PFK1 (17 page)

* * * *

June 13, 1978

Weird, weird stuff I am writing late at night in the midst of my

drunken stupors. May not be able to resist the urge to write Ms.

Ellsworth again. Regarding the idea, Lori took a neutral stance.

Maybe yes, maybe no.

She said she hasn’t been around Polly enough during the past three

years to know what she is thinking. Although, based on what Lori has

heard from Polly, her present situation with this guy has to be

frustrating.

So what if I try to contact Polly, what then? She will no doubt

respond with one of her smarmy, superior missives. Ah well, so

what? She is my one true audience, my first steady reader. The little

sneak. We shall see what we shall see.

Last weekend was fun. Saw a lot of people, whose names I will

omit. Makes me wish I still lived in Eugene. Well, I don’t. I often

wish for a lot of things. But rarely do they come to pass.

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And I am so impatient.

Also watched the movie Where’s Poppa? with Lori and Bill on

Saturday night. Apparently Bill is back in Lori’s life.

No doubt a measure of her desperation.

The movie was a lot of fun and so were they.

The three of us laughed and laughed. The movie was written by

Robert Klane, whose work I love. His novella "The Horse Is Dead" I

consider a droll classic. Also dig "Fire Sale." Mick turned me on to

Klane’s writing.

I try to keep myself busy with various projects as a way of

suppressing the self-destructive urges that constantly oppress me.

Among people, I am too talky, too vulnerable, too unsure of myself. I

am not like most other men.

I’m afraid the experience I had with Ms. Ellsworth in 1975 really

took the wind out of my sails. It really did. In retrospect, I think she

decided that I did not love her when instead I was merely inept at

expressing it.

It is unfortunate that I could not get inside her head at certain key

junctures in our relationship. A smoother evolution of our love affair

might have been the result. Possibly if I had been a little older, wiser,

more mature.

But she had my journals to read (without my permission) and I did

not have hers. She did not write down her thoughts, being afraid of

such endeavors, so to speak. We weren’t reading each other’s minds,

she was only reading mine.

What can I say? Many things I set down only to try them out as

thoughts or ideas. But once they are on paper they seem like the last

fucking word. Permanent. Tablets brought down from fucking Sinai.

Chiseled in stone. Okay, so I am/was/were a compulsive writer. Is

that such a fucking crime?

Is it? In any case, I can’t escape what I have written and the

explanation that there is more to me than what appears on paper rings

false to non-writers.

The summer we spent together, Polly told me she wanted to get

married and have a family. Well, I never said I opposed it or ridiculed

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them as ideas. No! In truth I want, or at least wanted, the same

things. But I just wasn’t completely sure about her. Polly came on so

strong, so needy. And I was still sort of leery after my experience

with Leanne.

Now Ms. Ellsworth has been with another man for going on two

years, a man who has provided her with neither ring nor baby. Lori is

right. How frustrated she must be.

I can feel it all the way from here.

* * * *

June 16, 1978

Political letter idea:

We must always remember that the Democratic Party has been

America’s most consistent vehicle for peaceful social change since the

1930s. We have since witnessed the fall of old institutions and the

rise of new ones.

Throughout it all, the Democratic Party lives on.

Our highest achievement as Democrats has been our ability to call

forth the best in people, expressing our better natures in intelligent

government action. Our party serves a useful and noble purpose.

Blah blah blah.

Got an ink pad for my new address stamp. All goes well so far.

Planning to submit ten sample chapters to publishers next week and

see what happens. I also have a chatty letter going out to 200 of my

closest political friends. Just between you and me.

Want to get it rolling real soon.

Secret Address:

Roberta Klane

1790 HWY 101 #7

Beachtown, OR 97439

That is where the weed goes, Mickey. Don’t let that lousy federal

narc Black Pete get wind of it.

* * * *

June 20, 1978

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Practically in a frenzy this past week, working on various projects

all at once. Mailed out the political letter ten minutes ago, dropping it

the box outside the post office. A total of 210 pieces altogether.

My literary mailing is nearly ready as well. It means I am broke

again. I really shelled out the money for this stuff. The postage alone

came to $35. Nothing comes cheap anymore. Used the "boy next

door" photo on the political thing that Katrine took of me last year.

Hope it helps.

The only thing holding up the literary queries at this point is the

cover letter. I am not satisfied with what I have written so far. The

form is sound, but the words need fine-tuning.

Busy busy busy.

Megan delighted me the other day. I’ve been reading Jack

Kerouac’s novel Tristessa at my desk and when I was done, she asked

if she could borrow it. She liked it so much she checked out On The

Road from the public library. I was working at my desk when she

came up to me and touched me on the shoulder, saying:

"What’s your road, man? – holyboy road, madman road, rainbow

road, guppy road, any road. It’s an anywhere road for anybody

anyhow. Where body how?"

She’d memorized the speech that Dean Moriarty makes to Sal

Paradise on page 251 of the Penguin edition of the Kerouac classic. I

laughed and made her repeat it a couple times. She’s such fun. She

really knows her books. You can’t fake literary appreciation. Either

you have it or you don’t.

We talked about poetry. Her favorite is Diane Wakoski. I’d sort of

heard of her but had not read any of her stuff. Megan gave me
Inside

The Blood Factory
to read and another one,
Virtuoso Literature For

Two And Four Hands.

They both knocked me out – they’re so great!

It is blue. It is blue. It is blue.

I love that stuff.

Ms. Wakoski writes absolute fucking dynamite poetry.

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Another poet Megan loves is Gary Snyder, one of the younger

beats. His book
Turtle Island
won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in

1975. Also very good.

Then Megan told me a curious thing. She said Mark hardly ever

reads books at all except for school assignments. Most of his time is

spent attending these Eastern Fellowship meetings when he is in

Eugene. He’s really into it, she said.

That excellent South African weed arrived from Mick last

Thursday, June 15. So far I have half a letter written to him, including

my thanks. I’ll hold off on finishing it until I am in a more expansive

frame of mind. Right now I’m in the mood for a tiny puff of this

terrific new reefer.

* * * *

June 21, 1978

Attended the Governor’s Conference on Upward Mobility today.

Why oh why must the universe conspire to torture me in so many

ways? This was a seminar on how to get ahead in the state employee

system, for crying out loud.

Because I am presently a state employee at a lower end salary range

of 14 or below, I was required to be there.

So there I was with my fellow co-worker Megan and Josie, our

other ADC worker on staff. Returning home we smoked dope in the

state car (me and Megan, not Josie) and really had a good time. I

really like them both a lot, but especially Megan. She is absolutely

fucking wonderful, to look at and to talk with. Have mercy, is she

ever gorgeous! What a beauty.

Makes Polly Ellsworth seem a trifle dowdy by comparison. Amy

Lawrence, meet Becky Thatcher. Not a day goes by when I do not

experience some pang of inward regret that Megan is married to Mark

and therefore off limits.

My life is filled with women. I am surrounded by them from the

moment I arrive at work until the moment I go home. They are so

much easier to get along with than men. They have so much more

compassion and more refinement. They are cleaner and smell better,

too.

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For reasons I do not entirely grasp, I have no trouble at all making

them laugh. I just start talking. In the car I had Megan and Josie in

stitches and that was even before I brought out the stick of reefer.

I wish somehow I could find that special woman. If Ms. Ellsworth

had given me the chance, I know I would have been a good husband

to her, no matter what she might say now.

The same with Marie, I’m sure, if I hadn’t (foolishly) turned her

down. Alas, the right woman for Patrick J. Compton has yet to come

along.

Probably never shall.

Finished the letter to Mick today, a nice long one. I got a good start

on it during the boring parts of the Upward Mobility Conference.

Geez, what a crock of shit that was.

* * * *

June 25, 1978

The things I expect to like I wind up hating and the reverse is also

often true.

* * * *

June 27, 1978

A busy, busy fellow I am these days. Unfortunately, the dope

smoking isn’t doing me much good. Every evening, I slip into this

green-tinged world fantasy garden. What a way to live. I’m

completely ashamed of myself. Gotta stop it pronto. I hereby make a

solemn vow to reform – one of these days.

Sent a copy of my book to Polly Ellsworth today. Don’t tell me

I’m crazy. I already know that. I can’t help myself – the urge to share

just comes over me. I thought I was pretty witty about it though,

telling her that as my first reader she deserves an update.

I’m trying to combat negative behaviors by taking positive action.

That’s what the psychologist who spoke at the Upward Mobility

seminar advised us to do. Take positive action.

So that’s what I’m attempting with my thinly fictionalized personal

adventure writing. To tell you the truth, I get a lot of pleasure out of

reading and writing. Intellectual pursuits are my real joy. Last year

(1977) in Portland, with the Central Library nearby, I read over 300

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books. Every Saturday morning I was there bright and early when the

doors opened. Every spare minute I spent reading and writing,

reading and writing. Try doing that with a woman hanging around.

Words are my hope, my joy. Someday I hope to write things that

aren’t so stupidly self-absorbed as what I am writing now. That day

apparently hasn’t arrived yet.

The State Democratic Party meets in two days at the Morse Ranch

outside Eugene. I’ll have to work out my remarks and practice them.

I’m pretty sure I’ll preach party unity – that’s always a big crowd

pleaser.

Wonder if I’ll see Jill Deskins there. Probably not. I think I may

ask Dave McNeese to nominate me for an at-large central committee

spot. If he won’t, I’ll ask John Thomas.

Sent my first query about the book to Doubleday. Talk about

nerve. I have impossible hopes for my project. I don’t know what

makes me so special.

There are a zillion other goddamn writers out there. I’m just

another drop in the bucket, so to speak.

Ms. Ellsworth has my original typescript. I figure she will destroy

it for the sake of humanity. It would really be quite a noble gesture on

her part. I have no hope of merchandising it at present for big bucks,

although that is my ultimate goal.

I can imagine what her reaction will likely be. She could call it

tasteless, among other things. She is so refined now, you know, all

grown up and responsible.

Wrote still another version of the query letter tonight. I keep

working it over and over. I think this one is better, although probably

too terse. It looks nice on the page, however.

Perhaps I will try McMartin Publishers next. I have no reason to

believe I can make any headway there, but the Literary Marketplace

book says they are willing to consider photocopied submissions.

It’s such a pain trying to sell myself like this. I have no idea how to