May 30th, 1976 at 8:30 pm
(1976)
“When you've got everything else in a marriage going for you, then it's the icing on the cake.”
“No, don't like icing, so I wouldn't call it the icing on the cake. Much too sicky sweet. It's more like the apples in the pie.”
Intercourse: is it the icing on the cake? or the apples in the pie?
This draws a good line between people's concept of it. An us and them sort of thing.
And then you have a rough, mean man: with him it's really more an intercoarse. He's like sandpaper working away. No touch.
Others are like a bug; they barely crawl up to you, queasy and nervous. They try, they mean well, but still its an uncertain bug coldness that comes out of them. They feel rather buggy. A buggy little thing crawling on you. They might as well be a cockroach scampering about. Inwardly a petrified cockroach with its tail between its legs.
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May 29th, 1976 at 7:00 pm
(1976)
Ripples of water
Dapple the sea
Washout of summer
And the sadness from me
Fishes are sleeping
In the wake of the sea
Seagulls are flying
Quite a distance from me
Grey clouds to the skyline
Blue clouds to the sea
Winter in August
About to winterize me
The poundy stark ocean
With its salty green spray
Singes like salt rock
In full-splayed denial of day
Sudsy black seaweed
Like webs on the shore
Ghost spiders rubbing
Ag'in the rubbled beach floor
Breakers in grey light
Riding the sea
Weary worn daylight
Down-declining in me
Grey clouds to the skyline
Blue clouds to the sea
Winter in August
About to winterize me
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May 26th, 1976 at 4:00 pm
(1976)
We watched the helicopter like some giant mechanical bee with its giant mechanical hum; it darted clumsily about, fat, like a bloated bee. Still, it had its way in the sky, and a shrill fear-respect from all that lived on wings.
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May 24th, 1976 at 10:00 am
(1976)
They had been zombied by the 4-year rigors known as mental discipline; now they walked like puppets. Quite wooden like puppets. Heads on sticks.
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May 21st, 1976 at 1:30 pm
(1976)
Don't tell me about “liberation”—I know all about it. Women! Walking about in their pants. Bra-less. Absolutely naked and bra-less.
Some women. You'd think they were—animals! and not angels. The whole caboodle and business is sickening. Just terribly sickening. We ought to begin a mass-transit program of planned extermination of them—planned extermination, but with a certain controlled wildness—swisk! swisk!—in order to rush them up to heaven more quickly. Merely run them in mass into extermination centers, like concentration camps—give 'em the gas—or wire them up and electrocute—and so off to heaven with them. Yes, admit that indeed earth is hell, and so a crash program to egg Jesus down here again for the 'second coming', and so force in the Millennium.
Hell, we've been killing the wrong people all along—all this century. The 200,000,000 and more we've nicely killed in the 20th century have almost all been men. Sooner or later they would have died anyway on their own, still it's no way to run a world. You don't solve population problems by killing men. Men don't beget children; we've got to get at the women.
Think! If only it had been 200,000,000 women—what a world it would be! There'd hardly be any overpopulation or starvation, and only half the overcrowding. We'd have our species down to a nice sweet size.
And if but we would decide to exterminate all our women—bat them dead like bugs or something—there would be no problems at all. In 100 years no problems at all. Paradise. It would save the world.
And probably, it's our only good chance of saving the world—saving it from extermination—from a pollution to death—and atomic destruction—and technological [technically not logical at all] destruction. No men; no women; no Mr. & Mr. Homo Sapiens. . . but life, life and earth would be saved.
And after all, we'd be heroes, wouldn't we? Heroes—and especially the women. Sacrificing their lives—our lives—our entire species—all to save life—and to save the planet, dear dear earth, and get the egg of God's face.
So don't tell me about 'liberation'. I know all about it. Men—and I mean both mankind and men—have been liberated for two hundred thousand years now—we've been totally free—full total freedom, free to do whatever we've willed—and that is just what we've done.
We were so free we sent ourselves to the moon. We built giant castle-cities of steel and white concrete and glass. We're total freedom.
Now women, our housepets, want to be total freedom too. Send women to the moon, they say. Let women design the castle-cities. Ha! Earth is dying under men's freedom—now women want it too. Ha! I say: exterminate them.
Let's free life, which we've made into our tightest-security prison. Let's free life and earth, and let them breathe again.
End this silly slave-revolt of ours—and agree to be owned by life again, and by earth—and wipe the egg off God's face.
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May 19th, 1976 at 7:00 pm
(1976, Journal)
Be erotic: fly a flag. (Bicentennial Motto)
…After all, what one wants merely is a girl.
Of course.
Of course. Of course.
Where are they hiding?
“Where are they hiding?” he asked. “Down by the tool shed again?”
“No. No. They’re back over there near the kitchen window this time.”
“The kitchen, eh? And where will it be next, where will it be—”
“Up at the stone wall, I reckon, so’s to hide behind—of course.”
Of course. But what color stones? Ruby red and eyelash purple and fleshly tan? Oh, a different wall. It figures so.
Consider. The best way to work out a jigsaw puzzle is to compare the piece with the picture on the box—then put it in its place. Interesting.
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May 18th, 1976 at 10:00 pm
(1976)
What is it about D. H. Lawrence's writing? Certainly it is beyond me to know. I am no threat to him. His words are not just alive, they are actual living animals. They heave with the respiration of a million little breasts.
Me, I am in awe, I can't believe.
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May 16th, 1976 at 10:00 pm
(1976)
The cold wind, once, waited in my own breath for me, with the slow patient awaiting of a wildflower for the sun to run its day; it once waited in my breath to heave the whisper ghost-heave that was vital breath to me, the coarse lungeing of my upper body, the air pulse and flow of my dappled breast; it once seethed in me, the chill, sprite wind, breathed its seed in me, ghost warmth-seed of my respiration. Once, and I gasp breath til it again.
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