The Cambridge Chronicles

For the last hour, here at my location in Cambridge, Massachusetts, there's been the almost continuous sound of circling helicopters just to the south. There are frequent sirens. Otherwise the neighborhood is very quiet. None of the usual bus traffic noises. Now the sound of a vehicle horn in the distance. My dog Jasper has noticed my distress and has refused to eat his usual breakfast treat and is lying at my feet. Why does that horn continue to sound?

Update, 1:33pm: the sound of sirens and helicopters has stopped. Then, for a brief moment, far away, for a few seconds, one siren. Then silence again.

Update, 1:36pm: sirens again, but closer. Very loud horn. Stopped.

Update, 1:45pm: completely silent. No sirens. No helicopters. Jasper still hasn't eaten his breakfast treat, still at my feet.

Update, 2:28: now quiet for almost an hour.

Update, 2:48: still quiet. A day care center a couple houses away now has children outside and playing. Maybe that means its over. Don't know for sure, but no kids outside till just a few minutes ago.

Update, 2:59: helicopters have returned...

Scene from the neighborhood: http://media.talkingpointsmemo.com/slideshow/boston-marathon-bombing-suspect-manhunt/1-302480?ref=fpblg

3:14: helicopters continue circling..., sounds of children outside stopped.

Today is the 20th anniversary of the Waco, Texas, siege, where about 80 members of the Branch Davidians died in a shootout with government forces.

3:22pm: helicopters, now overhead, and sirens again. Jasper and I leave for our daily walk around Fresh Pond Reservation, here in a very noisy Cambridge, Massachusetts.

The usual photos and videos on our return...

In a dream last night I'm, once again, back in Cody, Wyoming, and, this time, high school. A senior attending some sort of class event. Inexplicably the class right behind us is holding the same senior year event. Go figure. Its a dream. Sometimes they are just dreams and make no sense. The event appears to be something like a combination of arts festival, dance/music event, game show, opportunity for vendors to sell food/goods. I wander back and forth between the senior and junior events. People look familiar. It has been said that all of life is just a continuation of how things were in high school. This dream feels as though I'll never get out.

All part of my current state of gloom and doom and still looking for a new place for me and Jasper to live.

Take a look at my Fresh Pond Reservation Calendars page.

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 at 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 ours go away, but 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.

Did you know that The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition, has been published on Amazon? Buy the whole thing for 99 cents and read it on a kindle (or kindle software for your Mac or PC), here:

A Memoir About Art & Sex During The Reagan Years (The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition)

Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #959,201 (April 8, 2013)

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 hypocricy 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 Budha 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.

Did you know that The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition, has been published on Amazon? Buy the whole thing for 99 cents and read it on a kindle (or kindle software for your Mac or PC), here:

A Memoir About Art & Sex During The Reagan Years (The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition)

Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #958,397 (April 7, 2013)

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 too 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.

Did you know that The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition, has been published on Amazon? Buy the whole thing for 99 cents and read it on a kindle (or kindle software for your Mac or PC), here:

A Memoir About Art & Sex During The Reagan Years (The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition)

Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #956,876 (April 6, 2013)

This is last nights dream. I'm back in Cody, Wyoming, having never left for the East and the big city of Cambridge, Massachusetts. There's a big social gathering. We are all dressed western, cowboy hats, even me! My brothers are there and a couple of cousins, all male. We appear to be presenting ourselves to a couple hundred people. Eligible females are in a group and eyeing us. I'm referred to as the smart one. Somebody wants to argue global warming with me. I remind him of his grandfather and decades of notes about temperatures and weather and how they are in his own unique handwriting--which he knows well, and that the data is, thanks to me and his grandfather, on the internet. Argue with your grandfather, I tell him. More eyeings by the ladies and attempted matchups. There's a hint of someone interested in me. The others are more obvious. Then the phone rings in the next room. I am back from that alternative future.

Perhaps this comes from my current distress. Still no new place for me and Jasper to live. Watching a PBS/Nova special about the latest ideas in physics I am in despair about ever understanding it. Of course part of the despair is the lack of a resolution to my current predicament. Its one of those things that could be solved with money.

The PBS/Nova special about the latest in physics: The Fabric of the Cosmos: What Is Space?

Also watched Earth From Space This two hour special presents the results of decades of satellites looking down on the Earth and recording changes in the surface--and under the surface!

And still more watched: Ancient Computer: Antikythera Mechanism

So, dear reader, you are invited to visit my Amazon page and buy a copy of my book.

Did you know that The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition, has been published on Amazon? Buy the whole thing for 99 cents and read it on a kindle (or kindle software for your Mac or PC), here:

A Memoir About Art & Sex During The Reagan Years (The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition)

Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #956,954 (April 6, 2013)

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 wasnonsense 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 inspired 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.

Did you know that The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition, has been published on Amazon? Buy the whole thing for 99 cents and read it on a kindle (or kindle software for your Mac or PC), here:

A Memoir About Art & Sex During The Reagan Years (The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition)

Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #954,400 (April 5, 2013)

Suzanne called a little after two this morning. Someone was trying to break down her door and kill her. An ex-convict, 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 chronicling 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 nervous 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 whimpering 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 no 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?

Did you know that The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition, has been published on Amazon? Buy the whole thing for 99 cents and read it on a kindle (or kindle software for your Mac or PC), here:

A Memoir About Art & Sex During The Reagan Years (The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition)

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.

Did you know that The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition, has been published on Amazon? Buy the whole thing for 99 cents and read it on a kindle (or kindle software for your Mac or PC), here:

A Memoir About Art & Sex During The Reagan Years (The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition)

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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 battery 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 insight and lack of ability to express it. As though I'm tied and gagged 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.

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A Memoir About Art & Sex During The Reagan Years (The Cambridge Chronicles, 1981 Edition)

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.

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 then 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 motor scooter 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 birth control 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.