I'd rather think about death than about writers. Far more pleasant.

I'm going to turn this radio off. The composers also sometimes screw it up. If I had to talk to somebody I think I'd much prefer a computer repairman or a mortician. With or without drinking. Preferably with.

10/2/91 11:03 PM

Death comes to those who wait and to those who don't. Burning day today, burning dumb day. Came out of the post office and my car wouldn't kick over. Well, I am a decent citizen. I belong to the Auto Club. So, I needed a telephone. Forty years ago telephones were everywhere. Telephones and clocks. You could always look somewhere and see what time it was. No more. No more free time. And public telephones are vanishing.

I went by instinct. I went into the post office, took a stairway down and there in a dark corner, all alone and unannounced was a telephone. A sticky dirty dark telephone. There was not another within two miles. I knew how to work a telephone. Maybe. Information. The operator's voice came through and I felt saved. It was a calm and boring voice and asked what city I wanted. I named the city and the Auto Club. (You have to know how to do all the little things and you have to do them over and over again or you are dead. Dead in the streets. Unattended, unwanted.) The lady gave me a number but it was a wrong number. For the business office. Then I got he garage. A macho voice, cool, weary yet combative. Wonderful I gave him the info. „30 minutes,“ he said.

I went back to the car, opened a letter. It was a poem. Christ. It was about me. And him. We had met, it seemed, twice, about 15 years ago. He had also published me in his magazine. I was a great poet, he said, but I drank. And had lived a miserable down-and-out life. Now yong poets were drinking and living miserable and down-and-out because they thought that was the way to make it. Also, I had attacked other people in my poems, including him. And I had imagined that he had written unflattering poems about me. Not true. He was really a nice person, he said he had published many other poets in his magazine for 15 years. And I was not a nice person. I was a great writer but not a nice person. And he never would have ever „paled“ around with me. That's what he wrote: „paled.“ And he kept spelling „you're“ as „your.“ He wasn't a good speller.

It was hot in the car. It was 100 degrees, the hottest Oct. first since 1906.

I wasn't going to respond to his letter. He would write again.

Another letter from an agent, enclosing the work of a writer. I glanced. Bad stuff. Of course. „If you have any suggestions on his writing or any publishing leads, we would much appreciate..“ Another letter from a lady thanking me for sending her husband a few lines and a drawing at ther suggestion, that it made him very happy. But now they were divorced and she was frelancing it and could she come by and interview me?

Twice a week I get requests for interviews. There's just not that much to talk about. There are plenty of things to write about but not to talk about.

I remember once, in the old days, some German journalist was interviewing me. I had poured wine into him and had talked for 4 hours. After that, he had leaned forward drunkenly and said, „I am no interviewer. I just wanted an excuse to see you..“ I tossed the mail to the side and sat waiting. Then I saw the tow truck. A young smiling fellow. Nice boy. Sure.

„HEY BABY!“ I yelled, „OVER HERE!“ He backed it around and I got out and told him the problem.

„Tow me into the Acura garage,“ I told him.

„Your warranty still good on that car?“ he asked.

He knew damn well it wasn't. It was 1991 and I was driving a 1989.

„Doesn't matter,“ I said, „tow me to the Acura dealer.“ „Take them a long time to fix it, maybe a week.“ „Hell no, they are very fast.“ „Listen,“ said the boy, „we have our own garage. We can take it down there, maybe fix it today. If not, we'll write you up and give you a call at first opportunity.“ Right there I visualized my car at their garage for a week. To be told that I needed a new camshaft. Or my cylinder heads ground.

„Tow me to Acura,“ I said.

„Wait,“ said the boy, „I gotta call my boss first.“ I waited. He came back.

„He said to jump start you.“ „What?“ „Jump start.“ „All right, let's do it.“ I got in my car let it roll to the back of his truck. He got out the snakes and it started right up. I signed the papers and he drove off and I drove off…

Then I decided to drop the car off at the corner garage. „We know you. You been coming here for years,“ said the manager.

„Good,“ I said, then smiled, „so don't screw me.“ He just looked at me.

„Give us 45 minutes.“ „All right.“ „You need a ride?“ „Sure.“ He pointed. „He'll take you.“ Nice boy standing there. We walked to his car. I gave him the directions. We drove up the hill.

 „You still making movies?“ he asked me.

I was a celebrity, you see.

„No,“ I said, „fuck Hollywood.“ He didn't understand that.

„Stop here,“ I said.

„Oh, that's a big house.“ „I just work there,“ I said.

It was true.

I got out. Gave him 2 dollars. He prostested but took them.

I walked up the driveway. The cats were sprawled about, pooped. In my next life I want to be a cat. To sleep 20 hours a day and wait to be fed. To sit around licking my ass. Humans are too miserable and angry and single-minded.

I walked up and sat at the computer. It's my new consoler. My writing has doubled in power and output since I have gotten it. It's a magic thing. I sit in front of it like most people sit in front of their tv sets.

„It's only a glorified typewriter,“ my son-in-law told me once.

But he isn't a writer. He doesn't know what it is when words bite into space, flash into light, when the thoughts that come into the head can be followed at once by words, which encourages more thoughts and more words to follow. With a typewriter it's like walking through mud. With a computer, it's ice skating. It's a blazing blast. Of course, if there's nothing inside you, it doesn't matter. And then there's the clean-up work, the corrections. Hell, I used to have to write everyhing twice. The first time to get it down and the second time to correct the errors and fuckups. This way, it's one run for the fun, the glory and the escape.

I wonder what the next step will be after the computer? You'll probably just press your fingers to your temples and out will come this mass of perfect wordage. Of course, you'll have to fill up before you start but there will always be some lucky ones who can do that. Let's hope.

The phone rang.

„It's the battery,“ he said, „you needed a new battery.“ „Suppose I can't pay?“ „Then we'll hold your spare tire.“ „Be down soon.“ And as soon as I started down the hill I heard my elderly neighbor. He was yelling at me. I climbed his steps. He was dressed in his pajama pants and and old gray sweatshirt. I walked up and shook his hand. „Who are you?“ he asked.

„I'm your neighbor. Been there for ten years.“ „I'm 96,“ he said.

„I know it, Charley.“ „God won't take me because He's afraid I'll take his job.“ „You could.“ „Could take the Devil's job too.“ „You could.“ „How old are you?“ „71.“ „71?“ „Yes.“ „That's old too.“ „Oh, I know it, Charley.“ We shook hands and I went back down his steps and then down the hill, passing the tired plants, the tired houses.

I was on my way to the gas station.

Just another day kicked in the ass.