Last Words

So as soon you got a pressure you have an archetype.

December 16, 1996

Scientists are mired in respectability. Does it not penetrate their skulls that some phenomena might only occur once? Or at a certain pattern in time—only every third Tuesday, etcetera.

And they have an insatiable appetite for Data: “More data!” they scream, “and nothing anecdotal.” (This may be the only data in some cases.)

“Not conclusive!”

Is anything ever?

December 16, 1996

Reading account from 1879 settlers. Hospitable:

“Tie your horse and come in.”

I always carried a gallon of whiskey to smooth things out. Wouldn’t say no to a shot of whiskey? They wouldn’t.

Of course the dog always announced my arrival. Principal function of country dog to give notice of approach.

“Pays the hand $15 per month. Pays me $5 per month for your sleeping and breakfast here.”

Them was the days.

Dream last night. John de—no sex—and water again last night. I was holding onto the bowsprit—which dunked into the water sometimes.

Always these dreams of water, dirty, clear, deep blue—waters deep blue.

December 17, 1996. Tuesday

Cold heavy depression now. Disintegrating—into grass with snow, making old gentlemen with white whiskers.

Gray clouds—black branches—water ebbing, leaves, then:

“Me stranded—”

I told “me” so—

“The razor inside sir, jerk the handle.”

I just did, and it all leaked out like hydraulic fluid and I said: “Let it go”—

And I went and I laughed like the little boy on the ghost horse—laughing a laugh that was not of this world.

(Entire story one of the best in this genre, like Radiant Boys.)

I hate a liar

I’d set one on fire

they perjure the universe

turn everything around

till the worst is

applauded as the best and

the best kicked into the gutter

and spit on.

December 20, 1996

“I Am Enraged”—(a column like Ed Anger’s):

The vile bestial settlers and sheep people wiped out the marsupial wolf.

Settlers need varmint like a cult needs enemies—and they [are] impervious to facts.

“Coyotes is decimated me lambs, me calves.”

Absolute hogwash, of course.

Killed all the wolves and lynxes, so the deer overgrazed and starved.

Try beating sense into them—look at that face:

“How did you know it was about the wolf critter?”

“It sticks out all over you.”

“Well they was killing our stock.”

“No they weren’t. Wild dogs—and how many was killed?”

“Well not so many.”

“Exactly.”

Slake this evil killing fever—stockmen need varmints like cultists need enemies.

Trucks unloading vicious, slobbering dogs:

“All right, turn ’em loose—kill, kill, kill.”

Now dream of spilling pot seed on the floor, then putting into a picture where the seeds would stick.