1 / April 21, 1969-June 14, 1969
Monday. We got back to her apartment after dark and I spotted the note in the mailbox but kept my mouth shut. She drew the drapes and unbuckled my belt. I was reaching for her when she turned and went into the bathroom. The tub started splashing. She said soak and unwind for a while, and went out to the kitchen. I said Julie, there’s nothing to unwind.
During dinner she kept making amusing comparisons between Telegraph Avenue today and the way it was nine years ago, before the zombies and urban guerrillas set up camp. After dinner she led me to the cot, and for about twenty minutes I felt I was being worked over by somebody else. She had never been that intense or methodical, not even when we had first met. As I was falling asleep, I felt grateful to her, and my gratitude angered me.
I found the note in her jacket pocket in the middle of the night and checked the number against the Berkeley directory and crawled back to bed. Struggled out of bed at 5 A.M. and got dressed without waking her up and drove back to Palo Alto, a hammering in my head.
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Tuesday. We yelled for over an hour. I hung up. She phoned back: protestations of love, accusations, interrogations, counter-accusations, remorse. She said there’s nothing between her and Thad, she’s just naturally worried about him—you don’t live with a man for four years and then stand back and whistle as he slides down the drain. I said it didn’t exactly sound to me like the comical fellow was sliding down the drain with his sexual double-entendres. She said Joe, you don’t understand him, he happens to be gifted with levity and wit. I said well, that’s fantastic, you’re welcome to try four more years of that vaudeville act.
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Friday. I had vowed not to drive up last night, but I started to pace back and forth in the carport and suddenly I opened the door to the car and took off. Arrived close to midnight, my head full of sherry and cigarette smoke. She said Christ, take a look at yourself! I kicked off my shoes and fell asleep while she was still brushing her teeth.
Struggled out of bed at 5:30 A.M. Everything in slow motion, a feeling of fog hanging over the kitchen. Coffee and a handful of vitamin C’s. She said Joe, what’s the matter with you, driving up glassy-eyed in the middle of the night—you’re a grown man with kids—and that sherry, night after night, turns me off worse than anything else. I said Julie, no more booze. She said wow.
I reached out to her carefully. She waited for me to let go. I held her without really holding, the way I had taught myself to do when we met. She kept standing there, patiently waiting for me to back off and sit down. I kissed the rim of her ear. Finally she did her eye roll and sighed here we go, folks! and we went to the cot.
During lunch today my friend Sparrow said Joey, you’ll burn yourself out on the Nimitz Freeway if you keep up this pace, I’ve never seen you as driven as this. I said mind your own business and leave me alone. He said look at the bags under your eyes. Stayed away from the sherry tonight and was careful not to phone.
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Wednesday. She says she appreciates being desired as much as the next person, but she can’t help backing off whenever anyone grovels or leans. She says I’m asking for things she can’t possibly give on demand. The moment I walk through her door I start mashing her bosom and aim for the sack. Same thing in the morning. She says how would you feel if you showed up at work every morning with a wet crotch? I suggested maybe we have different thermostats or something. She said maybe we do, Joe—just don’t tamper with mine. I asked if she’d seen Thad again. She said I’m not accountable to you. Bought a new pair of boots for the trip.
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Tuesday. Mt. Shasta. She’s still asleep in her bunk. There were rats in the rafters last night. Arrived at Sand Flat by noon yesterday and hiked up to the cabin without too much difficulty, even though there’s been lots of fresh snow. She’s impressed by the view. As I was taking a close-up of her drinking water from the pump, I remembered the marvelous shot I had taken of Claire years ago, when the pump was completely encrusted in ice. I expected other hikers to be using this camp, but so far we’ve got the entire stone hut to ourselves.
Cooked our steaks outside last night, snow all around us, a sudden hailstorm pelting us as we bent over our pots. Julie kept whistling and uttering whimsical one-liners. She said Berkeley has turned into Mecca, everyone’s so conscientiously pure and correct. I said Julie, you sound like your father again. She said I could do worse.
We built a fire in the stone hut and drank brandy, the winds rumbling up near the summit somewhere. As we sat side by side in front of the fire, she kept playing with her gloves. The logs started breaking apart. She asked how many times I had been here before. I said only once, a few months after Claire had had the miscarriage. Our daughter Laura was six at the time. She asked if Laura had hiked up with us. I said yes, she was way out in front most of the way. Julie said well, you were certainly cruel to Claire, weren’t you, running after those students of yours and then letting her get pregnant again—do you always return to the scene of the crime? I said hey, you don’t know what you’re talking about, better leave it alone! We finished the brandy. She lit another cigarette.
She said as far back as she could remember everyone had always been forcing her to try to become something she couldn’t possibly be. The first months with Thad had been carefree and light—he clowned around like you wouldn’t believe and they laughed all the time, it was great. But then Thad started changing, the same as the others, he became more demanding and moody and snapped and grew sullen and stayed out very late, often drinking with friends or driving around by himself aimlessly, and finally it got into yelling and physical blows.
I said boy, I can’t comprehend how you took it so long. She said yeah. I threw another log on the fire and climbed up to my bunk. I watched her sitting there, flicking the cigarette ashes into the fireplace, and realized it wasn’t her arms I was hungering for.
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2 / August 18, 1969-September 19, 1969
Monday. Attached the shutters to the turret windows this morning. Julie finished upholstering the chairs. The plants in the alcove are doing surprisingly well, considering the heat. Finished painting the sun porch last night. Julie said the Victorians had their faults, but they certainly knew how to put up a civilized house—the Victorians wouldn’t tolerate aluminum-frame windows. I said they didn’t have aluminum. She said that’s not the point, Joe.
My daughter Laura phoned, very distraught. Two more baby rabbits chewed up by some cat. Drove to Claire’s house in Hopkins Street and examined the hutch. I couldn’t find any tunnels or holes, but it’s obviously going to require a plywood floor. My son Alex rode up on his tricycle and stared at the matted fur on the grass. I carried him into the house. Claire brewed some coffee and reminded me for the fourth time that she never wanted the rabbits in the first place—this was part of a regular pattern with me. I spotted one of the neighborhood cats slinking along the fence and threw the coffee cup at it. Claire said well, I can see that your girlfriend is bringing out the best in you these days, and went into the house. Laura sat next to me on the back steps and clung to my arm for a while. We buried the rabbits in the vegetable patch. Julie seemed tense when I finally came home.
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Friday. Laura helped me rebuild the hutch yesterday. Put in a solid plywood floor. I was getting ready to climb up on the roof to adjust the TV antenna when Claire grabbed my ankle and said never mind, I got tired of waiting for you to adjust it—Rex is coming over in half an hour with his toolbox. I said since when do you need a toolbox to adjust an antenna? She let go of my ankle and went back inside. Gave Laura her allowance and left.
Julie had flowers in bowls everywhere. We sat in the alcove and worked out the itinerary. The afternoon sun was striking the chandelier and the ceiling was quivering with diamond shapes. She put her hair up for dinner and wore her Henry James blouse. We dined at opposite ends of the massive mahogany table, separated by flowers and candles. The game hens she had fixed were exquisite. Wild rice and Chablis. After the second glass of wine, she sat back and said this is more like it, isn’t it? I said it certainly beats that cramped studio apartment off the Bayshore Freeway. She said boy, you were drinking a lot in those days, weren’t you. I said well, leaving a wife and two kids isn’t exactly an easy adjustment to make. She said maybe I’m different from you; when I see that it’s time to get moving, I just swallow two aspirins and move. I said it wasn’t exactly like that when you ran into Thad. She said listen to you! You are hardly the person to talk!
I tried coaxing her to the couch after dinner but she pushed me away. She said she needed to work on her renderings for a while. I said fine. I went into the alcove and tried reading Ouspensky. She crashed around midnight. I sat in the alcove with the sherry decanter and tried to figure her out. Around one I climbed into the car and drove past Hopkins Street. The lights were out and the four-wheel drive Toyota was parked behind Claire’s Maverick. I headed up the Bayshore as far as Coyote Point and looked at the boats for a while and drove home.
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Tuesday. My friend Sparrow was very excited: he’s lined up an ex-Jesuit from Brazil to marry us who suggests that Julie and I compose our own script. Creative spirituality. I told Julie I was swamped with paperwork—could she come up with something? She said sure, and she promised not to include anything by her father or Kahlil Gibran.
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Friday. Got the traveler’s checks. Puzzled over Julie’s script: excerpts from Bob Dylan and Teilhard de Chardin and a big chunk of Rilke. Drove up to the Fortress for prime rib and broccoli. Mrs. Bronson, Julie’s mother, was gracious and strained. During dinner the Commander, Julie’s father, inquired if I had reservations for all of the stops. I assured him I did. And had I gotten the car finally tuned? Yes, I got the car finally tuned. How much did they charge me to get the car tuned? I told him how much. He said well, that’s all right. He asked if the tires were still good. I said the tires were still pretty good. After dinner Mrs. Bronson passed around sticks of sugarless gum on a small silver tray. I took Julie aside and said listen, do you think I should let him examine my teeth? She gave me her watch-your-step smile.
She remained up on the hill for the night. I drove home and began sorting piles of old letters. Trimmed my hair a little as a gesture to the Commander. Tried reading some more of Ouspensky: he says man is a lying animal. I went back to the letters. I reread Claire’s frantic notes and was hit with remorse. I kept thinking about the way I had shaken her off like a burr. I glanced at my journals of ten years ago. Hungers, predictions, and plans.
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Monday. Portland. Julie is twitching under the blankets again. Her stomach is still bothering her. Spent the afternoon roaming about on the bluffs by myself.
Saturday started out humid and warm. The Brazilian ex-Jesuit turned out to be a typical Sparrow maneuver—a psychic healer from the Church of the Internal Divine. Massive rings on each finger and a cloth over his head. The Bronsons strove mightily to be cordial and correct, but they couldn’t disguise their chagrin. Julie was effervescent and showed me off to the clan. Got into a brief dialogue with the uncle who is a mortician in Bakersfield. He said I want you and Julie to come down and visit us soon. I said well, we certainly will. During the ceremony Laura withdrew to the rear of the garden. Alex clung to my knee. Janis, Julie’s sister, strummed her guitar.
As soon as it was over, Sparrow came up to me and I saw there were tears in his eyes. He said Joe, I’m so happy for you! I wanted to assure him that all the terrible yearning was now in the past, but his wife started hugging me and the guests milled around and there wasn’t time for words. When Laura came up to congratulate us, I got the impression she was glaring at me. The Commander’s aerospace people lumbered into the dining room for the buffet. Mrs. Bronson was smiling nonstop and seemed tight as a drum. Sparrow, Sol Luken, and Mandel slipped away to the apricot orchard with the Brazilian. Their wives gathered up their children and left. They were still passing around joints under the trees when Julie and I finally left to drop off the kids.
Claire offered us coffee and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Rex shook my hand vigorously: he was helping her paint the laundry room. Julie stared silently at the photographs on the living room walls.
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Steady driving all day yesterday, Julie reading travel guides on Seattle and British Columbia. She said wow, Sparrow’s wife has turned into a dumpy little thing, hasn’t she?
Stopped in Ashland last night: a decaying motor court with stone dwarfs and little windmills on poles. The radiator overheated today, steam hissing up at the windshield. Got it fixed at a rural garage at the foot of some beautiful hills. We sat in the mechanic’s dark office for a couple of hours drinking Dr. Pepper and reading Field and Stream. When I tried putting my arm around her, she said Joe, can’t you see I’m not feeling well? I said sorry, and went out to look at the hills.
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Thursday. Orcas Island, Puget Sound. Brilliant water and keen blasts of wind. The old hotel seems deserted—I think we’re the only guests here. Our room has a view of the Sound. I watched the ferry come in before dinner tonight. The bed creaks. There’s one chair. On the night stand, a pitcher and basin. The toilet down the hall makes funereal sounds.
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Saturday. Victoria, B.C. The Empress hotel is an impressive old pile. We had tea in the lobby but had little to say. When I tried to maneuver her to bed before dinner she said she wanted to soak in the tub for a while and read up on the history of this area. I said it has quite a history. She said that’s what I’ve heard.
I went down to the lobby, looked around, converted some of my money into Canadian currency to reinforce the illusion that I was abroad, spent an hour in the bar, wandered over to the buildings of Parliament: hundreds of light globes like a theatrical set. Started thinking about Claire and the children. In a setting like this, Claire would be resting her head on my chest. When I got back to our room Julie was twitching in her sleep.
This morning I tried catching her on film. She pretended to ignore me. When I tried to pursue her on the deck of the ferry with the movie camera, she lunged at me. I jerked the camera back. She hesitated, then laughed.
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Wednesday. Palo Alto. The Oregon coastline kept shifting from sharp precipices to pockets of gray. As soon as we headed into the mountains, the car started steaming again. She said you should’ve listened to my father, Joe. I didn’t say anything. She said he warned you about the water pump. We gave up on Mt. Lassen and drove straight to Tahoe, the car chugging worse as the altitude increased.
The casinos at Tahoe were running around the clock like huge vending machines. I followed Julie from table to table and tried fathoming her gambling technique. She was all calculation and internal strategy. She said she had learned all the tricks by observing her father when she was a girl. I said well, I’m sure the Commander is a fabulous poker player—he’s got a face like a cement wall. She ignored that and went to the roulette tables. The smoke in the casino bothered my eyes, but her luck held up well and we managed to get two complimentary drinks. She was still playing roulette at 3:30 A.M. I was hungry and went to the coffee shop for some terrible scrambled eggs. Styrofoam. I propped myself up in a chair in the lobby and slept for a while.
This morning I asked her how she felt about her father. She smiled politely at me, a bad sign. I said look, I’m just curious—I’ve never seen you two close, but you seem to have some kind of bond. She said Joe, all this heavy introspecting simply keeps you from getting on top of yourself.
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3 / September 25, 1969-October 26, 1969
Thursday. She brushes her teeth, I brush mine. We put the decanter and the ashtrays away. I follow her into the bedroom. She sits on the bed in her red Chinese robe. I count the turns as she winds the alarm. She offers me her most recent analysis of Sparrow. A commonplace mind. Sparrow’s deepest convictions are all platitudes. His natural impulse is to trivialize difficult things. I suggest there is more to Rod Sparrow than that, and try shifting from Sparrow to somewhat more delicate terrain. She says Joe, I am struck by the fact that you have a long history of throwing your lovers and friends to the sharks, but you keep your hooks in them and occasionally reel them in—isn’t that how it usually goes? It’s as though you retain little pieces and bits for some enigmatic future use. I say Julie, I’ve never thrown lovers and friends to the sharks. She says you’re a hungry man, Joe.
I watch her. She slips out of her robe and flicks off the light. All evening she’s been glittering from one room to the other, leaving her scent everywhere, and now suddenly comes the great phew! as she falls down the bottomless shaft. I try closing my eyes. They refuse to stay closed. I stare up at the ceiling. The patterns of passing headlights.
Finally she’s asleep. I slip into my Levis and go for a walk. A patrol car drives past and slows down and goes on. Dogs start barking. A black labrador runs toward me. I pick up a section of brick from the edge of a yard. The black labrador backs away.
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Friday. The Bronsons dropped by after their thirty-six holes and suggested drapes for the flat, either eggshell or plum, they’d lend grace to the home. I agreed that drapes would certainly give the home elegance and grace. Julie said plum-colored drapes would transform the flat into a bordello. The Commander glanced at the petitions on my desk and informed me that only the top echelons are aware of what’s happening in the rice paddies these days—I could hardly presume to match the intelligence-gathering capability of the Secretary of State. I said well, I’m sure you’re aware that statistics are frequently juggled on every side. They measured the windows and left.
Finished fixing up the back room for Laura and Alex. Julie hasn’t mentioned either of them recently, and I’m trying to ease them in more diplomatically this time. I told Laura to stop calling Julie the Governess, it isn’t helping the overall picture at all.
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Tuesday. Moratorium Day. Organized one of the teach-ins around Pentagon self-deception and statistical mirages. Sparrow was in the cafeteria circulating petitions with Luken and Mandel. Their wives were stenciling fists onto shirts. The Highway Patrol appeared briefly, then faded from sight.
I walked over to the crowd that was assembling in the square and someone pulled on my shoulder and I found myself holding the mike. I climbed up on the platform and said a few words about the Geneva convention. The crowd was responsive. I talked for ten minutes and found myself gradually modulating my voice, watching my timing, and as I was going full blast about the realities of search-and-destroy, Sparrow appeared and announced we were going to seal off the Dumbarton Bridge on the Menlo Park side. We piled into cars and drove down to the bridge, but the sheriff was there in full force. We went back to the campus and stayed until dark. A few windows got pinged. Someone sprayed the door to the chemistry lab with red paint.
When I finally came home, Julie blinked at my armband and asked who was dead.
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Sunday. Rich Parks had us over for dinner last night in his Japanese retreat in Los Trancos Woods. Sliding panels and mats. Julie pretended to be greatly intrigued and kept poking around with a bit too much zeal. Bev wore her hair in a single long braid and served pieces of squid with some kind of bean paste. As they talked about satori and Hakuin’s koan (one hand slapping), I found myself drifting into a mist. Julie covered for me, coming up with significant questions about the wisdom of insecurity and the mirror of the mind, but I couldn’t get rid of the blank. Before we departed, we formed a close circle and hummed Om for a while. Bev dug her fingernails into my wrist. My foot fell asleep.
Julie’s face flattened out as we were driving home. She said Joe, you were swaying about on your mat like some pathetic retard while that woman exhaled her fishy fumes in your ear. I said Bev didn’t exhale anything in my ear, what’s the matter with you, and the blankness increased.
I set myself up for experiments. The junkyard expands.
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4 / November 21, 1969-January 6, 1970
Friday. Laura has been dropping in after school while Julie is still at work, and we talk. Alex comes over on alternate weekends and says he has dreams about pigs under his bed. Julie has been civil to them. She’s been taking great pains with the plants in the alcove. She’s even reconciled herself to the plum-colored drapes. Our dinners are solemn rituals. We hardly ever go out. After dinner I withdraw to the sun porch with my briefcase. She sits before the fire and works on her blueprints or watches TV. She has almost completely stopped needling me about Claire. The phone rarely rings. The formality eases the strain.
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Friday. In the middle of the dinner yesterday the Commander began delivering a few observations on Thanksgiving—about the deeper significance of this day. He advised us to count our blessings each day, for we’ve been showered with physical and spiritual nourishment. Mrs. Bronson kept her smile nailed to her jaw and agreed with her husband that we had a great deal, all of us, to be thankful for.
I kept pouring myself more Riesling. When I carried some dishes to the kitchen, Julie whispered: you’re one hell of a host—don’t you know how to talk? Kevin, Janis’s boyfriend, recalled their last trip to the Islands, and the dirt bikes they’d brought to the beach. The Commander observed that some people constantly focus on the dark side of life because they cannot be happy with what they’ve got. Janis recalled how her tennis game had improved in the Islands—she and Kevin had hit the courts every morning at seven, and she’d worn out two pairs of Adidas and was starting to wear out a third. I excused myself and went into the kitchen and slipped out the back door. Spent a couple of hours drinking beer in the Goose bar. When I came home everybody had left.
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Sunday. As I was cleaning out the hutch yesterday—Laura’s afraid to go into it now—I found the remains of four newly-born rabbits in one of the tunnels. They looked like stiff mice.
Julie was ominously controlled when I came home. She said there’ll always be Hopkins Street strapped to your back—you can hardly exist without Claire and her unending chores, you’re so loaded with guilt. I pushed her aside and went down to the basement with the tools. I’m building the children a puppet theater like the one we had in the gazebo when we were kids.
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Tuesday. Julie says every time she looks into my eyes she sees hunger and need, it’s like Berkeley all over again. If I want her respect I will have to stop limping with my tail between my legs. I said Jesus, let’s hope that it isn’t like Berkeley all over again.
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Saturday. Borrowed Sparrow’s hot splicer last night and assembled the film clips of Julie. She came down to the basement and watched as I finished the editing. I left the film on the work table. An hour later it was twisted and torn, but I managed to salvage almost half of the reel.
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Monday. Yesterday morning she’s cheerful and fixes me poached eggs on muffins. Not a word about the film. We go through the Sunday paper. She says the Sunday papers aren’t what they used to be. She gets up and waters the plants.
She drives off after lunch. I wander through the flat, smoke a few cigarettes, stretch myself out on the couch, get up again and stare out the window. A cat is sitting in the middle of the street. I try to read Scientific American. I throw the magazine down.
Julie phones: she’ll be staying for dinner at the Fortress. Her sister Janis is there with Kevin, the prospective son-in-law. I say give them my love. I sit at the typewriter but don’t feel like touching the keys. Claire and the children are out for the day. The Fledermaus on the radio irritates me.
I go to bed before eleven. I’m already half-asleep when she finally comes home. She kicks off her shoes, a bad sign. I can hear her pulling the bureau drawers open and then slamming them shut. She goes out to the kitchen, then comes back to the bedroom and lights up a cigarette and smokes in the dark.
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Thursday. We were standing in the checkout line at the Safeway yesterday when she gave me a shove. I said hey, what’s with you? She said Joe, you keep staring at me and I don’t like it. I said I’m not staring at you. She hunched up her shoulders and said Christ, I can’t breathe any more, you are using up my space! I threw the car keys on the checkout counter and walked home.
Christmas was quiet. The puppet theater was a success. Laura started to work on a script. Julie went drinking with the gang from the office last night. I sat on the sun porch and puzzled my way through the journals again. Impossible appetites. When she finally came home she was pretty far gone and went into the alcove and cried for a while, but we didn’t discuss it.
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Tuesday. Beef brochettes with Janis and Kevin at his Tiburon dockside apartment. The developers have christened the place Terrapin Cove. Everywhere you look, there are tennis courts and tans. Janis said they would probably get married in the fall. Julie said what’s the rush? Kevin said the Commander is squirming because his sweet daughter is living in sin. Julie said let him squirm. We broiled the brochettes on the deck of the catamaran. Julie got into a light mood and cracked jokes. As we were eating, I found myself staring across Richardson Bay. I remembered that Claire and I had sailed to this cove years ago, long before there was anything here. Kevin kept mixing us hefty gin and tonics. He said Joe, here’s some lead for your pencil. Julie made a long face and crossed herself.
When the wind began blowing we took the gin into the cabin and watched a winter-sports special on the portable TV. Kevin said he wanted to get some new scuba diving gear—they were going down to Baja next month. They talked to Julie about the kind of house they had in mind for themselves. She suggested they look at some lots in the Walnut Creek hills. Kevin asked me what kind of tires I had on the car. I said I didn’t really know. He said Joe, you should really switch to steel-belted radials. I said okay, I’ll look into it.
It got cold on the catamaran. As they were going back to the apartment to light the logs in the fireplace, Kevin said he would take me duck hunting one of these days. I said fine. Julie said save your money, he isn’t the type. I said I’d sleep on the catamaran. Kevin dug out a down mummy bag and a pillow. Julie said don’t rock the boat.
I lay in the bag for a couple of hours. I couldn’t sleep. I could hear Kevin’s Joan Baez tapes. A hammering came over my eyes. Around midnight I squirmed out of the bag and threw up into the bay.
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5 / January 7, 1970-April 27, 1970
Wednesday. Another dead rabbit on the grass. I still can’t find any openings or underground holes. Laura doesn’t go to the back yard any more.
During lunch Sparrow took me aside. He said Joe, the department is baffled by you. I said what’s the complaint? He said well, you’re not functioning any more—I’ve watched you contract steadily for the last two, three years, but your negative output has suddenly shifted to high. I said lay off the mind dynamics, you write some god-awful scripts for yourself. He said being your friend is the most difficult thing I have done in my life.
Julie has come down with the flu. I sit on the edge of the bed as she’s sipping her tea. I can see her jaw working, as though I had deliberately transmitted the virus to her. She says this is the worst possible time to get sick, I’m literally swamped at work! I say they’re only houses, Julie, let them wait. She says what are you talking about? Silence. She looks at me and says I’ve been trying my best, Joe—I’ve been trying to meet you halfway, even more than halfway, but I simply can’t turn myself into whatever it is that you want me to be. I say Julie, I’m not trying to get you to be anything. She says Joe—you’re impossible, Joe! I place my hand on her foot. She pulls her foot back.
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Monday. During dinner she said will you kindly stop staring at me—I’m getting really annoyed by your sorrowful stare. I got up from the table and went to the front porch and stared at the houses and wondered what’s happening there.
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Tuesday. Steady drizzle all morning. I don’t know what I’m trying to track down. Sparrow said yesterday that my breath smelled bad.
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Thursday. She says things worked best between us in that studio apartment off the Bayshore Freeway. She could drop in whenever the feeling was right between us, and then leave. At least we had ventilation. But when the distance was no longer there, the air got harder and harder to breathe. By the time she had moved back to Berkeley she felt practically cornered by me. This had happened with Thad and the others—it wasn’t anything new. When a man slipped his arm around her waist, she felt suddenly confined. Every bed she had shared was too narrow. A man’s hand on the back of her neck felt like a clamp. She was as hungry for affection as anyone else, but she couldn’t exist without space. And besides, it was hard to get close to me when she smelled Hopkins Street on my shirt all the time. In my hair.
I promised to give her the distance she needs. I said I’d sleep on the cot on the sun porch. She looked hurt and relieved.
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Sunday. I’m working in the yard when the telephone rings. Julie talks to her sister for a while. She hangs up and assures me I don’t have to go up to the Fortress with her, but it’s clear I’m expected to go. I change my shirt and we go.
The patio is decorated with a profusion of fresh flowers, and the Commander is wearing plaid shorts. He is offering explanatory comments about each of the wines. The aerospace people are laughing and having a marvelous time. Kevin is making predictions about the recreational-vehicle industry. He says things are really starting to move in that neck of the woods. Mrs. Bronson appears bringing crackers and several kinds of cheese. I compliment her on the little wine cups she has just fired in her ceramics class: the glaze matches the greenish-blue of her eyes. She pats my cheek. Julie and Janis are rummaging through their old closets upstairs.
Kevin motions me into the Commander’s den. We go in. He sits on the edge of the desk. He says Joe, this is just between us: in two or three years the back roads of this country will be filled with RV’s, it’ll be stupendous. The time for the perceptive investor to make his moves is right now, Joe—we’re going to see an appreciable spurt.
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Monday. The Bronsons asked us to join them at Stanford Memorial Church to observe Easter Sunday. We went. Kevin and Janis were there. The solemnity hung over us like cologne. I hadn’t counted on brunch after the service. Julie said well, Easter brunch is traditional with them. Locked up the car with the baskets for Laura and Alex and rode up to San Francisco in Kevin’s new Mercedes sedan. At the St. Francis the Commander delivered a few pregnant thoughts on the subject of rededication and rebirth. He said World War II taught him that personal fulfillment is assured when the mission becomes more important than the man. We experience rebirth, he explained, when we think about others instead of just ourselves.
Janis announced they had finally fixed on a firm wedding date in September. The Commander pumped Kevin’s hand and welcomed him into the family. Julie made a peculiar face. I shook Kevin’s hand. We drove home by way of Walnut Creek so Kevin and Janis could check out a couple of lots. They didn’t think much of the lots. As we were going back to the car, Julie punched me in the arm and said dammit, stop staring at me!
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Sunday. Ecology convocation all weekend. Sparrow gave a presentation with the overhead projector—an analysis of our dwindling resources. He announced that the future looks bleak. We must learn how to cultivate the oceans and harness the energy from the sun.
When Parks and wife arrived for dinner last night they looked tense, as though they’d just exchanged words. Julie was even more vivacious than usual. Over the curry she categorized different professions according to their idiosyncrasies. Every architect she’s known has a thing about clean toilet bowls. Professors, on the other hand, are unable to think in straight lines, everything’s like spaghetti to them. Rich was quiet as Bev rested her hand on my sleeve and explained the I Ching. We finished the first bottle of wine and began on another. Bev produced some of their home-grown weed.
Toward the end of the evening I found myself on the front porch with Bev. I was kissing the side of her neck. I could hear Julie laughing inside. Bev pressed her hand against my forehead and said oh, Joe, there’s incredible energy blocked up in you! She backed off a little. The porch stretched away, and the steps seemed alarmingly steep. I reached out to her as the lemon tree started to bend.
When we went back inside, Julie was explaining to Rich my perplexing design. She said Joe has developed a pattern of getting into relationships which he paralyzes and slowly dissects—it’s got something to do with his need for dramatic control. Rich stared into his plate, as though something important were there. Julie said there are times when establishing meaningful contact with Joe is like trying to grab fish.
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6 / May 14, 1970-May 27, 1970
Thursday. The Cambodian invasion has gotten everyone upset. Sparrow has been running all over the place with his cardboard box under his arm, soliciting attention and maneuvering himself for some kind of recognition that has nothing to do with this miserable war. I reconvened the Student-Faculty Relations Committee but got zero response. Sparrow explained that confrontation politics have made dialogue irrelevant. Watched a small group of students milling in front of Sol Luken’s lab. Luken had barricaded the door and was giving them the fish-eye through the transom.
The Bronsons dropped by after dinner for coffee and Julie’s upside-down cake. The Commander expressed great satisfaction over the President’s firm action—he said he backs the Chief 200 per cent, and the Republic will certainly honor its solemn commitments despite the petulant malcontents. I said listen, this war is a disgrace. He said Joe, you’ve been reading too many philosophy books—if it weren’t for our boys in the field, you wouldn’t be able to talk in this manner to me. Try Havana, or maybe Peking.
I went out to the Goose and had several beers and phoned Bev. She said fine, okay, come. I drove up to her place. She said Rich wouldn’t be back for a while. We talked for an hour. She pulled off my shirt and gave me a massage with some fruit-flavored oils. I grabbed her. She said she’d been waiting for me, it was in her sun signs.
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Saturday. Sparrow cornered me in the hall yesterday and demanded I monitor one of his Information Squads—they were going to take over the switchboard at noon. I started walking away. He said Joe, you’re a narcissist, you are steeped in negation—as long as I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you affirm anything long-range or beyond your own sphere, you’re surrounded by ice and your hungers won’t leave you in peace! I shook him off and went to my office and locked the door. He ran off to liberate the switchboard. I went down to the parking lot to make sure Rich’s car was still there and drove up to see Bev.
Two high-powered hours in her bed. A massage on the living room rug afterward. Then a vegetable salad with sprouts. I said I was having some twinges about Rich. She said Joe, don’t have twinges—we’re committed to actualizing whatever reality we happen to be in. I didn’t say anything. She said Joe, you’re a beautiful man. I said what’s wrong between you and Rich? She said we’ve got too much soul-energy and not enough kinesthetic contact. Ate my bean sprouts and left. Julie gave me a look during dinner. We didn’t talk.
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Tuesday. Went bike riding around old Palo Alto with Laura and Alex Saturday afternoon, Alex balancing himself on the rack behind me. We cycled past a house that had all the shades drawn, and I felt a dark rush, like a blow on the chest, but it filtered away.
Another rabbit was lying torn up in the yard. I extended the door to the hutch with some chicken-wire and tacks.
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Wednesday. Found an orange card under my windshield wiper this morning, Bev’s calligraphy, signs of the zodiac around the borders:
i am i and you are you
and my space is not your
space
and your space is not
mine, etc.
I stared at the card and began feeling cornered again.
Underground Christian Conspiracy hit the campus today: testimonials and guitars. I sat down on the grass and tried following their line. Political activism will not help, conservation of resources will not help, saving whales will not help, Rollo May will not help, abolition of poverty and war will not help—there is only one way to alleviate our hungers, and the bread of life cannot be found among men. I drove home. The Conspiracy has great zeal, but they’ve parceled off the Rock of Ages like a section of real estate.
More dreams last night. Around 4 A.M. I got up from my cot and went to the alcove to smoke. Julie came out of the bedroom. She looked drawn. I said go back to bed. She said you keep asking for more when there isn’t any more. I said I’m not asking for more, go to bed. She said Joe, you are constantly asking for more.
