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When I came back the waiter had my bill ready. I paid, tipped 20% and thanked him.
„See you tomorrow, amigo,“ he said.
„Maybe,“ I said.
„You'll be here,“ he said.
The other races ground on. I bet early on the 9th and left. I left ten minutes before post. I got to my car and moved out. At the end of parking on Century Boulevard by the signal there was an ambulance, a fire engine and two police cars. Two cars had hit head-on. There was glass everywhere, the cars were really mangled. Somebody had been in a hurry to get in and somebody had been in a hurry to get out. Horseplayers.
I moved around the crash and took a left on Century.
Just another day shot through the head and buried. It was Saturday afternoon in hell. I drove along with the others.
9/15/92 1:06 AM
Talk about a writer's block. I believe I was bitten by a spider. Three times. Noticed these 3 large red welts on my left arm the night of 9-08-92. Around 9 p.m. There was a slight pain to the touch. I decided to ignore it. But after 15 minutes I showed the marks to Linda. She had been to an emergency room earlier in the day. Something had left a stinger in her back. Now it was after 9 p.m., everything was closed except the Emergency Ward of the local hospital. I had been there before: I had fallen into a hot fireplace while drunk. I had not fallen into the fire directly but had fallen upon the hot surface while only wearing my shorts. Now, it was this. These welts.
„I think I'd feel like a fool going in there with just these welts. There are people in there bloodied from car crashes, knifings, shootings, attempted suicides, and all I have are 3 red welts.
„I don't want to wake up with a dead husband in the morning,“ Lidna said.
I thought about it for 15 minutes, then said, „All right, let's go in.“
It was quiet in there. The lady at the desk was on the telephone. She was on the telephone for some time. Then she was finished.
„Yes?“ she asked.
„I think I've been bitten by something,“ I said. „Maybe I should be looked at.“ I gave her my name. I was in the computer. Last visit: TB time.
I was walked into a room. The nurse did the usual. Blood pressure. Temperature.
The the doctor. He examined the welts.
„Looks like a spider,“ he said, „they usually bite 3 times.“ I was given a tetanus shot, a prescription for some antibiotics and some Benadryl.
We drove off to an all-night Sav-on to get the stuff.
The 500 mg Duricef was to be taken one capsule every 12 hours. The Benadryl one every 4 to 6 hours.
I began. And this is the point. After a day or so I felt similar as I had to the time I had been taking antibiotics for TB. Only then, due to my weakened state, I was barely able to walk up and down the stairway, having to pull myself along by the banister. Now it was just the nauseous feeling, the dullness of mind. About the 3rd day I sat down in front of this computer to see if anything would come out of it. I only sat there. This must be, I thought, the way it feels when it finally leaves you. And there is nothing you can do. At the age of 72 it was always possible that it would leave me. The ability to write. It was a fear. And it was not about fame. Or about money. It was about me. I release of writing. The safety of writing. All that mattered was the next line. And if the next line wouldn't come, I was dead, even though, technically, I was living.
I have been off the antibiotics now for 24 hours but I still feel dull, a bit ill. The writing here lacks spark and gamble. Too bad, kid.
Now, tomorrow, I must see my regular doctor to find out if I need more antibiotics or what. The welts are still there, though smaller. Who knows what the hell?
Oh yes, the nice lady at the receptionist's desk, just as I was leaving, began talking about spider bites. „Yes, there was this fellow in his twenties. He got bit by a spider, now he's paralyzed from the waist up.“ „Is that so?“ I asked.
„Yes,“ she said, „and there was another case. This fellow…“ „Never mind,“ I told her, „we have to leave.“ „Well,“ she said, „have a nice night.“ „You too,“ I said.
11/6/82 12:08 AM
I feel poisoned tonight, pissed-on, used, worn to the nub. It's not entirely old age but it might have something to do with it. I think that the crowd, that crowd. Humanity which has always been difficult for me, that all repeat performance for them. There's no freshness in them. Not even the tiniest miracle. They just grind on and over me. If, one day, I could just see ONE person doing or saying something unusual it would help me get on with it. But the are stale, grimy. There's no lift. Eyes, ears, legs, voices but… nothing. They congeal within themselves, kid themselves along, pretending to be alive.
It was better when I was young. I was still looking. I prowled the streets of night looking, looking… mixing, fighting, searching… I found nothing. I never really found a friend. With women, there was hope with each new one but that was in the begi
With people, all I found were the living who were now dead
– in books, in classical music. But that helped, for a while. But there were only so many lively and magical book, then in stopped. Classial musics was my stronghold. I heard most of it on the radio, still do. And I am ever surprised, even now, when I hear something strong and new and unheard before and it happens quite often. As I write this I am listening to something on the radio that I have never heard before. I feast on each note like a man starving for a new rush of blood and meaning and it's there. I am totally astonished by the mass of great music, centuries and centuries of it. It must be that many great souls once lived. I can't explain it but it is my great luck in life to have this, to sense this, to feed upon and celebrate it. I never write anything without the radio on to classical music, it has always been a part of my work, to hear this music as I write. Perhaps, some day, somebody will explain to me why so much of the energy of the Miracle is contained in classical music? I doubt that this will ever be told to me. I will only be left to wonder. Why, why, why aren't there more books with this power? What's wrong with the writers? Why are there so few good one?
Rock music does not do it for me. I went to rock concert, mainly for the sake of my wife, Linda. Sure, I'm a good guy, huh? Huh? Anyhow, the tickets were free, courtesy of the rock musician who reads my books. We were to be in a special section with the big shots. A director, former actor, made a trip to pick us up in his sport wagon. Another actor was with him. These are talented people, in their way, and not bad human beings. We drove to the director's place, there was his lady friend, we saw their baby and then off we all went in a limo. Drinks, talk. The concert was to be at Dodger Stadium. We arrived late. The rock group was on, blasting, enormous sound. 25,000 people. There was a vibrancy there but it was short-lived. It was fairly simplistic. I suppose the lyrics were all right if you could understand them. They were probably speaking of Causes, Decencies, Love found and lost, etc. People need that – anti-establisment, anti-parent, anti– something. But a successful millionaire groupe like that, no matter what they said, THEY WERE NOW ESTABLISHMENT. Then, after a while, the leader said, „This concert is dedicated to Linda and Charles Bukuwski!“ 25,000 people cheered as if they knew who we were. It is to laugh.
The big shot movie starts milled about. I had met them before. I worriend about that. I worried about directors and actors coming to our place. I disliked Hollywood, the movies seldom ever worked for me. What was I doing with these people? Was I being sucked in? 72 years of fighting the good fight, then to be sucked away?