So we have come down to it. The writing, that is. I have figured out the format, gotten the characters in mind, located a manual typewriter that I can compose on since it does not proceed at such a rapid pace that it disrupts my rather sluggish thought processes. So we are down to it. . . . I finally came to grips with death the other night. Stoned out of my mind. Sitting on Rob’s front porch. Terrified the shit out of me. Don’t know why. But then we went to see Fleetwood Mac and I suddenly had the notion that all artists are screaming out against the inevitability of death. I am sure I heard that in a humanities class a hundred times, but never realized what it meant until Friday night. But then today it occurred to me that it won’t be so bad when you die because you won’t know. You weren’t pissed off before you were born because you hadn’t been here and you weren’t in any form to be pissed off. You won’t know shit about it anyhow, so who gives a fuck?
Thinking about death really gives credence to the idea of doing what you want. What, after all, is sixty, seventy, eighty, if you’re lucky, even one hundred years? A drop in the bucket. The blink of an eye. So life doesn’t matter really because it’s all leading to the same place. So be outrageous! Jump out there! What else is there to do? I feel like I came to some acceptance of something, but who knows? Bruce Springsteen probably does. I’ll ask him next time I see him. So we have come down to it: writin’ and death. Mario Puzo says it is nice to be rich, but can it make him twenty-six and tall, thin and handsome? No. How many houses can you have? Or tennis courts? Or clothes? It’s just money and who really gives a damn? Better to just do something so hip and wonderful that you are not forgotten. That people think about you when you’re gone. Even just in your family. If you were so loving and kind and stuff that they think about you and talk about you when you’re dead, that would be nice. I would like to believe that every time you cross somebody’s mind in that way, you would get some kind of touch of life, even though you’re dead. Like if you say prayers and bless Poppy and Nanny, they feel it sort of? Weird, but I think it has some merit and certainly is no stranger than reincarnation, so what the fuck? This is a cussin’ day. Good day sunshine and here comes the sun. Another thought is that the fame and fortune isn’t what fucks you up; it’s liking it so much you get careful. You get scared. You care about mass audience when nobody can sustain that shit. Once or twice, but not much or you’re so diluted, who cares? So you have to deal with that. Fleetwood Mac sang one new song. Same concert as a year ago. They’ve been singing it that way all over the world for exactly one year. How can they? Are they artists or record sellers? Billie Holiday said she couldn’t sing a song exactly the same way twice. She doesn’t feel it the same way so how can she sing it the same way. Listen to her, Stevie Nicks! Enough! Time to write!