afraid of her as he is of me. Simone thinks it may be that he is not as active as either of us and resents it. His time is spent reading and doing sometime work. He probably thinks about things a lot and gets paranoid. He imagines that he is doing more of a certain kinds of work, or more work in general. I think there is a lot more that he keeps to himself and just stews over. The letter writer from California was impressed by my total candor. Over this I can only chuckle a bit. From where my brain sits its not total candor. I know its not everything. Somethings make me too anxious to talk about. Some things are presently unexplainable. Somethings are hidden from me. And other things I can only scratch the surface of. Its not total candor. Its just trying to write the most insightfully that I can. But when reviewing earlier writing its obvious the present is less naive, more direct, more insightful, and less spacey. Don has come over to have dinner with me. He tells me the story of how he paid a friends phone bill. He calls the manager. The manager calls the main manager at home. The result was that his friend didn't get the phone reconnected. Don and his friend are well known to the telephone people. Now he talks about a company that imports tuna fish for Star Market. It must be nice, he says. What do you mean it, I ask. IT! he responds. Don has just farted. I tell him this document will become a main source of information about the temper of our times. He inhales deeply. This next sentence is by Don: harrumph, clearing the throat. semper ubi sub ubi. Always wear under where. Frank Perdu's latest pun: (he forgets). Don tells me an interesting idea about what to do if one has an idea in the middle of the night. Call Western Union and ask them to send you a telephone with the message. He reads the letter from California and starts to laugh. Can this really be true he says. It sounds like an advertisement. More laughter. You to can be healthier and so forth, he explains. Just use a balanced rotational sleeping schedule and in ten days or less your problem will be solved. This line can be sold to an advertising firm. He wants to ask the writer what kind of mattress he uses. What's the three month period of celibacy for, he asks. It seems to be arbitrary, but is probably an unconscious mechanism to keep sexual disease out of the group. On FH one has to go through a 6 weeks quarantine. That is the maximum time it takes to determine if one has syphilis. Other things can be found in less time. They don't mention anything about what venereal disease problems they have. I have read their magazine for some years and its always a bit vague and abstract about what's actually going on. Edwin has visited them and describes them as being like a group of MIT people, abstract and intellectual, who play lots of one-up, can you top this, make a pun of it, look how clever I am, games. But he tends to be jaded about everyone except Otto. He criticized my writing by pointing out the one letter from a publisher who said it wasn't their kind of book. He came down to visit last night on his own. He wanted to read some of my notes. Later he says how depressed he feels after reading all the things going on here in the last two months. I've only worked and stayed in my cave, he says. A call to Robert Rimmer. He likes my notes, read the whole thing. But I get filled with this overwhelming self-doubt. Its like standing on the edge of a razor. I can fall to either side. The slightest wind will push me to one side or the other. This doesn't sound right. At just this moment I have the feeling that my left and right hands have changed places. Typing is still possible but it feels just like that. Like something has been twisted and bent so everything is reversed 180 degrees. He doesn't know who would publish such a book, but suggests trying to find someone. I have this odd feeling of everything being reversed in my body from time to time. Like a rope being twisted. Now its in my eyes. Its completely different from upside down, or forward-backward. I wonder why it was Jud who responded to my notes. Why not someone else from the group? Edwin says he is the leader. Maybe someone got them and passed them on to him. Don't know. Want to. I tell Bob about my fantasy that these notes will be turned into a TV program like Dallas. Lots of peculiar fantasies lately. Getting some things ready to mail. What is it like to be a package in the mail? Dark, pressure, jostling. Who knows what next. Then I'm the package. Don't know where I am. Who are all these people? What's going on? Where am I going? Strange sensations of not having any connection to anything else. Short contact with the other packages, then they are gone forever. From my depression on Friday comes a fantasy about dying. What would other people feel? Would they miss me? Would they be sorry to not have known me better? Next was one about the children on FH. Its about their growing up and turning out badly. I imagine that heredity rules and they turn out to be like everyone else, and incapable of living on FH. Some of them turn