Blood come trickling out of wood. Stones make a roaring noise like the wind. People are going to be troubled and courses change. Sea will cast out its fish, birds fly off separately and One shall come to reign over us for whom those on Earth do not hope—but they will recognize his voice. Yes, indeed they will! And if that’s so who’s going to be surprised? After what we’ve seen the last few years?
Well, maybe I ought to ask Bianca. She’s always got an opinion no matter what the subject is. Too bad she didn’t want to attend the show, then I could explain my theory, find out what she thinks of it. Wish she’d wanted to go with me. Been so long since—feel so lonely. Wish we could have what we used to have. Three or four years ago we’d go out dancing but now she doesn’t ever come near me if she can avoid it.
What would happen if I apologized and tried to get in bed?
FEBRUARY 23
The other day I asked V if he thought there was such a thing as Love. Said there isn’t. Claimed it was an invention of poets, some lice-covered troubadours in southern France during the Middle Ages & ever since then we’ve believed it actually exists. I don’t know, don’t know what to think, what to believe. So confused. B hates me.
FEBRUARY 24
Sunday. She’s in Oakland visiting her sister & I’ve spent half the day marching around and around like a mechanical soldier with a key in my back. Nothing to eat since breakfast, then not much. Hungry but can’t make myself stop long enough to fix a meal. The weather’s nice & I guess everybody else is out enjoying the afternoon in Sausalito or Golden Gate Park. I’d give anything to be as average as that. Knowing you’re superior is a curse. Also, not having the opportunity to make use of my abilities makes it difficult to keep sense of proportion.
Around & around! Have drawn the shades so at least it’s dark. Feeling a little better, yet can’t decide what troubles me. Admit I’m still exasperated by the celebration, pageant, whatever it was. Should have reached up, grabbed one of her ankles and jerked her down off the stage. She was close enough, just above me. Could have reached up and pushed my finger right into that hairy mound. She knew it—glanced down at me. In fact that’s probably what she wanted me to do. Corruption. Filth. The whore of Washington’s Birthday. I’m not good enough for you, is that it? You glance down at me and walk away smiling. Well, I’m not going to forget you! Saintly nun. Ermine cloak and a pasteboard crown—Screw! I’d fix you if I had a chance, don’t think I wouldn’t. I’d give you a crown to wear. A jeweled prick. It’s what you deserve. It’s what you want, too, if I’m much of a judge.
B still isn’t back from Oakland, guess she might stay overnight. I wish she’d come home.
FEBRUARY 25
After work paid a visit to All Hallows Church, can’t say quite why except that it’s been on my mind since the Mexican attacked that old woman praying. No accident. He went there to show everybody something—yes, but what? What? What? Church was smaller than I expected, only about half visible through some ragged windblown palms on Dolores Street. Paint flaking off the rail, steps creaked. Could hardly pull the door open. Nobody inside. Candles burning in front of some statues. Priest came walking down the aisle toward me, his face black with suspicion until he saw that I was Respectable. Until he noticed I was dressed in a business suit, then he changed right away. Shook hands, etc. Chatted with him for a while, acted sympathetic to his problem. Hoodlums ransack the poorbox, says he. Amazed, outraged, I put on my show of anger, and he points to the boxes broken open & hanging along the wall. Boys not old enough to shave, says he, with switch blade knives prying open those boxes. Clasped my hands in disbelief. Absolutely can’t believe it! I exclaim. Collection envelopes stolen, says he. How awful! No respect for Anything these days. Etc. True, True & he wags his head. Tells me police cars cruise the neighborhood after every parish gathering doing our best to protect the flock, not much use. Dreadful! I said. Dreadful! Then cleared my throat. My wife and I are thinking we’d like to move into this neighborhood & being devout I wanted to see your church. I shall pray, says he, that you and Mrs. Summerfield choose to join us. Could hardly swallow my laughter.
FEBRUARY 26
Not much change since yesterday—am in a pukey humor. Seems to me that Civilization is spinning toward the Pit. No matter where I look. Those big-shot corporation executives the other day convicted by federal Grand Jury of conspiring to violate some regulation or other—millions of dollars involved, brigades of lawyers from 5th Avenue or wherever they have those swank offices. What’s the penalty? Tap on the wrist. Judge gives them “stern warning.” That’s about what I expected. They’ve got the money, the position. That judge was probably scared to death, knew if he did to them what he ought to do they’d ruin him. But let Earl Summerfield swipe an apple—oh oh! Convicted of theft, fined, put on close probation. If I took two dozen apples I’d rot in jail. Why should anybody respect the law! I used to. Yes, I remember when I did, but now I’ve learned how things really are. I can’t be fooled any longer. Believe very little that I’m told, investigate for myself. The government lies to me and people on the street lie to me. Sometimes get the feeling I’m walking on a flimsy little bridge stretched across a canyon. Wind blowing & people shouting at me from both sides. Maybe it’s easier to quit, just step over the rail. I don’t know.
Could be the monotony of the office that makes me feel like this. Get away Earl! Get away before it’s too late. How? Sometimes I wish I lived in the middle of Egypt. Anyplace. Would be willing to trade my soul for one hour of hot sunlight instead of this rain. February rain. Rain.
Get away. How? I keep asking. Another month’s almost gone & what have I got to show for it? How many more? I realize I’m much too intelligent for my job, that’s one thing that depresses me. Forced to spend every day talking to laborers so stupid that one of these days think I might just give up the use of language and resort to signs. Why doesn’t the Bureau recognize my ability? Why can’t Mrs. Fensdeicke grasp the fact that I should be assigned to important work? It’s possible she does know and is worried that I’ll get her job, or even that Mr. Foxx may promote me to some position where she’ll have to take orders from me. Mr. Summerfield, pardon me, but we need your initials on this. Mr. Summerfield, excuse us, but would you give us your opinion about this case? Then I could have an office of my own, wouldn’t be perched on that stool with my rump exposed. Sitting there I feel like a miserable fool, people smiling at me behind my back.
FEBRUARY 27
Wednesday. There’s s-silver, pl-pl-platinum and gold in the sea! says Magnus. Yes, it’s there, no doubt, in the sand along the coast and in the mouths of rivers, carried down from the Mother Lode. And offshore are traces of copper, manganese, iron, cobalt, all brought up by currents from the ocean bottom. Won’t be long until miners go to work thousands of feet below the surface on the bedrock of the Pacific. Submerged capsules will be traveling across the shelf like lobsters, or hanging in mid-ocean undisturbed by the turmoil of the upper world. True enough, nobody with any sense would doubt that prediction—not any more, not after what’s happened these past few years. But how is Magnus going to profit by all this? That’s what I can’t understand. He seems to think he’s going to benefit, whereas the truth is he won’t, neither of us will. The profits of the future will go where the profits of the past have gone—into the pockets of the admirals, the generals, the waxy old men. slumped in the backs of limousines. Not a penny for Magnus, not a penny for Earl. Why doesn’t he realize that’s how it is? Says he’s going to Arizona on his vacation to hunt for gemstones in the desert. Somebody down there discovered a jade boulder weighing a thousand pounds. Maybe. Maybe not. Suppose it’s true, will Magnus find another one? He won’t find a thing, no more than I would. Why? Because we don’t live at the right address. Life’s just that simple. Poor Magnus is going to spend his two weeks in
