Notebooks Part 15: Final Post. So ends the Notebooks.
by
Ron Steinman
December 20, 1960. New York. My trip to Haiti was fine. My too short time in the Dominican Republic was fun. I loved being in the middle of a story, really covering news. The Dominican Republic is a beautiful country with stunning, expensive women and horribly oppressed poor people. The streets, clean, the food, excellent and cheap, and everyone afraid of their shadow. Now back in New York I must see the dentist, visit my folks and return to work at six in the morning Monday. Nothing changes. But I don’t mind. I have more than thirty pages of close packed notes about my trip. When I can, I’ll write them up in manageable, readable form.
***
December 21, 1960. I’m reading “The Sacred and the Profane” by Mircea Eliade, “Gallipoli” by Alan Moorehead, “The Great Chicago Fire” by Cronin, “Heyday for Assassin”s by John Williams, and “Gates of Fear” by Conrad.
I now know that I don’t want to drink. I fear myself when I drink because I can lose control over what I am, who I am. I become unrecognizable to myself and probably to others. I can’t exist that way. Being drunk is my escape from fear, which I can’t tolerate. I know the fear will not end, but less will be better.
***
December 26, 1960. See the money-people about my new salary. Lose weight. Repair my watch. Check with the Writer’s Guild regarding NBC benefits in my new job. Think about going away gifts for my three women friends. I would like, but I can’t call them girlfriends. I have had no sex with any of them for some time. Now Janet is different. The sex with her is sweet fun and not binding.
***
December 27, 1960. This month is full of surprises. Today Len Allen told me I would get a $50.00 fee for coordinating the coverage in the Dominican Republic. I didn’t expect any pay for my effort. The trip was on NBC and I had a good time. My expenses came to $109.66 and included the hotel, transportation for Max Pou and myself and my meals.
***
December 28, 1960. Pay my rent. My flight to Washington is January 2, 1961. I depart La Guardia on Eastern Airlines 2:45 p.m., arriving at National Airport 3:54 p.m.
***
December 29, 1960. What is there left for me to do before I move? Get my shirts and suit out of the cleaner. Buy some new shirts. Figure out my last expense account. Put in my remaining dinner vouchers. From tomorrow’s check, I’ll put one hundred into checking, twenty-five into savings. I’ll have left one hundred in cash plus the approved expense vouchers of maybe sixty, minus sixteen for my watch repair, minus ten for the shirts and minus the dry cleaning bill. I’ll have more than one hundred for the weekend and my opening days in Washington. NBC does pick up my living expenses for four weeks or so until I find an apartment.
Monday I’ll do my last wash. Finish packing in the morning. Make sure I have enough shirts, socks and underwear for the next few weeks until I am settled. Of course bring many books, including “Existence” edited by Rollo May et al, “The Armada,” the life of Darrow and whatever novels I can pack. Shut the phone Monday or Tuesday, the latest. Book myself into the Alban Towers in Washington on Massachusetts Avenue, ten minutes by cab from the bureau at WRC on Nebraska Avenue.
***
December 31, 1960. It is almost 1961. In a few days, I depart for Washington. Here it is New Year’s Eve and I don’t have a date. None of the big three agreed to be with me tonight. I’m too intense for them. I’m building a thirst for a woman, for some booze, and a hunger for steak. I’ll soon call E, a woman I never looked at until recently because she has a man. Her man is out of town on assignment and she said call tonight. I have much packing to do, including stuffing my belongings into crates and boxes for the movers. Tonight, though, if E is available for an early drink and some good food, we’ll have a ball. I call. E says yes. We’ll meet at the Black Angus, a steak house on East 50th Street at 8:30. Then, if all goes well, to her apartment. With three, no four, women in my life, am I being unfaithful to any of them? Am I being the classic heel? Hell, I’m leaving town and E speaks plainly when she says we’ll end the night in bed. No strings. No ties. Good sex. I’m not a heel. Just a man in need.
***
January 1, 1961. I spent a delightful New Year’s Eve. The Black Angus, a very good restaurant. The New York strip sirloin, excellent. We ate well. We drank well. The rest of the night was wonderful . . . probably the best time I had in years. E was amazing. Uninhibited. Inventive. We played in bed and made love many different ways, including using Noxzema to help her, and us, when she and I really needed it. It helped, but neither of us will ever use Noxzema again, anywhere.
I’m still full, I have indigestion and my muscles ache pleasantly from being out of shape. I’ll throw away the leftover food in the fridge and defrost the freezer while I watch television. Then I’ll go to bed. I’m tired, too tired to think or write or care about much of anything. I’ll buy my extra socks, shirts and underwear in Washington.
Should the new job scare me? New people are strange. I have to destroy their aversions and fears. I’ll need a little time to break them down.
***
January 2, 1961. All packed and waiting patiently to go to my new job. In everything I’ve done, I’ve always left a strong impression, if not an upsetting one. This will be no different. Little can or will stop me. Because of my lack of formal news training, sheer force of will, will get me through.
***
January 3, 1961. I finished my first day of work in Washington. I consider it a mild success, though I’m unhappy with the story I edited. I’m confident I can make it with Brinkley. I have to keep lining up story after story, tossing them in his lap and seeing what he takes. A few more days will tell. I have to start getting around the city, finding an apartment, know official Washington.
***
January 7, 1961. Three apartment houses on Wisconsin Avenue merit a look. The Regent, Chesterfield and Crestview.
This is the end of my first week. I edited all the Washington film used on the Huntley-Brinkley report. It’s been exciting and educational. Brinkley is a strange man to work for. I’m getting some idea of what he wants and more clearly, what he doesn’t want. I will propose several story ideas Monday. Washington is a dull town. It’s clean and much of what I see is residential. I’ll see the nightlife, if any, pick up on what they have for jazz and eventually find some women. The job is more demanding than I believed. Do I get overtime? I’m thinking of getting a car. Rent is cheap here. Get a map and inspect apartments. I’m lonely because I’m alone after work. I’m losing weight. Northwest Washington is pretty. I’ll check out Georgetown soon.
***
January 9, 1961. So far Brinkley isn’t that difficult. But I wonder about the job. There isn’t enough for me to do. I’m sure that’ll change. After working ten hours a day at top speed, I find sitting and looking for things to do is nerve-wracking. I get jittery and on edge when my working life is too slow.
There are no bars in Washington. They only have cocktail lounges. Sunday you can only get beer. After living in Manhattan I’m still getting used to trees, grass, parks, rolling lawns and clean air. The mornings have been crisp. By midday it’s warm for the winter.
Though I have done stories in the past, I must now think about the new audience, new angles and a new approach, especially with David Brinkley and his touch. I’m not really Brinkley’s “man” because he has all sorts of women working for him. They do his research. What am I to do with my extra time? There aren’t enough feature stories in Washington. This is a political town. It’s up to me to unmask the politics and find the humor and human interest beneath the beat of politics. I don’t know my way around. New York wants me to go find things to do. I have to start reporting. Brinkley says my story suggestions are old. I’ll find new ones, I say. First I must get cleared to enter the White House and other important locations. Without clearance, I can’t shoot stories. Balls. The barriers seem impossible. Brinkley’s assistants are so damn useless. They aren’t helpful. Worse, they are challenging me to do everything on my own. I will.
***
January 10, 1961. I’m looking to do a story in Newport News, Virginia, and another story on gambling in a small Maryland town. The cameramen are ready and willing to work with me and for me. They want to shoot some decent pieces and get far away from news conferences and congressional hearings. I’m working harder and doing more.
***
January 14, 1961. I realize I’m functioning as David’s film director, field producer and film editor. I don’t edit the film but I supervise the film editor and work with him closely. Last Wednesday I was up at five in the morning, flew to Newport News with a film crew to do a piece at Langley Air Force base. I flew back to Washington, edited the piece, gave David a scratch script that he rewrote and we had the story on that night. Thursday I was out at eight a.m. doing a story in Georgetown. I completed the shooting Friday, planned my editing and rough script. David rewrites everything. Monday I’ll put it together and it’ll air Monday or Tuesday night. The directors are starting to make noise that I’m taking away their work. The camera crews tell me the directors would love my job, though the pay isn’t nearly as good as theirs. David likes directors, but he doesn’t trust their editorial judgment. Knowing that makes my job that more interesting.
***
January 15, 1961. Working for Brinkley is satisfying, but I never know what he’s thinking. He’s painfully shy with me. I don’t know why. Or else he doesn’t want to talk. After two weeks, I wonder whether I’ll make it. No matter, it’s good experience.
Washington at night is a zero. Nothing human moves or breathes. It’s a very serious town. The city is too austere and staid. The people here stay indoors at night. Last Saturday night I took a long walk through the city. People stared. I stared back. This afternoon, it’s raining. I’m indoors. Washington is lethargic. A capitol city should be one with a pulse. The town is too provincial for me. I’m trying to find its cultural life and I realize, after looking through the papers, it’s limited. There are two legitimate theaters. Musicians move in and out quickly. Broadway plays do try out and some original plays are produced. I have a feeling it’s all for tourists. Perhaps when I’m out of this hotel in my own apartment with my books, furniture, radio, records and record player, I’ll be in a better frame of mind. Again, tonight, I’ll have room service. There aren’t many restaurants in this neighborhood that are close and decent. I don’t want to head for Georgetown.
After a heavy meal of a cheeseburger, French fries, two beers and chocolate ice cream, I’m full. The food’s taking too long to digest and properly settle in my burbling stomach.
The most excitement about the job is that I direct. I tell the cameraman what to shoot and how to shoot it. It means I have to see the sequence of scenes in my head as I watch the story unfold. I’m having a good time doing this. I learn from the cameramen, just as I learn from the film editors. These people are all patient with me because they are having a good time doing these short features, some of which run no more than forty-five seconds. Each day, with each new process, I learn more and undergo a new test of my ability to learn and remember. That is hard to beat.
The Alban Towers Hotel is boring, dank and dismal. Stop sleeping so much. Stop eating so much. Lose weight.
***
January 16, 1961. I’m making good progress. Brinkley finally said he likes my work—so far. Without it said, I know I’m on trial. Each day it’s possible I might fail, at least with David and Reuven. Why didn’t they make that clear to me when I came here? Maybe that’s management’s way in news. It isn’t honest. If this doesn’t work, they can return me to New York. In a cardboard box or a pine coffin—it would not matter how.
***
January 22, 1961. In a note to Brinkley let him know that instead of race relations, he should use integration. A note is easier than a conversation. But Brinkley ignored me, anyway. Call Reuven for a long talk on whether he thinks I’ll be staying because I do want to remain.
***
January 24, 1961. Tonight I had my first real, fully produced story on the air. Reuven did not like the piece, but David said he did. David said he would let me know what he thinks, that is, whether he wants me to stay by the middle or the end of the week. I want to stay in Washington. Good or bad on last night’s story, I have done other work here that has been good. There are some people who surround Brinkley who would sooner see me go than stay. I have the support of the camera crews and editors but not necessarily the people on the desk, who handle assignments. They don’t understand where I’m coming from and contend I take needed people away from news. But Brinkley rules and I get what I want because I work for Brinkley. The experience is terrific. I need everything I can get from this job. It is goddamned frustrating being dependent on others, most of whom I don’t respect.
***
January 26, 1961. Despite his not loving my first effort, Reuven told me he is pleased and believes the show is better by my presence. Earlier today David came to the editing room to tell me he wanted me to cut all the film for the show tonight, including the confirmation hearings.
Washington snow is fearful and terrible. Everyone gets upset well beyond the measure of the snow’s worth. Drivers can’t drive. They can’t navigate their cars through the gentle powder covering the streets. The town stops. The buses crawl and then don’t move. I see most people bundled up, huddling in doorways. Those who venture out slip, slide and fall through no fault of their own. Come to New York for real snow, you Washingtonians. Trudge through freezing rain, snow, ice, sleet and hail. Slog over sandy streets and newly formed mud. Then you will learn to hate snow.
***
February 2, 1961. Washington continues to be beneficial. I’m producing, reporting, directing and writing, even if the scripts are rough drafts for Brinkley. I’m working hard and doing more than I dreamed. I know I have untapped talent that will take me very far. Others have recognized it. The job can now probably be mine for a few years. I can handle that okay. I have to learn to ignore some New York Huntley Brinkley staff, what they say and how they say it. Some mean well so I’ll practice restraint. I hope I can do it.
Reuven says it’s all but certain that I’ll be staying. He has to sign the final papers. While training, I have a great audience in size and value. I work for and with top-flight professionals. It’s not bad.
***
February 6, 1961. Get the Nation for its piece on gambling. See if I can get Harpers on gambling. There’s a story in this with a Maryland angle. Everything is rolling right along now and I’m still having a ball, working hard, but not playing hard enough. There are too few women here who interest me. It’s a dry time. I want to get into the field more. Editing film, especially committee hearings, no longer excites me only after doing it for several weeks. I wish I had my own place. It would be easier to live and have a life. I must get out of this hotel. In my own apartment, I’ll have my books, my refrigerator, a private place.
Working the way I do now in film is marvelous. It’s clean, good, damn refreshing. The cameramen are starting to understand my needs and I’m developing a sense of style. There isn’t much you can do with style in short features or hard news stories, but I can try to impose some fresh ideas. Clearly, my New York producers don’t always like the way I have stories edited. Their attitude is simplistic and stiff but they are in charge so I will comply but only to a point.
Much of the time loneliness is the pervasive force in my life. I believe that in many ways I shall always be alone.
***
February 7, 1961. Now that Reuven Frank has said yes and is putting through the paper work, Brinkley came by to tell me that his decision is “favorable, definite and unequivocal.” He said those words in his best clipped cadence. Don’t anchors talk like people? Anyway, I’ll remain here now to live and work, to learn and create and maybe even write.
The Felix Grant Show on WMAL has good jazz. Finally. It’ll help me get through dull evenings.
I’m looking into stories on the General Services Administration, what it is, why it works or not. I’ll try to do a mood piece about railroads in Maryland and Virginia. I have to call the Labor Department for Arthur Goldberg’s itinerary for a possible profile. I want to do a story about cleaning up the Potomac River, which I gather is something that everyone wants every year.
***
February 9, 1961. Okay. I’m learning something new every day. My job requires accuracy. I must be perfect in my answers to Brinkley’s questions, whether they are about a news conference, hearing, and a story I’m working. It’s his right to know. He has the position and experience. If I don’t give him what he wants, Brinkley is very good at making me feel like a fool. I don’t like the feeling. In the future, I’ll write all his instructions. I’ll make notes on everything he says and check them again before I shoot, cover or edit a story. When I report to him, I’ll have no doubts about his wishes and he’ll have all his answers. I must also be positive in what I think of a story, especially a news conference or congressional hearing. My news judgment will develop as I cover more stories. I’ll give him additional information he requests, answer all his questions. I’ll use his suggestions to change the film stories shot especially for him. If I disagree, I’ll keep my mouth shut. I can’t allow him to intimidate me. His tactic is to make everyone around him feel small. I refuse to bite or have him sting me with his sarcasm. He’s quick and clever with words. Words are his business, but I resent it when he attacks me. I can see that we’ll never be friends. I have no intention of becoming his friend. We’ll never have a discussion about anything. He closes himself off to common discourse. He doesn’t want to be my friend. David Brinkley exists hidden in the mordant hole of his self, a steel facade to the world around him. I also know this job won’t last forever.
***
February 11,12, 1961. I’m back in New York in my apartment for the weekend. Because I couldn’t break the lease, NBC keeps paying the rent until I move permanently to Washington. I have a date but she won’t come here out of fear I might want to make love. She’s right. I do want to make love. Anyway, I don’t have any ice. Without ice, we can’t drink anything. The cupboard is bare because I’ve been away. I don’t want the macaroni without cheese. I’ll arrange to move out in the next few weeks once I find an apartment in Washington.
Later. The date was lousy. We did not kiss. She lost, not me. Who am I kidding?
***
February 18, 1961. My bank account is full which helps as I look for an apartment. I admonish myself to cut down on my eating. Buy socks. Buy underwear. Why do I always wear out my socks and underwear? Think of more story ideas for the show.
Sex fills my mind, but it’s only in my mind. Unfortunately.
Good news. I have an apartment in a great location at 1500 Massachusetts Avenue, on the corner of 15th Street. My new home is a very large studio (18×13) with heavily shellacked cork floors, a small Pullman kitchen, a picture window facing the street and a combination dressing room bathroom for only $106.50 a month, including utilities and no security. It has central air conditioning, a necessity for the hot Washington summer. They will paint. There is also a front desk that takes messages, a laundry room and, of course, elevators. It’s mine as quickly as I can move. In more than a week, I’ll be in my own apartment. I’ll start feeling more like me when I can live like myself again and finally be out of this deadly hotel.
*
Somehow, these notebooks are becoming a steady drag on my time and my life. I no longer get a thrill out of being a diarist. Putting down ideas still intrigues me, but the day-by-day accounting of my life may not now be necessary. I want to start getting away from prolonged, personal reflection. This could be my last notebook.
*
I’m learning to deal with Brinkley by ignoring him and by staying out of his way when I can. I must get inside him but something tells me I never will. I’ll never get to know him. As a professional, I have to learn to care for myself outside his orbit. He’s forty-one. I am not yet twenty-seven. The bridge between us is light years. This is my lament about the man but not about the job. I see the job lasting no longer than a year. Anything more than that would be fatal.
***
February 23, 1961. Get my lease. Find out when they will paint. Find the incinerator at 1500 Massachusetts. Where do I throw away my boxes after I move? Where is the laundry room? Is it on the sixth floor? How do I call the valet? Buy a big bookcase to use as a room divider. Call home for a change. Call my father to assure him I am still part of the family. Buy a new wallet. Get NBC to help me move out of the apartment in New York. They know it’s their responsibility for transferring me to Washington. Business Affairs will do nothing unless told, even if clearly stated in the rules. When you think about it, it’s terrific management policy to keep your personnel in the dark.
***
February 28, 1961. Tomorrow I’ll take possession of my new apartment. My furniture arrives from New York. My phone will be installed Thursday, March 2 between eight and five. Then I can concentrate on work and producing stories for David. I have to buy a new portable typewriter for the road.
*
I have some thoughts on the art of the documentary. I must deal in rhythm. Timing and pace to create a mood and direct the viewer where I want him to go is everything. Sometimes open a sequence hard by using swift cuts. Then pull back wide and build soft dissolves to relieve the audience’s mind by giving them warmth and passion. Always seize the mind. Wrench the heart. Move the soul. Stir the blood. Activate the eyes. Quicken the pulse. Allow the audience to be Lazarus inside himself. Then strike him down. Do it gently or harshly as dictated by the look and feel of the film. Manipulate when you must unless the material defies manipulation. Just in case, I ever get the chance to do my own work.
***
March 3, 1961. My stomach pains continue. Make an appointment with Doctor C., who comes highly recommended. I’m afraid to discover what’s going on inside me. My new phone number is HO 2-0390.
Saturday clean and start furnishing the apartment. I need Ajax for the toilet bowl and sink. I’ll clean Saturday night before I go out. The previous tenant must have been a monumental slob. After inspecting the refrigerator, stove and range, I know he had an addiction to jams, jellies. He obviously loved rich, heavily frosted cake with white or vanilla icing. When he cooked, the heavy grease splattered the walls. Eggs were his favorite food. Bits of shell are everywhere. Evidence in the bathroom says he had serious dandruff and rapidly shedding hair. My hair merely falls out.
***
March 6, 1961. I still have too much on my mind that doesn’t allow me to sleep for fear I might not wake in the morning. I was that way as a child. I’m that way as a man. I worry I might not rise from the depth of my sleep when dawn strikes like a bronze hammer on black, iron-flecked, rough rock. I have life on my mind and the wish to live it fully every moment. I know I’m doing a good job with this damn thing called life. I may not beat everything, but I’ll put up a hell of fight. I believe in self-preservation.
***
March 9, 1961. I have come to realize that news, as news for me is deadly and unrewarding. Washington is probably worse than most places. Although the news constantly changes, it has a pattern that never deviates. Mostly, though, in Washington, it’s about things, not people. When people are not part of the story, the event for me is useless. It is nothing. Reuven Frank and Eliot Frankel say they want stories about people. Brinkley does not. Brinkley wins. Time and patience must be my mantra. David is lazy, brilliant, inventive. Before I edit a piece, I always ask what tack are you taking today. He says he doesn’t know yet. Then he tells me to cut it the way I think best. I call him to look at the edited version and he says that isn’t what he wanted. What do you want, I ask. He shakes his head. I say why didn’t you tell me. He frowns, turns around and walks out of the editing room. Big help. It’s as if he wants me to read his mind. Brinkley does compliment me. He has thanked me twice. I’ll never treat anyone who works for me the way he treats people, especially me. We are from different worlds. Brinkley gets angry with me in public when I want to know what he wants. Other staffers in Washington who know David and his methods ask me how long can I take it. I tell them I have to take it because my future is in a job controlled by the confines of his mind. David is not the center of the world. When I try entering his world as a professional, he seals it off. I’m building friendships out of sympathy. Now I have to build relationships out of trust. I don’t rant, rave or scream at him now. In ten months, I might.
***
March 12, 1961. I want to make films that will sparkle with the zest of life and scream the raw edged, harsh reality of truth. I want them to be gentle, melodic and flowing. The films should possess the spirit of fate. I’m searching through the eye of the camera. I must feel the subject I’m exploring and the camera must have faith in what I’m doing.
***
March 13, 1961. As the pages of this notebook fill, this might be the last of the current set. I might keep smaller books in the future for my life, and use the bigger ones for throwaway notes and reminders.
I met a delightful Greek woman tonight but she’s flighty. She’ll be very good in bed or very bad. I worry that I might have to marry her to sleep with her and that will never happen. So, I can only speculate on what might have been.
***
March 14, 1961. Television documentaries are almost all alike. The camera work is usually good but not outstanding. I see the same shots and the same rhythm in the editing. There must be a universal template that television producer’s use. Pacing is limited and unimaginative, except in the use of sound. The talking head rules. We hear what we should be seeing, and the heads talk about what they saw or knew. Film should show and it should have a brief explanation by a voice behind the picture or by a voice on the scene. The on-camera talker should rarely have a role. Documentaries on television rely too much on the ear and not enough on the eye. Television documentaries blaspheme the true film documentary. They are distinct mediums.
***
March 15, 1961. It’s a sunny, warm, cool-breezed-filled Spring day. I spent the last several hours walking after spending the hours before reading.
I’m at the typewriter in my apartment in this beautiful, dull city waiting for something to happen. I want to make things happen around me against the will of the city and against the will of the world. I’m on a cliff with my legs dangling and my toes flying free, moistened by the salt air from the sweet spring of the restless sea.
Women. Forgetting. Remembering. Entwined. Confused. In the deepest reaches and recesses of my mind, I refuse to forget. I’m the repository of all the riches and sorrow, which I, as a man, have ever known.
Women. I’m perspiring. Very unromantic. Fully aware, I’m hungry and hankering. My leg bounces to the tune of 120 beats to the minute, yet I am immobile, unmoved and un-moveable. A light smile creases my imagined, gnarled features. My hand rubs the back of my newly graying hair. It is too long on my neck. I refuse to cut it. I sit in shorts and Haitian slippers listening to Thelonious Monk, Gustav Mahler, Igor Stravinsky and reading T.S. Eliot. I read some of my own work and I wonder if it matters. I decide, vaguely, that it may. I don’t know, really, but I wish to know. When I gaze deeply into my mind or stare at a cloud, I come up with a hazy vision inside a crystal ball fished from gypsy garbage. Once the crystal ball endlessly floated in a polluted sewer that emptied into all the rivers, seas and oceans of the world. Floating! When, damn it, I want the tops of mountains. But I have a bum knee. It doesn’t allow me to climb without injuring it further and maybe disabling it forever, which may not be bad. I find myself filled with flowing fluid, drained but always draining. My senses go wild. The memory of taste drives me to eat. I end with a peanut butter sandwich on flat Saltines stale from the sun on a vacant lot in Brooklyn.
Women. I’m wearing a torn T-shirt. Orange cushions are on a cane chair. There is a flash of color and a deadening of light. Sprawling. Lost. I have no sense of direction. Nay and yea. Robert Frost has thatched hair and pursed lips. Sweet smile. Curly hair. A mocking bird mocks. Incomprehension. Indecision. Beauty. Make a face. Gasp. Grasp what I can. Touch but do not touch. Lay the sword between us before sleep—for protection.
Women. It’s night. It’s hot in March at sixty-two degrees. The Modern Jazz Quartet rules my radio. I think of passion and desire, two emotions often on my mind. Sweet smell of perfume. Beware the dog. He bites. Trespass and you suffer the consequences.
One Woman. Clicking-clack in high heel shoes. She can barely stand. Her soul goes naked to the world. Tune the set to make it run. Prepare your defense. Defend your preparations. Go play. Build sand castles in Coney Island. I’ll build mud pies and an adobe hut while sucking on a squeezed lemon and sipping Tequila under a peon’s sky. Light up my heart, now. Grind your cigarette on my exposed chest. Ride the unconquered wave. Seek oblivion. I see your jagged toenail and your chipped, red polish. Your breath is warm and sunny. It has the scent of fresh perfume, warm whiskey, yesterday’s toothpaste, kosher sea salt, nutmeg and Metrical. Someone is eating Chinese food in Bavaria. Rein in the galloping horse. You have a wisp of hair over your forehead. We tangle ourselves in the sheets. We strangle ourselves in love. We sigh, release and then know bliss.
A woman. Guilt? Expiate. Expire in my arms. You arm me with desire. Again? Yes. Now. Sudden release. Soon. Hold on. Please. I need immediate release. Now? Now. No. Not now. Wait. I can’t wait any longer. Hold on. Now? Please. Yes, damn it, now. Now! Now! My god. We are wonders. A cigarette? Yes. Sweat covers the two of us. I taste the salt on your upper lip. When we pause, we know our lives are unreal. Resonant tone. Secret timbre.
One woman.
Touch me and then you can disappear forever.
If you don’t . . . I will.
*
Another day is done. It was a good day. This will be the last of the notebooks. I am about to go beyond my preoccupation with myself. My work will answer many questions about my life. I suspect the world will open to me in ways I cannot imagine. I know there will be answers to my questions, as I become part of life. I do wonder where I will be next, but I know I have movement and direction. So, now, no more. Close the book on this part of my life at 6:24:30 in the evening on March 14, 1961.
The End
Ron Steinman
