Last Words

“Cannabis is harmful.”

Got some Albanian expert up his sleeve:

“Yes, we consider use of this illegal drug as proof of insanity.”

January 10, 1997. Friday

THE WHITE CAT.

Advert—[Lawrence] J[ournal] World:

“Free to good home. White cat. 2530 Rosebud Lane. tele 555-0676.”

I called. I went. 3 P.M. Sunday. Woman (Sally?) very nice, looks oriental.

Beautiful cat. I took it home. Locked in front guest room. The cat—“Marigay”—Sanskrit for White Cat—screamed and threw himself against the door.

Today—Friday, Jan 9, 10?—Roger Holden agreed to take the cat. He will stay over weekend at Bradley’s Vet Hospital.

I could not stand two more days (no sleep last night).

Why so upset? Don’t know. Listening to his cries, I was struck by such a feeling of dread and depression [as] I have never experienced before. Why?

Board members, bosses, dictators, bankers, crawl under their desks screaming:

“The White Cat! The White Cat!”

Old lives from nowhere. Old quotes from somewhere.

The White Cat—under his searing light all hidden things come to light. He is the “tracker,” the hunter who follows the track or scent.

All over the world, millions of cats are crying to be let in, or out, crying until they give up finally, and I get a few hours of rest.

Like now Marigay the White Cat is gone I can shut my ears to suffering, hungry, cold, homeless cats? I couldn’t stand another night.

So investigator, hunter, follower of the track?

Nothing covers the feeling of foreboding and dread I felt to [hear] those cries, just plain cat cries. A willful young tomcat. So?

“The whiteness of the cat.”

The White Cat (under the breakfast table in Algiers, Louisiana, across the river from New Orleans and into the trees).

Is this simply a foreboding of death. My death? Felt like someone else’s. Hope not.

Depression lifts with a spot of vodka and prospect of a quiet night.

We are not getting to The White Cat. I see the cat vivid as a 3-D image. I love the cat. I receive his searing White Light. No pretense or lies to conceal.

As to pressure to Lie—I elect to fight.

Go!

I invoke: rows of naked red male forms moving forward in a definite pattern—a killing fan-out:

Kill! Kill! Kill!

Like we used to kill.

The pure killing purpose.

Now? Turned out to pasture like old horses, is it?

Well, I got one good kick left.

January 11, 1997. Saturday

State of the Union? Wretched beyond belief. A million dollars to study medical uses for Cannabis!

I could save them the money: [relieves] glaucoma, stimulates appetite and suppresses nausea in late morphine withdrawal, or in chemotherapy. A general tonic with no side effects. A reliable aphrodisiac—there if you want it. Doesn’t embarrass you by an untimely erection, like [while] meeting the Queen or other dignitary.

(What a ploy to disgrace an enemy or diplomat on the podium.)

Cannabis always under control. In short, a gamut of uses.

If [the] report is favorable [it] will, of course, be suppressed—like the Porno. report under Nixon, who said Leary was “the most dangerous man in America”—dangerous to lying bastards like Nixon, and Bush and Reagan and—

“oft fold dreary etcetera to bed.”

Will lie in its sleep.

So why the foreboding about the White Cat?

Perhaps—future—snow white. L. Ron Hubbard appears in a dream, his face with a deep space tan. We will head a streamlined Scientology takeover. He is dressed in what looks like deep-sea-fishing, certainly nautical, garb.

Well, why not give it a glim? Recall he was human, then he wasn’t:

“I am not from this planet, but I got the best intentions.”

Sure, sure, we all do.

“How papers slither away.”

At this point paper with White Cat info slipped to the floor—at breakfast—now at 4:50 P.M. find paper on floor.

The White Cat is really charged hot here. Something bad.

American Narcotics—“bad,” says Dr. Dent. Evil, I say.