silks, going for  it,  doing
it. The glory is in the motion and the dare. Death be damned. It's today and
today and today. Yes.

     12/9/91 1:18 AM
      The  tide  ebbs.  I  sit  and stare at a paper  clip  for  5  minutes.
Yesterday,  coming  in on the freeway, it was evening going  into  darkness.
There  was  a  light  fog. Christmas was coming like a harpoon.  Suddenly  I
noticed  that  I was driving almost alone. Then in the road I  saw  a  large
bumper attached to a piece of grill. I avoided it in time, then looked to my
right.  There was a pile-up of cars, 4 or 5 cars but there was  silence,  no
movement,  nobody around, no fire, no smoke, no headlights. I was going  too
fast  to see if there were people in the cars. Then, at once, evening became
night.  Sometimes  there is no warning. Things occur in seconds.  Everything
changes. You're alive. You're dead. And things move on.
      We are paper thin. We exist on luck amid the percentages, temporarily.
And  that's  the  best  part and the worse part, the  temporal  factor.  And
there's  nothing you can do about it. You can sit on top of a  mountain  and
meditate  for  decades and it's not going to alter. You can  alter  yourself
into acceptability but maybe that's wrong too. Maybe we think too much. Feel
more, think less.
     All the cars in that pile-up seemed to be gray. Odd.
      I like the way philosophers break down the concepts and theories which
have  preceded  them. It's been going on for centuries. No, that's  not  the
way,  they  say. This is the way. It goes on and on and seems very sensible,
this  onwardness. The main problem for the philosophers is  that  they  must
humanize their language, make it more accessible, then the thoughts light up
better,  are  more  intersting still. I think that they are  learning  this.
Simplicity is the key.
      In  writing you must slide along. The words can be crippled and choppy
but if they slide along then a certain delight lights up everything. Careful
writing is deathly writing. I think Sherwood Anderson was one of the best at
playing  with words as if they were rocks, or bits of food to be  eaten.  He
PAINTED his words on paper. And they were so simple that you felt rushes  of
light,  doors  openin, walls glistening. You could see rugs  and  shoes  and
fingers. He had the words. Delightful. Yet, they were like bullets too. They
could  take  you  right out. Sherwood Anderson knew something,  he  had  the
instinct.  Hemingway  tried too hard. You could feel the  had  work  in  his
writing.  They  were  hard blocks stuck together. And Anderson  could  laugh
while  he  was  telling you something serious. Hemingway could never  laugh.
Anybody  who  writes standing up at 6 a.m. in the morning has  no  sense  of
humor. He wants to defeat something.
      Tired  tonight. Damn, I don't get enough sleep. I would love to  sleep
until noon but with the first post at 12:30, add the drive and getting  your
figures  ready, I have to leave here about 11 a.m., before the mailman  gets
here. And I'm seldom asleep until 2 a.m. or so. Get up a couple of times  to
piss.  One  of  the  cats  awakens me at 6 a.m. on the  dot,  morning  after
morning, he's got to go out. Then too, the lonelyhearts like to phone before
10  a.m. I don't answer, the machine takes the message. I mean, my sleep  is
broken. But if this is all I have to bitch about then I'm in grand shape.
      No  horses for the next 2 days. I won't be up until noon tomorrow  and
I'l  feel like a powerhouse, ten years younger. Hell, that's to laugh -- ten
years  younger would make me 61, you call that a break? Let me cry,  let  me
cry.
     It's 1 a.m. Why don't I stop now and get some sleep?

     1/18/92 11:59 PM
      Well,  I  move back and forth between the novel and the poem  and  the
racetrack  and I'm still alive. There isn't much going on at the track,  I'm
just  struck with humanity and there I am. Then there's the freeway, to  get
there and back. The freeway always reminds you of what most people are. It's
a  competitive society. They want you to lose so they can win.  It's  inbred
and much of it comes out on the freeway. The slow drivers want to block you,
the  fast drivers want to get around you. I hold it at 70 so I pass  and  am
passed.  The fast drivers I don't mind. I get out of their way and let  them
go.  It's  the slow ones who are the irritant, those who do 55 in  the  fast
lane. And sometimes you can get boxed in. And you see enough of the head and
the  neck of the driver ahead of you to take a reading. The reading is  that
this  person is asleep at the sould and at the same time embittered,  gross,
cruel and stupid.
      I  hear a voice now saying to me, "You are stupid to think like  that.
You are stupid one."
      There  are  always  those who will defend the  subnormals  in  society
because  they  don't realize it is that they too are subnormal.  We  have  a
subnormal  society and that's why they act as they do and do to  each  other
what  they do. But that's their business and I don't mind it except  that  I
have to live with them.
      I  recall once having dinner with a group of people. At a nearby table
there was another group of people. They talked loudly and kept laughing. But
their laughter was utterly false, forced. It went on and on.
      Finally,  I said to the people at our table, "It's pretty  bad,  isn't
it?"
      One of the people at our table turned to me, put on a sweet smile  and
said, "I like it when people are happy."
      I didn't respon. But I felt a dark black hole welling in my gut. Well,
hell.
      You  get  a  reading on people on the freeways. You get a  reading  on
people  at  dinner  tables. You get a reading on people on  tv.  You  get  a
reading on people in the supermarket, etc., etc. It's the same reading. What
can  you do? Duck and hold on. Pour another drink. I like it when people are
happy too. I just haven't seen very many.
      So, I got to the track today and took my seat. There was a guy wearing
a  red  cap backwards. One of those caps that the tracks give away. Giveaway
Day. He had his Racing Form and a harmonica. He picked up the harmonica  and
blew. He didn't know how to play it. He just blew. And it wasn't Schoenber's
12  to  scale  either. It was a 2 or 3 tone scale. He ran out  of  wind  and
picked up his Racing Form.
     In front of me sat the same 3 guys who were there all week. A guy about
60  who  always wore brown clothes and brown hat. Next to him was a  crooked
neck  and  round shoulders. Next to him was an oriental about  45  who  kept
smoking  cigarettes. Before each race they discussed which horse  they  were
going  to  bet. These were amazing bettors, much like the Crazy  Screamer  I
told  you  about before. I'll tell you why. I have sat behind them  for  two
weeks  now. And none of them has yet picked a winner. And they bet the short
odds too, I mean between 2 to 1 and 7 or 8 to 1. That's maybe 45 races times
3  selections. That's amazing statistic. Think about it. Say if each of them
just  picked  a  number  like  1 or 2 or 3 and stayed  with  it  they  would
automatically  pick  a winner. But by jumping around they  somehow  managed,
using  all their brain power and know-how, to keep on missing. Why  do  they
keep  coming  to the racetrack? Aren't they ashamed of their ineptness?  No,
there is always the next race. Someday they will hit. Big.
      You  must understand then, when I come from the track and off  of  the
freeway, why this computer looks so good to me? A clean screen to lay  words
on. My wife and my 9 cats seem like the geniuses of the world. They are.

     2/8/92 1:16 AM
      What  do  the writers do when they aren't writing? Me,  I  go  to  the
racetrack. Or in the early days, I starved or worked at gut-wrenching jobs.
      I stay away from writers now -- or people who call themselves writers.
But  from 1970 until about 1975 when I just decided to sit in one place  and
write or die, writers came by, all of them poets. POETS. And I discovered  a
curious  thing: none of them had any visible means of support. If  they  had
books  out they didn't sell. And if they gave poetry readings, few attended,
say  from  4 to 14 other POETS. But they all lived in fairly nice apartments
and  seemed to have plenty of time to sit on my couch and drink my  beer.  I
had  gotten the reputation in town of being the wild one, of having  parties
where untold things gappened and crazy women danced and broke things,  or  I
threew people off my porch or there were police raids or etc. and etc.  Much
of  this was true. But I also had to get the word down for my publisher  and
for  the  magazines  to  get the rent and the booze money,  and  this  meant
writing prose. But these... poets... only wrote poetry... I thought  it  was
thind  and pretentious stuff... but they went on with it, dressed themselves
in  a  fairly  nice manner, seened well-fed, and they had  all  this  couch-
sitting time and time to talk -- about their poetry and themselves. I  often
asked, "Listen, tell me, how do you make it?" They just sat there and smiled
at  me  and  drank my beer and waited for some of my crazy women to  arrive,
hoping  that they might somehow get some of it -- sex, admiration, adventure
or what the hell.
      It  was getting clear in my mind then that I would have to get rid  of
these  soft  toadies. And gradually, I found out their secret, one  by  one.
Most  often in the background, well hidden, was the MOTHER. The mother  took
care of these geniuses, got the rent and the food and the cloghing.
      I  remembered once, on a rare sojourn from my place, I was sitting  in
this  POET's apartment. It was quite dull, nothing to drink. He sat speaking
of  how  unfair it was that he wasn't more widely recognized.  The  editors,
everybody was conspiring against him. He pointed his finger at me: "You too,
you told Martin not to publish me!" It wasn't true. Then he went to bitching
and  babbling about other things. Then the phone rang. He picked it  up  and
spoke guardedly and quietly. He hung up and turned to me.
     "It's my mother, she's coming over. You have to leave!"
     "It's all right, I'd like to meet your mother."
     "No! No! She's horrible! You have to leave! Now! Hurry!"
     I took the elevator down and out. And wrote that one off.
      There  was another one. His mother bought him his food, his  car,  his
insurance, his rent and even wrote some of his stuff. Unbelievable.  And  it
had gone on for decades.
      There  was  another fellow, he always seemed very calm,  well-fed.  He
taught  a poetry workshop at a church every Sunday afternoon. He had a  nice
apartment.  He was a member of the communist party. Let's call him  Fred.  I
asked  an  older  lady  who attended his workshop and admired  him  greatly,
"Listen, how does Fred make it?" "Oh," she said, "Fred doesn't want  anybody
to  know  because  he's  very private that way but he  makes  his  money  by
scrubbing food trucks."
     "Food trucks?"
      "Yes,  you  know  those  wagons that go about  dispensing  coffee  and
sandwiches  at break time and lunch time at work places, well,  Fred  scrubs
those food trucks."
      A  couple  of years went by and then it was discovered that Fred  also
owned  a couple of apartment houses and that he lived mainly off the  rents.
When  I  found  this  out I got drunk one night and  drove  over  to  Fred's
apartment. It was located over a little theater. Very arty stuff.  I  jumped
out of my car and rang the bell. He wouldn't answer. I knew he was up there.
I  had seen his shadow moving behind the curtains. I went back to my car and
started  honking the horn and yelling, "Hey, Fred, come on out!" I  threw  a
beer bottle at one of his windows. It bounced off. That got him. He came out
on his little balcony and peered down at me. "Bukowski, go away!".
      "Fred,  come  on down here and I'll kick your ass, you communist  land
owner!"
      He ran back inside. I stood there and waited for him. Nothing. Then  I
got  the  idea that he was calling the police. I had seen enough of them.  I
got into my car and drove back to my place.
     Another poet lived in this house down by the waterfront. Nice house. He
never had a job. I kept after him, "How do you make it? How do you make it?"
Finally,  he gave in. "My parents own property and I collect the  rents  for
them. They pay me a salary." He got a damned good salary, I imagine. Anyhow,
at least he told me.
      Some never do. There was this other guy. He wrote fair poetry but very
little  of  it.  He always had his nice apartment. Or he was  going  off  to
Hawaii  or somewhere. He was one of the most relaxed of them all. Always  in
new  and  freshly  pressed  clothing, new shoes. Neved  needed  a  shave,  a
haircut, had bright flashing teeth. "Come on, baby, how do you make it?"  he
never let on. He didn't even smile. He just stood there silently.
      Then there's another type that lives on handouts. I wrote a poem about
one of them but never sent it out because I finally felt sorry for him. Here
is some of it jammed together:
      Jack with the hair hanging, Jack demanding money, Jack of the big gut,
Jack of the loud, loud voice, Jack of the trade, Jack who prances before the
ladies,  Jack  who thinks he's a genius, Jack who pukes, Jack who  badmounts
the  lucky,  Jack getting older and older, Jack still demanding money,  Jack
sliding down the beanstalk, Jack who talks about it but doesn't do it,  Jack
who  gets away with murder, Jack who jacks, Jack who talks of the old  days,
Jack  who  talks and talks, Jack with the hand out, Jack who terrorizes  the
weak,  Jack  the  embittered, Jack of the coffee shops, Jack  screaming  for
recognition,  Jack  who  never has a job, Jack  who  totally  overrates  his
potential, Jack who keeps screaming about his unrecognized talent, Jack  who
blames everbody else.

      You  know who Jack is, you saw him yesterday, you'll see him tomorrow,
you'll see him next week.

     Wanting it without doing it, wanting it free.
     Wanting fame, wanting women, wanting everything.
     A world full of Jacks sliding down the beanstalk.
      Now  I'm  tired of writing about poets. But I will add that  they  are
hurting themselves by living as poets instead of as something else. I worked
as a common laborer until I was 50. I was jammed in with the people. I never
claimed  to  be a poet. Now I am not saying that working for a living  is  a
grand  thing. In most cases it is a horrible thing. And often you must fight
to  keep a horrible job because there are 25 guys standing behind you  ready
to  take the same job. Of course, it's senseless, of course it flattens  you
out. But being in that mess, I think, taught me to lay off the bullshit when
I did write. I think you have get your face in the mud now and then, I think
you  have  to know what a jail is, a hospital is. I think you have  to  know
what  it feels like to go without food for 4 or 5 days. I think that  living
with  insane women is good for the backbone. I think you can write with  joy
and  release after you've been in he vise. I only say this because  all  the
poets I have met have been soft jellyfish, sycophants. They have nothing  to
write about except their selfigh nonendurance.
     Yes, I stay away from the POETS. Do you blame me?

     3/16/92 12:53 AM
      I  have no idea what causes it. It's just there: a certain feeling for
writers  of  the past. And my feelings aren't even accurate, they  are  just
mine,  almost entirely invented. I think of Sherwood Anderson, for instance,
as  a little fellow, slightly slump-shouldered. he was probably straight and
tall.  No  matter.  I  see him my way. (I've never seen  a  photo  of  him.)
Dostoevsky  I  see  as a bearded fellow on the heavy side  with  dark  green
smoldering  eyes.  First he was too heavy, then too  thin,  the  too  heavy.
Nonsense, surely, but I like my nonsense. I even see Dostoevsky as a  fellow
who  lusted  for little girls. Faulkner, I see in a rather dim  light  as  a
crank and fellow with bad breath. Gorky, I see as a sneak drunk. Tolstoy  as
a  man  who went into rages over nothing at all. I see Hemingway as a fellow
who  practiced ballet behind closed doors. I see Celine as a fellow who  had
problems sleeping. I see e.e. cumming as a great pool player. I couldn't  go
on and on.
      Mainly I had these visions when I was a starving writer, half-mad, and
unable  to  fit  into  society. I had very little food but  had  much  time.
Whoever  the  writers  were,  they  were  magic  to  me.  They  opened  door
differently.  They needed a stiff drink upon awakening. Life  was  too  god-
damned much for them. Each day was like walking in wet concrete. I made them
my  heroes.  I fed upon them. My ideas of them supported me in  my  nowhere.
Thinking  about them was much better than reading them. Like D. H. Lawrence.
What  a  wicked little guy. He knew so much that it just kept him pissed-off
all the time. Lovely, lovely. And Aldous Huxley... brain power to spare.  He
knew so much it gave him headaches.
     I would stretch out on my starvation bed and think about these fellows.
     Literature was so... Romantic. Yeah.
      But  the  composers  and  painters were good  too,  alway  going  mad,
suiciding,  doing strange and obnoxious things. Suicide seemed such  a  good
idea.  I  even tried it a few times myself, failed but came close,  gave  it
some  good tries. Now here I am almost 72 years old. My heroes are long past
gone and I've had to live with others. Some of the new creators, some of the
newly famous. They aren't the same to me. I look at them, listen to them and
I  think,  is  this  all  there is? I mean, they  look  comfortable...  they
bitch...  but they look COMFORTABLE. There's no wildness. The only ones  who
seem  wild are those who have failed as artists and believe that the failure
is the fault of outside forces. And they create badly, horribly.
     I have nobody to focus on anymore. I can't even focus on myself. I used
to  be in and out of jails, I used to break down doors, smash windows, drink
29  day  a  month. Now I sit in front of this computer with  the  radio  on,
listening  to classical music. I'm not even drinking tonight.  I  am  pacing
myself. For what? Do I want to live to be 80, 90? I don't mind dying...  but
not this year, all right?
      I  don't know, it just was different back then. He writers seemed more
like...  writers.  Things were done. The Black Sun Press. The  Crosbys.  And
damned  if  once I didn't cross back into that age. Caresse Crosby published
one  of my stories in her Portfolio magazine along with Sartre, I think, and
Henry  Miller  and I think, maybe, Camus. I don't have the mag  now.  People
steal  from me. They take my stuff when they drink with me. That's why  more
and  more I am alone. Anyhow, somebody else must also miss the Roaring  20's
and Gertrude Stein and Picasso... James Joyce, Lawrence and the gang.
      To  me  it seems that we're not getting through like we used to.  It's
like we've used up the options, it's like we can't do it anymore.
      I  sit here, light a cigarette, listen to the music. My health is good
and  I  hope  that I am writing as well or better than ever. But  everything
else  I read seems so... practiced... it's like a well-learned style.  Maybe
I've  read  too  much,  maybe I've read too long. Also,  after  decades  and
decades of writing (and I've written a boat load) when I read another writer
I  believe I can tell exactly when he's faking, the lies jump out, the slick
polish  grates...  I  can  guess  what  he  next  line  will  be,  the  next
paragraph... There's no flash, no dash, no change-taking. It's a job they've
learned, like fixing a leaky faucet.
      It was better for me when I could imagine greatness in others, even if
it wasn't always there.
      In  my mind I saw Gorky in a Russian flophouse asking for tobacco from
the  fellow  next to him. I saw Robinson Jeffers talking to a horse.  I  saw
Faulkner starting at the last drink in the bottle. Of course, of course,  it
was foolish. Young is foolish and old is the fool.
      I've  had  to  adjust. But for all of us, even now, the next  line  is
always  there  and  it may be the line that finally breaks through,  finally
says it. We can sleep on that during the slow nights and hope for the best.
      We're probably as good now as those bastards back then were. And  some
of the young are thinking of me as I thought of them. I know, I get letters.
I  read  them and throw them away. These are the towering Nineties.  There's
the next line. And the line after that. Until there are no more.
     Yeah. One more cigarete. Then I think I'll take a bath and go to sleep.

     4/16/92 12:39 AM
      Bad day at the track. On the drive in, I always mull over which system
I am going to use. I must have 6 or 7. And I certainly picked the wrong one.
Still,  I will never lose my ass and my mind at the track. I just don't  bet
that  much.  Years  of poverty have made me wary. Even my winning  days  are
hardly stupendous. Yet, I'd rather be right than wrong, especially when  you
give  up  hours of your life. One can feel time actually being murdered  out
there.  Today, they were approaching the gate for the 2nd race.  There  were
still 3 minutes to go and the horses and riders were slowly approaching. For
some  reason, ti seemed an agonizingly long time for me. When you're in your
70's it hurts more to have somebody pissing on your time. Of course, I know,
I had put myself into a position to be pissed upon.
      I  used to go to the night greyhound races in Arizona. Now, they  knew
what they were doing there. Just turn your back to get a drink and there was
another  race  going off. No 30 minute waiting periods. Zip, zip,  they  ran
them one after the other. It was refreshing. The night air was cold and  the
action  was continuous. You didn't believe that somebody was trying  to  saw
off  your  balls between races. And after it was all over, you weren't  worn
down.  You  could  drink  the remainder of the night  and  fight  with  your
girlfriend.
      But  at  the horse races it's hell. I stay isolated. I don't  talk  to
anybody. That helps. Well, the mutuel clerks know me. I've got to go to  the
windows,  use my voice. Over the years, they get to know you.  And  most  of
them  are  fairly  decent people. I think that their years of  dealing  with
humanity has given them certain insights. For instance, they know that  most
of the human race is one large piece of crap. Still, I also keep my distance
from  the  mutuel clerks. By keeping counsel with myself, I get an  edge.  I
could stay home and do this. I could lock the door and fiddle with paints or
something.  But somehow, I've got to get out, and make sure that almost  all
humanity is still a large piece of crap. As if they would change! Hey, baby,
I've  got  to  be crazy. Yet there is something out there, I mean,  I  don't
think  about  dying out there, for example, you feel too  stupid  being  out
there  to be able to think. I've taken a notebook, thought, well, I'll write
a  few  things between races. Impossible. The air is flat and heavy, we  are
all  voluntary members of a concentration camp. When I get home, then I  can
muse about dying. Just a little. Not too much. I don't worry about dying  or
feel sorry about dying. It just seems like a lousy job. When? Next Wednesday
night? Or when I'm asleep? Or because of the next horrible hangover? Traffic
accident?  It's a load, it's something that's got to be done. And I'm  going
out  without  the God-belief. That'll be good, I can face it head  on.  It's
something you have to do like putting your shoes on in the morning. I  think
I'm  going  to  miss writing. Writing is better than drinking.  And  writing
while  you're drinking, that's always made the walls dance. Maybe there's  a
hell, what? All the poets will be there reading their works and I will  have
to listen. I will be drowned in their peening vanity, their overflowing self-
esteem. If there is a hell, that will be my hell: poet after poet reading on
and on...
      Anyway, a particularly bad day. This system that usually worked didn't
work.  The gods shuffle the deck. Time is mutilated and you are a fool.  But
time  is  made  to be wasted. What are you going to do about it?  You  can't
always  be roaring full steam. You stop and you go. You hit a high and  then
you  fall  into a black pit. do you have a cat? Or cats? They  sleep,  baby.
They can sleep 2% hours a day and they look beautiful They know that there's
nothing to get excited about. The next meal. And a little something to  kill
now  and then. When I'm being torn by the forces, I just look at one or more
of my cats. There are 9 of them. I just look at one of them sleeping or half-
sleeping  and I relax. Writing is also my cat. Writing lets me face  it.  It
chills  me out. For a while anyhow. Then my wires get crossed and I have  to
do it all over again. I can't understand writers who decide to stop writing.
How do they chill out?
     Well, the track was dull and deathly out there today but here I am back
home and I'll be there tomorrow, most probably. How do I manage it?
      Some  of it is the power of routine, a power that holds most of us.  A
place to go, a thing to do. We are trained from th beginning. Move out,  get
into  it.  Maybe there's something interesting out there? What  an  ignorant
dream. It's like when I used to pick up women in bars. I'd think, maybe this
is  the one. Another routine. Yet, even during the sex act, I'd think,  this
is another routine. I'm doing what I'm supposed to do. I felt ridiculous but
I  went ahead anyhow. What else could I do? Well, I should have crawled  off
and said, "Look, baby, we are being very foolish here. We are just tools  of
nature."
     "What do you mean?"
      "I  mean,  baby, you ever watched two flies fucking or something  like
that?"
     "YOU'RE CRAZY! I'M GETTING OUT OF HERE!"
     We can't examine ourselves too closely or we'll stop living, stop doing
everything. Like the wise men who just sit on a rock and don't move. I don't
know  if that's so wise either. They discard the obvious but something makes
them  discard it. In a sense, they are one-fly-fucking. There's  no  escape,
action or inaction. We just have to write ourselves off as a loss: any  move
on the on the board leads to checkmate.
     So, it was a bad day at the track today, I got a bad taste in the mouth
of my soul. But I'll go tomorrow. I'm afraid not to. Because when I get back
the  words  crawling across this computer screen really fascinate  my  weary
ass.  I leave it so that I can come back to it. Of course, of course. That's
it. Isn't it?

     6/26/92 12:34 AM
     I have probably written more and better in the past 2 years than at any
time  in  my life. It's as if from over 5 decades of doing it, I might  have
gotten  close to really doing it. Yet, in the past 2 months I have begun  to
feel  a  weariness. The weariness is mostly physical, yet it's also a  touch
spiritual.  It could be that I am ready to go into decline. It's a  horrible
thought, of course, The ideal was to continue until the moment of my  death,
not  to  fade  away. In 1989 I overcame TB. This year it  has  been  an  eye
operation  that has not as yet worked out. And a painful right  let,  ankle,
foot.  Small things. Bits of skin cancer. Death nipping at my heels, letting
me  know.  I'm  and old fart, that's all. Well, I couldn't drink  myself  to
death. I came close but I didn't. Now I deserve to live with what is left.
      So, I haven't written for 3 nights. Should I go mad? Even at my lowest
times I can feel the words bubbling inside of me, getting ready. I am not in
a contest. I never wanted it, that's all. And I had to get the word down the
way  I wanted it, that's all. And I had to get the words down or be overcome
by something worse than death. Words not as precious things but as necessary
things.
      Yet  when  I begin to doubt my ability to work the word I simply  read
another  writer  and  then I know that I have nothing  to  worry  about.  My
contest  is  only  with myself: to do it right, with  power  and  force  and
delight and gamble. Otherwise, forget it.
      I have been wise enough to remain isolated. Visitors to this house are
rare.  My  9  cats run like mad when a human arrives. And my wife,  too,  is
getting to be more and more like me. I don't want this for her. It's natural
for  me. But for Linda, no. I'm glad when she takes the car and goes off  to
some gathering. After all, I have my go-damned racetrack. I can always write
about  the  racetrack,  that great empty hole of  nowhere.  I  go  there  to
sacrifice myself, to mutilate the hours, to murder them. The hours  must  be
killed.  While you are waiting. The perfect hours must be killed. While  you
are  waiting. The perfect hours are the ones at this machine. But  you  must
have  impefect hours to get perfect hours. You must kill ten hours  to  make
two  hours  live. What you must be careful of is not to kill ALL the  hours,
ALL the years.
      You  fix  yourself  up to be a writer by doing the instinctive  things
which  feed you and the word, which protect you against death in  life.  For
each, it changes. Once for me it meant very heavy drinking, drinking to  the
point of madness. It sharpened the word for me, brought it out. And I needed
danger.  I  needed to put myself into dangerous situations. With  men.  With
women.  With automobiles. With gambling. With starvation. With anything.  It
fed the word. I had decades of that. Now it has changed. What I need now  is
more  subtle, more invisible. It's a feeling in the air. Words spoken, words
heard. Things seen. I still need a few drinks. But I am now into nuances and
shadows. I am fed words by things that I am hardly aware of. This is good. I
write a different kind of crap now. Some have noticed.
     "You have broken through," is mainly what they tell me.
      I  am  aware of what they sense. I feel it too. The words have  gotten
simpler  yet  warmer,  darker. I am being fed from new sources.  Being  near
death  is  energizing. I have all the advantages. I can see and feel  things
that  are hidden from the young. I have gone from the power of youth to  the
power of age. There will be no decline. Uh uh. Now, pardon me, I must got to
be, it's 12:55 a.m. Talking the night off. Have your laugh while you can...

     8/24/92 12:28 AM
      Well, I've been 72 years old for 8 days and nights now and I'll  never
be able to say that again.
      It's  been  a bad couple of months. Weary. Physically and spiritually.
Death  means nothing. It's walking around with your ass dragging, it's  when
the words don't come flying form the machine, there's the gyp.
      Now  in  my  lower  lip  and under the lower lip,  there  is  a  large
puffiness.  And  I have no energy. I didn't go to the track  today.  I  just
stayed in bed. Tired, tired. The Sunday crowds at the track are the worst. I
have  problems with the human face. I find it very difficult to look  at.  I
find  the sum total of each person's life written there and it is a horrible
sight. When one sees thousands of faces in one day, it's tiring from the top
of  the  head to the toes. And all through the gut. Sundays are so  crowded.
It's  amateur day. They scream and curse. They rage. Then they go  limp  and
leave, broke. What did they expect?
      I  had  a  cataract operation on my right eye a few  months  ago.  The
operation  was  not nearly as simple as the misinformation I  gathered  from
people  who  claimed to have had eye operations. I heard my wife talking  to
ther  mother  on the telephone: "You say it was over in a few  minutes?  And
that  you drove your car home afterwards?" Another old guy told me, "Oh it's
nothing,  it's  over  in  a flash and you just go  about  your  business  as
normal."  Others spoke about the operation in an off-hand manner. It  was  a
walk  in the park. Now, I didn't ask for any of these people for information
about  the operation, they just came out with it. And after a while, I began
to  believe it. Although I still wonder how a thing as delicate as  the  eye
could  be treated more or less like cutting a toenail. On my first visit  to
the doctor, he examined the eye and said that I needed an operation. "O.k.,"
I  said,  "let's do it." "What?" he asked. "Let's do it now. Let's rock  and
roll!"  "Wait," he said, "first we must make an appointment with a hospital.
Then  there are other preparations. First, we want to show you a movie about
the  operation. It's only about 15 minutes long." "The operation?" "No,  the
movies." What happens is that they take out the complete lens of the eye and
replace it with an artifical lens. The lens is stitched in and the eye  must
adjust  and recover. After about 3 weeks the stitches are removed.  It's  no
walk  in  the  park and the operation takes much longer than  "a  couple  of
minutes."  Anyhow,  after  it was all over, my wife's  mother  said  it  was
probably  an  after-operational procedure she was thinking of. And  the  old
guy?  I asked him, "How long did it take for your sight to really get better
after  your eye operation?" "I'm not so sure I had an operation,"  he  said.
Maybe  I got this fat lip from drinking from the cat's water bowl? I feel  a
little  better  tonight. Six days a week at the racetrack can  burn  anybody
out.  Try is some time. Then come in and work on your novel. Or maybe  death
is  giving  me  some  signs? The other day I was thinking  about  the  world
without  me.  There is the world going on doing what it does.  And  I'm  not
there.  Very  odd. Think of the garbage truck coming by and picking  up  the
garbage  and I'm not there. Or the newspaper sits in the drive and  I'm  not
there  to  pick it up. Impossible. And worse, some time after I'm dead,  I'm
going  to  be truly discovered. All those who were afraid of me or hated  me
when  I  was  alive will suddenly embrace me. My words will  be  everywhere.
Clubs  and societies will be formed. It will be sickening. A movie  will  be
made of my life. I will be made a much more courageous and talented man tahn
I  am.  Much  more. It will be enough to make the gods puke. The human  race
exaggerates  everything:  its  heroes,  its  enemies,  its  importance.  The
fuckers. There, I feel better. God-damned human race. There, I feel  better.
The  night is cooling off. Maybe I'll pay the gas bill. I remember in  south
central  L.A. they shot a lady named Love for not paying her gas  bill.  The
co.  wanted  to  shut it off. Forget what with. Maybe a shovel.  Cops  came.
Don't  remember how it worked. Think she reached for something in her apron.
They  shot  and killed her. All right, all right, I'll pay the gas  bill.  I
worry  about my novel. It's about a detective. But I keep getting  him  into
these  almost  impossible situations and then I have  to  work  him  out.  I
sometimes think about how to get him out while I'm at the racetrack.  And  I
know  that  my editor- publisher is curious. Maybe he thinks the work  isn't
literary. I say that anything I do is literary even if I try not to make  it
literary.  He  should  trust me by now. Well, if he doesn't  want  it,  I'll
unload  it  elsewhere. It will sell as well as anything  I've  written,  not
because  it's better but because it's just as good and my crazy readers  are
ready  for it. Look, maybe a good night's sleep tonight and I'll wake up  in
the  morning  without this fat lip. Can you imagine me  leaning  toward  the
teller with this big lip and saying, "20 win on the 6 horse?" Sure. I  know.
He  wouldn't  have even noticed. My wife asked me, "Didn't you  always  have
that?"  Jesus  Christ. Do you know that cats sleep 20 hours out  of  24?  No
wonder they look better than I.

     8/28/92 12:40 AM
      There are thousands of traps in life and most of us fall into many  of
them.  The idea though, is to stay out of as many of them as possible. Doing
so helps you remain as alive as you might until you die...
      The  letter arrived from the offices of one of the network  television
stations. It was quite simple, stating that this fellow, let's call him  Joe
Singer, wants to come by. To talk about certain possibilities. On page 1  of
the  letter  were  stuck 2 one hundred dollar bills. On  page  2  there  was
another hundred. I was on the way to the racetrack. I found that the hundred
dollar  bills  peeled off of the pages nicely without damage.  There  was  a
phone number. I decided to call Joe Singer that night after the races.
      Which I did. Joe was casual, easy. The idea, he said, was to create  a
series  for  tv  based on a writer like myself. An old  guy  who  was  still
writing, drinking, playing the horses.
     "Why don't we get together and talk about it?" he asked.
     "You'll have to come here," I said, "at night."
     "O.k.," he said, "when?"
     "Night after next."
     "Fine. You know who I want to get to play you?"
     "Who?"
      He mentioned an actor, let's call him Harry Dane. I always liked Harry
Dane.
     "Great," I said, "and thanks for the 300."
     "We wanted to get your attention."
     "You did."
      Well,  the  night  came  around and there was Joe  Singer.  He  seemed
likeable  enough, intelligent, easy. We drank and talked, about  horses  and
various  things. Not much about the television series. Linda, my  wife,  was
with us.
     "But tell us more about the series," she said.
     "It's all right, Linda," I said, "we're just relaxing..."
      I  felt  Joe Singer had more or less come by to see if I was crazy  or
not.
      "All  right,"  he said reaching into his briefcase,  "here's  a  rough
idea..."
     He handed me 4 or 5 sheets of paper. It was mostly a description of the
main  character and I thought they had gotten me down fairly well.  The  old
writer lived with this young girl just out of college, she did all his dirty
work, lined up his readings and stuff like that.
     "The station wanted this young girl in there, you know," said Joe.
     "Yeah," I said.
     Linda didn't say anything.
     "Well," said Joe, "you look this over again. There are also some ideas,
plot  ideas, each episode will have a diferent slant, you know, but it  will
all be based on your character."
     "Yeah," I said. But I was beginning to get a bit apprehensive.
      We  drank  another  couple of hours. I don't remember  much  abou  the
conversation. Small talk. And the night ended...
      The  next  day after the track I turned to the page about the  episode
ideas.  1. Hank's craving for a lobster dinner is thwarted by animal  rights
activists.  2. Secretary ruins Hank's chances with a poetry groupie.  3.  To
honor  Hemingway, Hank bangs a broad named Millie whose husband,  a  jockey,
wants  to pay Hank to keep banging. There must be a catch. 4. Hank allows  a
young  male  artist to paint his portrait and is painted into a corner  into
revealing his own homosexual experience. 5. A friend of Hank's wants him  to
invest in his latest scheme. An industrial use for recycled vomit. I got Joe
on the phone.
      "Jesus, man, what's about a homosexual experience? I haven't had any."
"Well, we don't have to use that one." "Let's not. Listen, I'll talk to  you
later,  Joe." I hung up. Things were getting strange. I phoned  Harry  Dane,
the actor. He'd been over to the place two or three times. He had this great
weatherbeaten face and he talked straight. He had few affectations. I  liked
him. "Harry," I said, "there's this tv outfit, channel -- they want to do  a
series based on me and they want you to play me. You heard from them?" "No."
"I  thought  I  might get you and this guy together and see  what  happens."
"Channel  what?"  I  told  him  the  channel.  "But  that's  commercial  tv,
censorship,  commercials, laugh tracks." "This guy Joe  Singer  claims  they
have  a  lot of freedom with what they can do." "It's censorship, you  can't
offend  the  advertisers." "What I like most is that he wanted you  for  the
lead.  Why  don't you come to my place and meet him?" "I like your  writing,
Hank,  if  we could get, say, HBO maybe we could do it right." "Well,  yeah.
But  why don't you come over, see what he has to say? I haven't seen you for
a  while." "That's right. Well, I'll come but it will mainly to see you  and
Linda."
      "Fine.  How  about the night after next? I'll set it up."  "O.k.,"  he
said.  I  phoned Joe Singer. "Joe. Night after next, 9 p.m. I've  got  Harry
Dane coming over."
     "O.k., great. We can send a limo for him."
     "Would he be alone in the limo?"
     "Maybe. Or maybe some of our people would be in it."
     "Well, I don't know. Let me call you back..."