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what the fuck went wrong: I wrote in this fucking journal, goddammit.
She couldn’t bear to have me writing, saying stuff, (however true)
about her.
This journal is now nearly five volumes long. What a sick fucking
chronicle. Polly read my words and it turned her away from me.
That’s what happened. She liked snooping around in it though, the
smug, sneaking, self-righteous bitch. Well, I can’t go on writing in it
any longer. It’s too painful. What’s more, I hate living. I really hate
being alive.
This face, this body, this idiotic existence I lead. My stupid blond
hair and blue eyes.
I haven’t felt right, haven’t been right, for more than three years
now. Ever since I came back from Atlanta in 1975, I have been lost
and depressed. Running into the emotional chain saw known as Polly
Ellsworth did not do me any good, either. It wasn’t what happened
between us, but the way it happened that brought me down.
Drank at the Whistler again tonight. I’m becoming a regular. A
regular drunk. What a joke. I hate myself more than words can say,
which is saying something. And you have certainly exacerbated my
self-hatred, my dear, dearest darling. I thank you with all my heart.
You knew me when I was a baby. A 19 year old baby. Well, I’m
grown up now. Happy fucking birthday, Polly Ellsworth, goddamn
you to hell.
One more card to play. You deserve it. You want to read other
people’s private thoughts? Read this. Read this shit, you bitch. You
fucking goddamned bitch.
Sure liked your letter, though, and the cute little scenario you
developed about us – the bit about how it never would have gone
anywhere. Very nice edge. Very sharp.
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Like a knife to the throat.
Yes, your letter. Truly a powerful feminist document. Robin
Morgan Germaine Greer Gloria Steinem Betty Friedan Valerie Solano
Polly Ellsworth. I especially enjoyed the part where you describe
your boyfriend’s money, tax shelters, income, all that material shit.
Such a strong, independent woman you are.
Blazing those feminist trails.
Of course you may be right about me. No doubt you are. Still, I
feel sorry for you. I pity you. My emotional universe may be small
but yours is microscopic. You should see a psychiatrist, a fucking
shrink. Maybe you should be a psychiatrist. Manipulate other people
for money. It’s a talent. It’s a gift.
Give them pills to mess them up even worse, like they’ve done to
poor, sad Katrine.
You know: Thorazine. Mellaril. Stelazine. Lithium carbonate. A
whole collection of colorful pastel pills. So pretty, so lovely. It’s a
career. It’s a calling. It’s a fucking vocation.
Better be good from here on out, girlie. I know what your hell is
going to be. You will have to read my journal, volume upon volume,
onward to infinity.
Man. Woman. Birth. Death. Patrick’s journal. Infinity. There’ll
be a quiz afterwards. Lloyd Schenzler will be your proctor. He is
more trustworthy than you. Probably you stole his book report, not
the other way around.
Man, I could write forever tonight.
Oh yeah, and I’m still alive.
For now.
The next move is mine. You give away the things you love, and
one of them is this. Here is a signal. Here is a sign.
I’m sending Polly all the subsequent volumes of my journal. Let
the story pick up where it left off. If my guess is correct, she will not
be able to resist reading these words.
Take a big bite of my poison apple, girlie. No, better yet, let me
shove it down your throat. Let me expose myself nakedly to you.
That’s what you wanted, ain’t it? You’d do it again, right? Like a
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pervert in the park wearing no pants under his raincoat, I will expose
myself.
Nobody deserves the truth more than you. Eat the truth, bitch.
Suck its cock like you did mine.
Yes yes yes. Let Polly make what she can of these painful
passages. If I am not wrong, she will read every wretched word.
Now that I think about it, in her perfect selfishness and in her
ability to rationalize her private crimes, she reminds me a lot of...of...
my own mother! Aaaaauuugghhh!
Abigail Van Buren says men either marry a woman like their
mother or the opposite. Omigod! She was the same!
When I fucked Polly, I was fucking my own mother. I was a
goddamned motherfucker.
An asshole motherfucker piece of shit.
I can’t believe how fast we drifted apart. How far and how fast the
dissolution went. It seems like a dream now that I once pressed my
lips to hers, had my cock in her body, in her mouth, or my tongue in
her vagina. How many times did my lips close upon those little pink
nipples of hers? How many times did I rub her button with my finger,
to make her whimper and coo?
Hmmm? How many?
How quickly she vanished from my life! For her, I rejected all the
others, only to discover that she was going to reject me.
What incomparable irony. Delicious.
Now on to other business. I’ve gone through all of my junk and
found everything she ever sent me and torched it in the barrel out
back. Gone. Every drawing, every letter, every photo. Except for
one thing. Ya know what? I found this nude drawing she made of me
back when she was giving me her jealous shit about Arianna. I’d
forgotten all about it.
The thing is uncannily accurate, showing me with an erection, hairy
legs, stupid beard and everything. The thought bubble atop my head
says: "I hope Arianna doesn’t mind me cumming at the very thought
of her..."
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I’m going to keep that little scrap. The idea that she sat down and
created it amuses me. It amuses me no end. What a jealous bitch she
was. Likewise, the letters I have copied into this diary will have to
stay unless she takes it upon herself to destroy the books. She will
have that option. I hope she exercises it.
As a final punishment, I hereby sentence Polly Ellsworth to the
Gulag of Namelessness, for hereafter I will never write her name
again. She will only be "the other one."
She is forever vaporized.
* * * *
August 19, 1978
This next part I am again writing like a non-fiction novel because
simple transcription cannot adequately express what I have just been
through. Late last night I went to the ocean to take a swim. I wasn’t
planning to drown myself or anything like that. I just wanted to put
myself in a hazardous situation where I was likely to die.
I wanted to do something extremely dangerous. I wanted to swim
with the bananafish. I wanted to go surfin’ USA.
To mark the occasion, I sent "the other one" all five volumes of my
journal. As a parting gift. They have these nifty padded manila
mailers at work. We use them to ship welfare files here and there
around the state.
I used one to mail my journals to her.
<
br /> Let her and the new boyfriend read them through.
Those crazy kids. I know that her evil morbid curiosity will ensure
a thorough reading. So many juicy tidbits. My guess is that 1977
alone ought to make her (pubic) hair stand on end.
My long, soundless Edvard Munch scream.
I left work early and got good and drunk at home. By 10:00 PM I
was plastered, so I drove up the coast to a unique natural formation
known as Devil’s Churn. It’s a spot where the ocean has chewed a
100-yard long trench in the rocks. The water there comes roaring
through like a runaway freight train.
Many people have drowned there.
Pretty challenging swim, all things considered.
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But about right for me.
The other one probably doesn’t even remember telling me about the
time she fell kerplunk in Devil’s Churn, way back in 1972 or
thereabouts. She was with Blane at the time.
No swimmer himself, Blane never even tried to fish her out. That
honor went to some other hero who risked his life to save hers.
Totally bedraggled and spitting up seawater, the girl lost her purse and
one of her shoes, but was otherwise unhurt.
I thought it over and decided Devil’s Churn was right for me. I
especially like the name. Devil’s Churn. And I really did feel like
taking a swim. Near as I could guess, there was no shortage of
potential hazards, and likely no heroes in sight at 10:30 PM on August
18, 1978. A really horrifying finale to my existence on earth would
be very much to my liking.
So I decided to take the plunge.
Surfing like the fucking Beach Boys, man.
Like Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello. Of course, a fatal
accident was not my primary intention, I swear it wasn’t. Not my
primary intention. Certainly not. See? I’m still alive. How I
survived, though, is not precisely clear.
The ocean gets quite warm along the coast this time of year. By
mid-August, Nick says, it’s like bath water out there.
Perfect for a nighttime dip.
I climbed over the locked gate at the state park and found the head
of the trail. I strolled past the warning signs and went on down to the
water. I sipped a pint of Black Monk whiskey and felt like a million
bucks. A beautiful starry night glistened above me.
Devil’s Churn looked beautiful too, perfect in every way. A
blasting, ripping, roaring, rock-infested formation. The Churn is like
a narrow football field, about 40 feet across at its widest point. The
waves really rip through.
Everything augured well for a great test of my physical stamina.
To get things rolling, I puffed a large sized stick of African reefer and
polished off my bottle of whiskey.
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Wham! Oh yeah. A lovely head of stuff to help me appreciate this
wonderful world we inhabit.
I was completely wasted.
Standing near the edge of the Churn, I felt nothing but self-loathing.
Nobody can hate me any more than I already hate myself. My
internal critic never shuts up, not even for a minute. I got undressed
by the side of the water, folding everything into a neat pile. My keys
were still in the ignition. As a memento, I left the other one’s little
sketch of me on the seat.
All I wore as I barefooted it across the rocks were my black bikini
briefs. Ideal apparel for taking the plunge. In no time at all, I was
peering down into the heart of the Churn, shivering in the spray, as
goose bumps appeared on my stupid long arms and my skinny flat
belly. I saw my size 10 feet, my hairy legs, and my stupid long-
fingered hands. Penis and testicles were in their assigned places, as
usual begging for trouble.
Such a feeling came over me, a desire to be done with life. I
always feel that way when I think about the other one, about her
abortion, about what a fool I was to fall in love with her.
Or when I think about Leanne and getting her pregnant. Or when I
think about blowing off Marie Montambeault. Or when I think about
my family and growing up in the Catholic Church or my stupid job.
Or when I begin to think really hard about my foolish, empty
ambitions. The list goes on and on.
It grows bigger by the day.
Every fucking decision I have made since the fall of 1969 has been
100 percent wrong. Ever since I met that fucking Leanne, I have done
everything wrong. No question about it.
Wrong wrong wrong.
I do not forgive myself.
I forget nothing. I forgive nothing.
That is my motto.
As I stood there, the task of living, of trying to go on, seemed so
fucking pointless. I have had this feeling for a long time and it has
nothing to do with her.
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It’s not her, it’s not me, its life itself that I dislike. What a vicious
fucking struggle. Why do we endure this endless pain, this
frustration, this awful fear? What is the point? What is the fucking
point? Life is not worth living.
I felt a tremendous sense of peace and purpose out there in the
darkness. The sky above me. The crashing waves below. The
horizon lit by the pinhole camera light of a zillion stars.
Any moment I could go into the water, I thought. How easy it
would be. My body was poised for the dive. The spray was soaking
me. The authorities would not rule it a suicide. They would surely
call it accidental.
Besides, in these past few weeks I have tried hard to be positive.
All smiles and upbeat planning for The Future.
"He had too much to drink," they would say afterwards. "These
unfortunate accidents occur two or three times a year on the
picturesque Oregon coast."
I imagined my brother Mick receiving a telegram in Africa, my
sisters and my mother getting the news by phone. From some cop or
hospital employee, I thought.
Probably a nurse.
My next mental image was of my mother badgering the state to see
if I had taken out any life insurance and if so, who was the
beneficiary? I imagined the crestfallen look upon her face upon
learning that I had donated the entire $10,000 to Planned Parenthood.
That made me smile.
The image dissolved into the bemused expression on the face of the
other one when (and if) she ever learns of my fate. Yes, I’ve done
everything wrong. There’s nothing left but this.
I am tired of being stuck here in beautiful Death Camp Earth. The
Final Solution? You got it, baby. The seawater, sweetheart, the
boiling foam. Drowning is how Martin Eden ended his life in the Jack
London novel by the same name.
It’s a pretty sound method.
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News reports say the Khmer Rouge have turned Cambodia into a
killing field, with pyramids of skulls rising higher than Angkor Wat.
You gotta love those Khmer Rouge.
They’re certainly an upwardly mobile bunch of bloodthirsty
communist guerillas. It’s all of a piece, one vicious thing connected
to another. Here is my one, my final, my truest possible statement:
Fuck everything and everybody.
Then came the truly weird part. As I stood there ready to go, my
teeth chattering in the spray, I heard a voice calling out to me.
Probably an auditory hallucination. But it was there, it was definitely
there. Like a little girl’s voice, crying:
"Venice-easy! Venice-easy!" Don’t ask me what the words meant
because I don’t know. I remember that it had a real eerie quality. The
opposite of a siren song, I guess, because instead of diving into water,
I suddenly backed away from it.
Swimming across The Churn no longer seemed like such a cool
idea. Come to think of it, the idea was madness. What the hell was I
doing at Devil’s Churn in the middle of the goddamn night anyway?
How insane can you get?
I sighed in disgust. If I really had any guts, I’d keep enduring the
horror of life right through to the bitter end. One way or the other, I
would simply ride it out and keep on plugging.
I put my clothes back on. What a hassle. As I turned around to
head back up the trail, my foot went out from under me and I slipped.
I must have forgot to tie my one of my shoes and tripped over the
lace. As I lurched forward, I lost my balance and fell in the water.
Wham! In one terrifying instant, I fell head first into Devil’s
Churn! Immediately, I felt myself being dragged out to sea.
Holy shit! My knee hit a rock and then my shoulder smashed into
another rock. Omigod! I was deep in the water, fighting for my life.
It all happened so fast. A huge wave lifted me up and pushed me
down. The air went out of my lungs and salt water poured in. I was
fucking drowning!
A pure cold terror enveloped me. I was going down, down, down.
My feet touched the ragged gravel at the bottom. Oh Jesus! Holy
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shit! Sonofabitch! As I began losing consciousness, I felt myself
once again being picked up by the waves for another slam into the
rocks.
Drowning was just as I thought it would be. A horrible, terrifying
way to die. The water all was around me and I had no idea which way
was up.
Glug glug glug.
Then it was over.
Just like that. Over.
I found myself lying face down beside The Churn. In the pit of my
