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] Dunne86 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?
November 13. Missed another day—why? Just because of sloppy idling, but I did at least get a fairly big chunk of the Swami book done—nearly three pages. Today I have another hangover from drinking, but at least I enjoyed the party we went to; supper up at Mark [Lipscomb] and John [Ladner]’s, with several cute boys. Carlos [Sagui] made one of his biggest love scenes with me, mock, but he is so sexy that I am turned on nearly as much as I am bored. Even when he’s fully dressed I am so aware of that incredible body. He made some kind of magical sign on my forehead. I joked about this to Mark as we left, saying he had tried to hex me. Today I got a call from him and Mark, much disturbed and apologetic. I realize that Mark is a fearful mischief-maker. It is such a pity about that, and a pity that Carlos behaves so badly when he comes here, guzzling drinks etc., because we will have to avoid having him and that will mean breaking with Mark and John, whom we both rather love.
Oh, and such a bitterly sad thing happened. Before we went up to have supper, we visited Dan Luckenbill, who lives in an old house near Echo Park, at the top of a flight of steps. Coming back down them, my darling little Hopi turquoise ring, which Don gave me, slipped off my finger which had shrunk in the cold night air, and fell into deep weeds. It was awful. Don gave a cry of despair. He searched and searched but of course couldn’t find it. It was as if I’d lost a little bit of his love—I felt sick.
November 14. Lunch with Gottfried and Silvia Reinhardt, a happy reunion. He has changed, looks like Evelyn Hooker; she hasn’t, except the appearance of film makeup, the leading lady gets older by powdering her hair and drawing in lines on the forehead and around the mouth. She still nags him; he’s still placid. Much talk about the death of old friends, Gottfried said there should be two parties, one for the living and one for the dead, but you should give the one for the dead first; otherwise, a lot of the living will die in between and you’ll have to entertain them twice. This, wouldn’t you know, was a joke Kaper had made.
November 20. I’m not going to comment any more on my diary lapses. What has happened during the gap? Notably
that I started recording the Gita with Mitchell and [Monday] on the 16th.87 The Downer has been around, of course. It was particularly depressing to have him actually cooking spaghetti in the kitchen on the 17th; I had such a vision of his doing this after I’m dead. How silly can you get? Well, Dobbin can get it.
November 22 [Wednesday]. Yesterday, Don told me he is planning a ten-day trip to Yucatan, with The Downer, starting next Monday the 27th. Also, a letter from Heinz arrived, expressing horror and dismay after reading the German translation of Christopher and His Kind. Also, we heard from Harry Rigby, who’s in town, that Equity has approved Simon Ward’s application to be allowed to act in our play. And Marre is arriving tomorrow. I talked to him on the phone this morning. He wants more rewrites. It’s been pouring down rain and I’m getting increasingly worried about the cracks in our ramp to the carport. No more for now.
November 26. The ominous feel of predeparture, sadness, tenderness. This’ll be the first time Don went off by himself in more than four years, and why the hell shouldn’t he? Am indulging in some interesting physical symptoms; I begin to feel a certain weakness in my right knee, the first twinges in many months. Also, today, I peed blood twice. But I won’t say anything about this to Don unless it gets really bad before he leaves.
We have seen Marre and he is being tiresome about script changes. But I’ll write more about this when it develops. Also other details. Cheer up old horse.
November 28. Darling went off yesterday—it seems like ages, already—after shedding tears and being so loving and cuddly. I didn’t have to wish The Downer a pleasant trip, he came to the airport under his own steam. Last night Kitty called from Merida to say they were safely arrived, and that it was very hot, even at night.
I feel very very alone, but without the least wish to go anywhere or see anyone. I feel old and, oddly enough, a bit nervous by myself—another dream about a fire, and I jumped several times at strange sounds and was even worried because some men were talking somewhere up at the top of the ramp and seemed vaguely menacing.
Today has been lovely and I jogged a little on San Vicente, refusing to pay any attention to a few twinges. No more blood peeing.
Marre was to have come and discussed the play with me this afternoon, but he has called off because he suddenly has to go to Chicago (I think) because of some opera (for [his wife] Joan, I suppose). This will have the good effect of making him work on the play himself, during the long plane rides. So he’ll probably come back with much more definite suggestions.
7:55 p.m. I suddenly heard a little cry, exactly like the greeting cry Kitty so often utters when he returns home. I’m just getting ready to watch Gordon Hoban’s episode (I mean he wrote it) of “The Paper Chase” on T.V. (Later. It wasn’t bad—much better than the others.)
November 29. Worried. Nothing from Don all yesterday, although he’d said he’d call. And now this evening I heard on the car radio that there have been six earthquakes in central and south Mexico—one of them at least had a Richter scale reading of 7.5 approximately. Of course I realize that the telephone lines will be tied up for hours and hours, maybe days.
November 30. Paul Savant, who worked on the Larson-Bridges house and came around today to arrange about painting the outside of ours, is not only sexy but nice, I think. I was worried all morning about Don, and more worried when I heard on the car radio that there has been another earthquake in Mexico. Then, at sunset here, Darling called—they have moved to Cancún, in Quintana Roo—and when I asked him about the earthquakes he didn’t even know there had been any!
Crawling along on the Swami book. Half a page written with maximum effort.
December 1. I miss Darling more and more wretchedly, yet I’m not exactly unhappy and not at all lonely; I am full of my thoughts. Work went slowly and with great difficulty but will soon pick up, I think. Paul Savant and Gregg Gerren—a really beautiful big blond—and a cute small unidentified boy whom I wasn’t introduced to began preparing to paint the outside of the house with an off-white paint called Navajo White. But rain at midday made them call it off. They left. The rain stopped.
Around five, Albie and Joan Marre arrived. Joan, exhausted with an utterness of which only actresses are capable, because she’d seen a very bad opera with the book by Christopher Fry about Paradise Lost, retired to the bedroom and slept on top of the basket, with the comforter over her. Albie gave me a lot of vague notes—it is a terrible disadvantage, not having Don here.
Then they left and I am about to eat my fifth solo supper, voluntarily, almost aggressively—I could have eaten out with someone every single night if I’d wanted, but that would have meant drinking and I’ll be fucked if I’ll be forced into drinking if I say I won’t. Don’t know how long I shall keep this up. The only people I even consider seeing are Gavin and Jim Gates. I will not go to any party—I do loathe them so.
I am at my best with total strangers—with Paul Savant today and an English girl who called me from London. She was so breathless with joy that she was actually talking to me that she kept weeping, or maybe just gasping. And Paul said I was “super interesting.” And I am, too. I play back all the stuff I’ve got from Heard, Huxley, Stravinsky, Auden, everyone, and, oh, with such charm. I feel I am being of some use, even. The Old Man reassuring them all that Life doesn’t always end in despair, terror, yearning for lost youth. What they don’t know is, why I can do this. It’s all because Kitty exists. Merci.
December 4. After six solo suppers, I had supper last night at Casa Mia with Jim Gates and his new lover Kenny Howards, rather a pretentious queen. So Dub drank, much wine. And will drink again tonight, supping with Gavin. The dinner last night was a reward for Jim’s helping me by typing up the notes, many of them highly obscure, which I had taken at my last session with Marre.
The trio of painters is madly sexy. Big blond beautiful Gregg, with nearly perfect legs in becomingly short shorts. Obviously he’s aware of them or he wouldn’t wear the shorts in this freezing weather. The small cute boy is named Tim Powers. He boldly climbs the high ladder, while Gregg, who suffers from vertigo, holds it for him, pushing it dangerously along the wall of the house, amidst wild laughter. They are such truly sweet boys and I like Paul greatly and am even beginning to like Dori his girlfriend, though she seems a bit sulky sometimes.
A.L. Rowse, on the Dick Cavett program a few nights ago, announced that Tennessee Williams is almost certainly a descendant of Emilia Bassano Lanier, his candidate for The Dark Lady of the Sonnets!88
December 6. Two grim firsts—today and also yesterday (I believe) I weighed 158 on the bathroom scale. And today snow fell, little pellets of it from a long long cloud, on Palos Verdes.
Lunch with Paul Sorel, who is now in clear sight of the end of his money, after a long extravagant trip to Europe. Again I urged him to consult Mirandi Levy, who is so sensible, about what to do with his remaining assets. I doubt if he will, though. It seems that he’s embarrassed to let her know how crazy he has been in his squandering. Yet, to me, he was still half boasting of his craziness.
It is hideously cold. Today, Paul and Dori worked away on their own; it seems that Gregg and Tim are only up to scraping old paint off, not painting itself. Paul has severe standards.
The audition for the part of Tom in our play has been postponed till the day after tomorrow. So, all being well, Kitty will be able to hear Rick Sandford and Keith McDermott89 read. He and The Downer are now in Mexico City and scheduled to arrive that morning around noon. My Angel Fur, how delicious to snuggle up to him in this weather!
December 14. Angel got home on the 8th, feeling sick. He slept all afternoon. He hadn’t slept at all in Mexico City. But the trip had been a success and he and The Downer had gotten along very well indeed, better than he’d expected they would. I have to admit that this disappointed me, but that’s just dumb human nature. What is more serious is that The Downer is now off to San Francisco to try for a part in Divine’s play which is opening up there soon.90 So Kitty wi
ll feel lonely for him and I shall be made to regret this. Meanwhile, Angel’s Mexican bug is manifesting itself in shits. This has had the good effect of getting Elsie Giorgi to become his doctor as well as mine.
Otherwise, things are going well. Suddenly we’re to start rehearsing in New York fairly early in January. Now we’re doing rewrites on the script. This has held up my Swami book. Its latest title, My Guru and His Disciple, has been told to Michael di Capua, who likes it.
The whole of the outside of the house is painted, as of yesterday.
Bad. I got a ticket yesterday for shooting a red light. If I could have lasted without one until January 21, it would have been seven years.
December 18. Yesterday—triumph—we finished yet another draft of our play and gave it to Harry Rigby to take with him back to New York on the red-eye flight last night. There will be much fussing around with it still, but they can hardly waste more time altering the structure, as they now have to start casting and rehearsals within two-three weeks. We are supposed to join them in early January.
Maybe Don will go ahead of me, so I can really get down to finishing my book. I can’t literally finish it. But I could just possibly get through to the end of my visit to India with Swami.