Liberation (100 page)

A truly horrendous new threat: a dog has been barking from inside (apparently) the garden of 147 next door! But, if there is going to be a showdown about this, I think I can rely on Elsa's tenants, Dick Shawn
⁷⁷
and his nice-looking son, to be understanding about it.

Speaking of Elsa reminds me that I happened to notice, in my little date book, that the 28th was Elsa's birthday. So I phoned her yesterday afternoon. We had a sad little talk. She is scared of Michael Hall, who has been phoning people out here from New York, uttering hysterical expressions of despair over his friend Bill Mills's death and threatening to come out here and jump into Elsa's bed and “just hold” her. She dreads seeing him [. . .]. And yet she is lonely and terribly bored, and she hardly eats anything on account of what she calls her hernia (the doctors told her that that is what it is, but I can't help suspecting cancer); anyhow, it makes her vomit whenever she eats. I know I ought to go and see her sometimes but I am nearly certain that I shan't. The millionaire feels guilty about the starving poor but doesn't, in practice, visit them.

 

October 30.
After another party at Leslie Wallwork's—not as bad as the previous one because I was interested to meet Jeremy Brett
⁷⁸
again—though rather disappointed both by his present looks and personality—I came home drunk, with Don, and fell down the outside stairs from the carport. I hurt my right arm just above the elbow, and my knee slightly, and I feel lousy. And Don is cross with old Drub for his clumsiness. And The Downer will be with us this evening. Didn't do my isometrics today because of my arm.

Gavin has heard that Peggy Hubrecht died, the very day after she talked to him on the phone.

 

October 31.
Thanks to The Downer's presence, another gloomy evening, which I cut short rather than have supper with him and Don. And this morning I wake up with strange new symptoms; the muscles of my throat are so tender they feel as if someone had tried to strangle me, and the muscles at the back of my neck hurt so much that I can hardly raise my head from a pillow if I lie down.

A letter from Heinz, saying yes, please send him the German translation of
Christopher and His Kind
. Heinz has now retired on a pension. After remarking how many of our friends are dead, he goes on: “We'll see how much longer
we'll
be tolerated on the earth.”

Two parties to go to this evening, but at least I'll have Pussn all to myself on the way there and back.

No isometrics, because of all these muscle pains.

Had to look something up in the life of Aldous Huxley today. I don't know why it is—both such wonderful people—but for me they both simply reek of pessimism, doubt and death. Is it their Frenchness?
⁷⁹

 

November 1.
Pains annoying—no worse than that—in neck and back of head. Last night we had a quite nice short visit to Vaccaro, with a highly theatrical performance by Roscoe Lee Brown[e],
⁸⁰
including a recitation of an e.e. cummings poem. Then a Halloween reading by dim light at the Rosamund Felsen Gallery by a gracious-voiced monotonous female amateur. It was about a séance; I thought it must be an inferior Poe, but could not find it in his works. Don thinks it might have been by Borges, who is much admired in the Felsen circle. . . . Well, I got to eat supper with my darling at Casa Mia later.

This afternoon I mailed off the German translation of
Christopher and His Kind
to Heinz. No isometrics.

 

November 2.
I seem to do nothing but complain about parties. Very well, I complain. Last night it was William Burroughs, at the Tropicana. I like old Burroughs, he's a friendly man, not in the least demonic, or sex maniacal in a tiresome way. One could become very fond of him, I expect. But last night two spidery photographer girls skipped about taking pictures of us—for a collection called
Bad Boys
! Meanwhile poor [K]athy Tynan told me that Ken is very seriously sick, and their children want to be educated in England, where Ken's health won't allow him to live, and she doesn't know what to do.

Pains much less bad today, despite the kind of windy weather which excites them. So I did my isometrics.

 

November 3.
Yesterday, Armistead Maupin and Ken Maley came to see us, and while Don was drawing Armistead I had to entertain Ken. He is a nice boy but a compulsive talker and very proud indeed of being the man who runs Armistead's life for him. I must say, however, that I feel this is a real justification for someone's existence. Because Armistead, on second acquaintance, impresses me greatly. He seems to be absorbing impressions constantly, which means that he is tremendously “responsive” in Kathleen's use of the word, and kind of mediumistic in the way he has psychic feelers out, testing the atmosphere.

Today we had William Burroughs over to be drawn again (brilliantly) by Don. Was not charmed when the gate buzzer buzzed and I opened to admit
five
people—Burroughs and his friend James Grauerholz,
⁸¹
Victor Bo[c]kris the skinny little English journalist,
⁸²
a photographer he'd brought with him, and Paul Getty. Does Burroughs always go around in mobs?

We had, however, known that Paul Getty was coming; Grauerholz had asked if he might bring him. Indeed Don and I had had a joke. Don wanted me to ask him about his kidnapping. “Say to him, if you'll tell me about it, I'll lend an ear.”
⁸³
Paul proved to be not only fairly pretty, though spotty and looking much older than twenty-two (his claimed age), but also really charming and genuinely interested in our collection of pictures. A mop of curly reddish hair concealed his ear-lack. He emitted almost, but not definitely, flirtatious vibes which reminded me somewhat of Mark Lipscomb. He asked about the Vedanta Society and asked, “Do they need money?” as though he had a few millions to spare, though we had supposed him penniless. I said, “Doesn't everybody?”

Which reminds me that Anandaprana called to nag me about recording the Gita. Would I be able to do it before I left for New York? “If God wills,” I bitchily replied. I bet she could have slapped me.

Title ideas Don and I have had for my Swami book.
Guru and Disciple
.
A Guru and His Disciple. My Guru and His Disciple. Guru and Friend.
I sort of feel these are on the right lines.

 

November 5.
A day missed, chiefly because I had to go out and see a Canadian from London, Ontario who had read
Ramakrishna and His Disciples
and was only here for a couple of days. Told him to go up and see the Vedanta Center today. He was a quite nice, youngish, skinny man; a bit too intense. His name, John Kennedy.

On the evening of the 3rd, we went with Billy Bengston and Penny to Nick Wilder's first show back of the same building, in the rooms which are to be his new gallery, or shared with Jim Corcoran. Harry Brown and June were there, I can't imagine why. Harry seemed to be relatively prosperous—that is, he had just finished a job and was starting another. From there we went on to the “Change Inc. West” show at the museum—it's somehow in aid of beginner artists—to which Don has contributed a very beautiful painting (of Muff Brackett) which I fear he'll be simply gypped out of. Guy Dill was there, very drunk, and greeted me with maximum enthusiasm, insisting on kissing me and giving me a hug. My identity mistake has mysteriously paid off.

Then we ate with Billy and Penny at that nasty Frog restaurant, St. Michel. They both described the Brooklyn marathon,
⁸⁴
which they took part in. Penny did so well she qualified for the Boston marathon, and Billy finished more leisurely. They gave us a vivid impression of this great folk migration, through all the boroughs of New York, which was really moving and only horrible when one imagined oneself taking part in it.

Yesterday morning, Scobie and Sarver came by, to photograph selected nude drawings of Don's to be shown in
The Advocate
. Don already regrets agreeing to this. Scobie told us that [ Jimmy] Carter has just spoken against the Briggs proposition in public, while supporting Mervyn Dymally. I don't know if a president carries much weight when he is admittedly campaigning for his party, but at least his attitude may be regarded as impressive, being taken by a Baptist. According to Scobie, the latest poll is over sixty percent in our favor.

Last night, driving home, we were hit on the side of the car by two nurses riding to work at a hospital on a tiny motorcycle, or moped. One of them seemed fairly seriously hurt. She lay in the road, her head on the pillow from our car, and was examined by a passing doctor, some paramedics, the police, etc. Things looked dreary, though it really wasn't Darling's fault at all, but no charges were made.

Today poor Angel has a bad throat and fever, and has just drunk a whisky toddy and lain down to take a nap. But, wonder of wonders, the two nurses called a while ago—just as he was about to call
them
—to say that they weren't seriously hurt. They were quite apologetic, not a word of blame. Alas, how unlike most accident encounters!

 

November 6.
Canadian John Kennedy got very bad marks from me today by calling up grandly disillusioned by his visit to Vedanta Place. He had found them, I forget the exact expression he used, but it meant that they were way off the beam, absorbed in details, red tape, business, whatever. He said, more or less in those words, that they wouldn't know Ramakrishna if he walked in the door. So His Holiness takes off for Canada this evening. His verdict on me? I was the only thing worth coming down here for—but this, too, sounded like a put-down.

 

November 8.
Missed another day, because of preparing for a party yesterday evening. Divine and a lot of others, including David Hockney and The Downer, and Gregory Evans, who bids fair to grow into another Downer, now that he's getting old and dull. Well I was charming, but drank a lot and got a bad hangover, and the evening was only saved for me by the fairly crushing defeat of Briggs's Proposition 6. (Today he is declaring that he'll try again next year, because by then a new law imposing equal, undiscriminating employment will put a gay into every business, and so everybody will find out what they're like and will know their true rottenness and loathe them.)

Yesterday afternoon, Dr. Wolff dragged another, bigger rootlet out of the side of my nose and also fixed three trouble spots on Darling.

Nearly had a serious row with Darling because I saw him looking into one of my old (1956–1958) diaries which was open on the desk—it's the period I'm now covering in the Swami book. Don says I spoke to him as if he were “a chambermaid” caught snooping. I carefully explained to him what is the truth, that I was afraid he might find some slighting reference to himself—there are several in all those early diaries—and not be able to forget it. And I reminded him of that travel diary of his, covering our trip to Asia in 1957, which he let me see, having probably forgotten that it contained a most wounding outburst against the misery of our relationship at that time and his longing to be free of it. I have never forgotten how much I minded, when I read it—even though I realized that he had written it in a violent black hysterical mood, and that I was quite capable of writing something similar. . . . I
think
I got him to understand all this. At the time it happened, I had said I didn't want him to read the diaries until after my death. But I amended this, saying that he could read them any time provided he would read right through, not just dip into them and thus take statements out of context.

 

November 9.
Albie Marre called yesterday from New York. He is coming out here around Thanksgiving time. His news is slightly disturbing but maybe all for the best in the long run; Terry Kramer is probably backing out of backing us, but Brisson is ready to take her place and Marre is in favor of this. Still nothing definite about Simon Ward, but nothing disastrous; he just hasn't got his permit yet.

Am still battling to get on with this wearisome book. When I reread bits I have written, they seem good individually, but what will it all add up to? I don't feel I am establishing a real character (whatever that means) for Swami. I fear, when all is finished, he will have slipped out of my net.

 

November 10.
Another party last night. The Downer is in San Francisco so the party was technically “mine” (Leslie Caron, Jeanne Weymers, Jack and Jim, Gavin) and Kitty could say
he
hated it—which he proceeded to do, with a will, and much bitchery, clawing Drub's muzzle. Today, Drub is in the doghouse and will hardly be let out till after the weekend. Rain tonight, and a dinner party given by Michael Laughlin—at
midnight
! This morning, Elsie told me I am in permanent danger of developing pernicious anemia, but it's all right as long as I go on with the vitamin B shots. Hurrah.

 

November 11.
I was wrong, as I so often am about Darling. He came back yesterday afternoon and kissed me sweetly, so we made up, at least seventy-five percent. Then we went to movies followed by a late-night party given by Michael Laughlin and his new woman, they're not married yet, Su[s]ann[a] Sylbert.
⁸⁵
It was a messy crowded affair with a steel band making conversation difficult and a clutter of furniture making eating difficult, it mostly had to be on your lap. Susanna made a bad first impression on both of us, but I suppose she was embarrassed to death. Those tragic and presumably dying women, Lenn[y] Dunne
⁸⁶
and Joan Didion, were around, no doubt feeling as sick as they looked. How can they martyr themselves by going to these get-togethers? Is it really preferable to staying home? Are they so afraid of loneliness?