Then I meet Don and we move into the Mesa house and the Sycamore house. And finally into this house. And then this house itself can be described. How far we go on from that point is anybody’s guess.
Well, as usual, I come to the same old conclusion: I shall only find answers by starting a more or less slapdash rough draft of the book.
July 28. I tried to make a start on the book but suddenly lost confidence. Isn’t this approach via the various houses I’ve lived in a bit too formalistic? And yet, even as I write this, I do see that it’s at least a method of starting, and that’s worth a lot. It’s unlikely that I’ll get any deeper insights until I pressure myself by writing something.
A mad letter from Caskey, full of aggression. Maybe he’s mad at me because I haven’t answered his letters. He demands the pre-Columbian figure back; I’d always regarded this [as] part of my share in the division of property when we parted.99 He also wants some Greek photographs of his back and so far I can’t find them. He also makes threats about a book he says he’s writing. If I don’t show myself “sympathetic” to his book, he will show me up as a freak. He also claims to have amazed John Lehmann by telling him how sexually “naive” I was when Billy met me. This disturbs me just a little bit because it is so obviously a version of the truth twisted to suit Billy, and now he believes it.
July 29. Am depressed, not exactly about Caskey but in general. It’s so sad about Tony Sarver having cancer and (almost certainly) requiring [a] colostomy[.] It was also sad seeing Anita Loos so much older and deafer, at lunch with her niece Mary, the day before yesterday. However I think the climate of my depression was created by too much drinking, especially wine drinking which is so lowering and acid.
Now I’m waiting for some German journalist to arrive, Adalbert Reif (or Adelbert; I see from the German dictionary that it can be either).
They left a couple of hours ago and I’ve forgotten already if it was Adal or Adel.100 Anyhow, their visit was quite enjoyable because they have an adorable blond baby which slept fatly, and quite worthwhile because they want to do something about publishing more of my books in German.
Have just finished reading Stephen’s play The Corporal, a revised and much (too much) expanded version of his Trial of a Judge.101 I can see that parts of it would play, but the tragedy seems weary and empty and formalistic—I mean, the characters are idea mouthpieces first and characters second, or not at all. However, I find plays extraordinarily hard to judge. I must try reading it again.
August 7. The Corporal is better on second reading, but it will have to be cut drastically. Otherwise I’ve accomplished nothing but a few letters answered. I know I should make some kind of a start with my new book, but I drift, excusing myself that I can’t think of a proper opening. Well, at least let’s try. For instance—
How would it be to open with a diary passage? Not faked (well, not very much faked) about the happenings of this particular day, now, in August 1979? The passage would begin factually, with details of some happening, and then reveal that I have this underlying feeling of guilty compulsion to get my book of memories started. . . . No, no, that’s nothing. Or rather, it’s that cliché battle cry of tired authors: I don’t want to write but, by jingo, if I do—
Today I must send off a letter telling Mr. Sidebotham that my share of the money willed to Richard through the Trevor Will Trust102 is to go to the Bradleys. That’s because I just heard from Tom Isherwood that he wants to keep the whole of his share. Fuck Tom, but I can see no way out of this.
August 15. On August 8, Anita and Mary Loos came to dinner with us, accompanied by Mary’s so-called beau, a decorator named Dewey Spriegel. They arrived late, Dewey complaining that they couldn’t find the house (actually, Mary lives within sight of us). Dewey said to Don—whom he already met at lunch at Mary’s house: “I hear you’re an artist. Why can’t you repaint the number on your mailbox? It’s illegible.” This doesn’t sound all that bad, written down. But it was, the way he said it, one of the most insulting things I have heard anyone say to anyone, unprovoked, sober and at the beginning of a party. Later he was publicly rude to Mary, at table.
On August 10, an English journalist named Ian Brodie, who works for the London Telegraph, called to tell me that Stephen Spender has cancer—implying that it was terminal. He then went on immediately to ask me to make a statement for his newspaper about Stephen’s achievements and place in the literary world.
Shock followed by incredulity gave way to rage. I told him to tell his editor that I’d said his behavior was disgusting: “You’re just telling me this for your own commercial reasons.” “Commerical is hardly the word I would have used,” he said, primly. I slammed down the phone. Then I got through to Patrick Woodcock, who had heard nothing. As far as he knew Stephen was well and on Corfu. Patrick, equally indignant, said he knew several people on the Telegraph and would make enquiries. Since then, I haven’t heard any more from anyone. I don’t believe the story, and yet I find it hard to imagine that a big newspaper wouldn’t have double-checked on its facts.
An invitation: Juleen Compton’s and Rod Steiger’s All White Party. Une Après Midi Dans La Jardin. Quiche and champagne.103
August 28. Well, at least my birthday’s over. The most heartless part of it were the gifts of flowers, ordered by telephone or telegram long-distance—a dress rehearsal for a funeral which—if I’m lucky and make it to UCLA dissecting room—will never take place. But quite aside from birthday blues, I do feel seriously perturbed and undermined by all this mail. I am now hopelessly in the red, or should I say read, as regards answering it. I think I owe more than I did when I started writing letters again after the long gap early this year.
And I’m stuck in preparations for beginning my next book. It really is clearer to me than ever that I have no “plot” for it. The best I can come up with is still the idea of a memoir based on my various dwelling places in the Canyon, which is so Proustian and sentimental.
Just heard from Stephen, very touched because he had discovered from Patrick Woodcock about the call from the Telegraph and my reactions to it. He is perfectly all right and full of his play.
Encouraging: both Prema and Claude Summers have written very encouragingly about My Guru. Prema came up with only one factual mistake, which can be easily and briefly corrected—when you beg for alms after becoming a swami, you get given the alms in a gerua napkin, not in the fold of your own robe. (Since I actually witnessed this, and wrote about it in my diary at the time, this shows how unobservant I was—and still am.)
September 17. Still this heat, which takes all the zing out of life; just when I feel so anxious to get going. Since Jack Woody produced this project of a picture book of Don’s drawings accompanied by some sort of text by me, I have resolved to keep a detailed daily diary for the month of October. It’s a crazy project because it will surely be almost impossible to relate the text to the drawings. Don has a sort of mystic faith that the drawings and text will do this of themselves—and who shall say he’s wrong?
The evening in San Francisco, when I gave “readings and conversation” to raise funds for Gay Advocates, was an extraordinary experience. In a way it is almost more difficult to cope with an audience which has made up its mind to adore you than with one which says “you show us.” Amidst the cheers and standing ovations, I felt somehow like a conductor conducting a piece of music which isn’t his composition. I don’t mean that I was consciously trying to say only things I thought they’d like to hear. But I was trying to be one of them, whether in agreement or in disagreement. I felt that I was a member of the tribe; the fact that I was addressing it was hugely exciting and joyful but still only of secondary importance.
Well, anyhow, the show was nearly sold out. And the posters announcing it104—the ones that were left over, signed by Don and me—were all sold.
San Francisco seemed utterly delightful, especially after the smog down here, such refreshing sea-clean air. And all the little old houses looked s
o charming. Don and I agreed that it is the most beautiful city anywhere.
September 18. In the midst of a slightly drunken argument last night, Don came out with a line which I thought was so marvellous I wrote it down immediately: “What do you think I am—some tawdry little recipient?” And now I simply cannot remember what the argument was about.
Yesterday, we were visited by two young men, one English, one Irish—Christopher Corr and Eamonn Leddy—Christopher a young artist who has a scholarship from the Royal Academy of Art to draw landscapes, etc., here in the States,105 Eamonn his friend, probably lover, describes himself as a mathematician, twenty-four, one year older than Christopher. Both have metal spectacles and perfect pink skins and white teeth and are blondish. If the angels who visited Sodom had worn modern dress, that’s exactly how I imagine they would look.
Today another near-angel, Stuart Timmons,106 arrived to be drawn and painted by Don; dressed to be undressed—very short cutoffs which showed all of his scarred, slightly disfigured yet extra ordinarily sexy legs. Later he told me that he had lied to Don, saying that he had posed for art classes in the nude. When Don suggested a nude pose he was embarrassed but did it anyway. He is a curly-haired blond with a kiss-pouting mouth, determined to reactivate his gay sex life this fall—on principle, one supposes; he is a deadly serious gay-political boy, determined to show solidarity with the tribe.
September 19. The anniversary of Caskey’s and my departure for South America, thirty-two years ago. Which reminds me that I haven’t yet heard from Caskey since I sent him a half- reconciliatory letter enclosing the chapter which refers to him in My Guru. It will be very tiresome if he takes me up on my offer to cut him right out of the book!
Last night, Don and I went to the movies and were much annoyed by a noisy baby in a party of four. Don went over to complain to them and one of the party, a young man, told him to “get lost.” So then I yelled “shut up” when next the baby cried. As we were leaving, the young man came up beside Don and glared at him, so Don glared right back. The young man told Don, “You’re ugly.” Don said, “That’s my problem.” The young man faded away. Actually, I think you’re ugly was a backhanded compliment, in that the young man was unwillingly impressed by Don’s readiness to be hostile, plus his muscular superiority. It was one of those situations which develop readily in the steamy hot weather we’re having.
September 20. Mike Van Horn has just arrived on holiday from New York. He came to supper last night, a bit fatter and with a bit less hair, but otherwise his usual sturdy, outwardly placid, deep-feeling, Dutch-obstinate self. He is very close to us emotionally and yet there isn’t much sparkle in our encounters.
Beth Ann Krier107 (whom I do like) was also among the guests. She is studying female millionaires and how they got their money (marriage is cheating, they have to be self-made). Tried to interest her in making us into millionaires without our doing anything about it. Suggested that this would be interesting simply as an experiment. But she didn’t see it that way. Later in the evening, I didn’t see anything, got stupidly drunk, and I don’t know why because I like everybody who was present—Penny, Billy Al, Jack Larson, and sympathetic silly-goose Sydney Cobb108 (who is still rather in love with Mike, after all these years).
On the steps below the house we found a plastic container made to hold liquids. The container was empty but arranged on it were some bits of plant which Mike and Don both thought might be pot. So we took them for future examination, leaving the container. That happened this afternoon as we were returning from the beach. It may all be very harmless, but I don’t like the idea that this might be some sort of arranged “drop.” The police would probably descend on us and fuss and search the house.
September 21. Played the tape of my talk in San Francisco, which shows me that I still say “er—er—,” which I thought I’d cured myself of and that I also have some nasty nasal tones in my voice when reading aloud. Also, it created a really bad impression, not knowing instantly who Dan White was.109 But I might have been a lot worse.
When Mike (who stayed the night in the studio) ran down to the beach with Don today, they found that the plastic container was still on the steps.
Yesterday evening, some unfortunate Mexican, drunk or zonked on something, wrecked a car[,] which was also (so we are told) stolen[,] and then fled. And now the helicopters came after him, with police-car support on the ground. The big rattling airborne insects, swinging their search beams like probing stings, seemed unspeakably futile. It seems impossible that they could ever catch anyone.
November 11. During October, Don and I carried out the scheme which Don worked out with Jack Woody—Don to do a drawing or painting of someone every day, me to keep a daily diary throughout the month. Don got the whole of his share of the work done—not just thirty-one but forty-six pictures, four of which are black and white paintings. My daily diary is only a rough draft, however. Don is rereading it to make notes and suggestions.
Paul Wonner came down on November 1 for the opening of his show of paintings. On the 2nd, Don and I went to look at them—he had already seen them the day before, and had decided to buy one. When we got to the Corcoran Gallery we happened to meet Nick Wilder who took Don aside and confirmed that he is definitely giving up his own gallery. He also showed Don a letter from Jim Corcoran to Nick, telling him that he only wants to take over four of Nick’s artists—Ron Davis, Sam Francis, David Hockney and Don. Which pleased us, needless to say.
On the 4th, we phoned Vera in New York, having just been told that she has had several small strokes. She seemed shaken and a bit vague, but still very much her usual self—greatly indignant because a specialist had come to examine her after her strokes—she referred to them as “illnesses”—and had shown her pictures of various animals, asking her to tell him what they were.
On the 8th, we gave a party—the first in quite some while, because of our involvement in our October project. We told Tony Richardson, whom we’d already invited, to bring a guest with him. He suggested Dean Skipworth110 and Don said no, absolutely not; he wasn’t to be allowed in the house, ever again. The reason is he came to us once before and dumped a great bag of garbage, which he produced from his car, into our garbage can. It contained something really rotten and stank up the whole area so much that Don had to drag it out again and dump it somewhere else. . . . I think Tony was sulking about this throughout the meal.
On the 9th, we were invited by Richard Burton’s wife Susan to a birthday party at Chasen’s—that is to say, I was invited. (I suppose Susan, who has only met Don once before, and was doing the organizing herself because this was a surprise party, couldn’t be accused of actual rudeness in omitting him, she probably didn’t realize what our relationship is and how long ago Richard knew both of us.) Anyhow, I quite easily got Don included. But then, what do I do? Sitting right next to Richard—who is now on the wagon—I drank and drank until I passed out and sat slumped in the chair and couldn’t rise to take part in the birthday toast. It’s a terrible situation, especially as I know Susan hardly at all, and it’s to her I must write an apology. And I can’t do that until tomorrow at the earliest because I don’t have an address to send the letter to until the offices reopen after the weekend and I can make enquiries!
Yesterday, I drove to Vedanta Place to see Swami Ritajananda from Gretz—he had been sick while up at the Santa Barbara convent but seemed fairly all right. He is very impressive. I felt a lot of love in him and also a great shrewdness. I think he was being careful not to criticize Prema to me, he became a bit guarded when I asked about Prema’s part in their life. Several times, he remarked—maybe to reassure me—that you could be a monk for a while and then stop being one—that wasn’t so important. As for me, I was still feeling my hangover—had, indeed, been a bit scared while driving on the freeway because I kept getting cramps in my hands and slight attacks of dizziness. When Ritajananda and I sat alone in the living room of the old bungalow and I started talking about Swami and a
bout Sister, they both seemed intensely present, and I shed tears, quite spontaneously but yet I felt like some overemotional fakey female devotee, and that was when I became aware of the sharpness of Ritajananda’s glance. Still, I am very glad indeed that I saw him again—it may very possibly have been for the last time.
Afterwards, I talked to the boys, including Bob [Adjemian], who has now got several of the other monks to join him in long-distance runs. Bob, who is a real little fighting cock, is longing for the showdown which he anticipates over My Guru and His Disciple, when it appears. According to him, Swahananda’s only fear is that my book should give the impression that Vedanta endorses homosexuality. Anandaprana anticipates big trouble with the congregation. And Bob is just praying for it!
November 14. On the 12th, backing out of our driveway, I bumped a car which was standing on that fatal spot, exactly where a backing-out car from our driveway will hit, with only a tiny bit of bad luck. This time it was a brand-new Subaru Brat, belonging to the lady who lives opposite, a Mrs. Karlow, who was peevish about it but not venomous. Her son, also present, is named Jeff and is cuteish. Later I called their number to find out the extent of the damage and found myself talking to Jeff, who had been researching for a term paper on Aaron Copland and had discovered that I was mentioned as one of his friends. So I was on the map, and the temperature rose.
That evening, after we’d seen Cabin in the Sky and liked it—I with more reservations than Don, because it speaks, albeit with Yiddish and black accents, the language of the Southern Baptists— Don suggested we eat at El Adobe, and I agreed, only predicting that it would be full up as usual. It was nearly full, only one table, but then out rushed one of the owners, Patricia Casado, who always receives us as though we were royalty. And the next thing we knew, we were being introduced to Governor Brown, who just happened to be in there. He looked just “like” himself, very thin faced, with a bright burning in the eyes and an air of being obedient to an inner voice. We were both impressed by him, he seemed extremely ambitious, perfectly serious and quite worthy of our respect. It was easy to imagine him robed as a priest. He gave us a copy of his announcement of candidacy. When I asked him to autograph it, he wrote, “Chris and Don, Peace! Jerry Brown.” Somehow, we got into talking about our play and hence the tempta tion of Jesus in the wilderness and Swami’s book, The Sermon on the Mount According to Vedanta. He seemed genuinely interested.111