On the opposite page, in her own hand:
Diploma: Emblem of knowledge. Proves nothing. Orgasm: Obscene term. Radicalism: All the more dangerous that it is latent. The republic is leading us towards radicalism. Dictionary of Received Ideas.
She has now definitely arrived and settled in Crete. The postcards are evidence of that; in addition the definitions from Flaubert indicate Smitty’s having read Bliss’ copy of Bouvard and Pécuchet. I do not believe the Susann novel is in Bliss’ library. If it were, would Helen have torn a page from it, destroying Bliss’ property? I have never read a book of that kind, to its conclusion. She has found it compelling enough to clip and preserve. Surely Helen realizes the thoughts in it, though in some oblique way relating to her experience, are idiotic, and the writing boorish. Yet she places Flaubert and Susann side by side, which is most peculiar.
She made her sister cry and didn’t help her because her sister made her cry and she even felt good and then felt guilty of course of course but later she saw she was just a bastard too just like her. I’m the bad one, I’m so bad, I’m being so mean to her and him.
I assumed she had guilt feelings in regard to her sister. But who is the “him” in this instance?
More pictures of friends. Another postcard, a charming view of our harbor. Another list of things to do. More visual embellishments, including pictures of rock-and-roll musicians who are called The Talking Heads and The Modern Lovers.
Twenty one today. NO one knows. Feel like the oldest person in the world. Went to the mountains. Later saw Kostas. We fucked. Letter from parents, happy bday happy bday, come home, finish school ETC. Telephoned W. She says everything is great. No TV. Would watch anything. Even the Waltons.
Was it her birthday the day I drove her to the mountains? And she said nothing, not a word. Which Kostas? Helen is a strange girl.
Detective Electric announced a short circuit we might blow it so they stopped at the doorway to destruction. Call the exterminator — not a weird electric woman if you don’t WANT AND NEED STRANGE CHARGES and she put her finger in his socket and up went the rocket, and they became an old flame.
On the page opposite, in bold letters again: DO THE OBVIOUS and STRAIGHT FROM THE UNCONSCIOUS. In her normal script: “I miss my dog.” I assume Helen is Detective Electric. She misses her dog. Her family must have had a pet, a dog. I wonder suddenly what became of the kitten she was taking care of here. I pour another Scotch and turn the page, to discover:
Most of our sentimentalists, friends of humanity, champions of animals, have been evolved from little sadists and animal tormentors. Freud
Of course it is not strange that one finds Freud cited in her diary, as Helen is the daughter of a psychiatrist; also Bliss has, I know, several volumes of Freud in his library. Following the quotation from Freud is a color photograph of a transvestite, in high drag. There is also a picture, captioned “Marvin Gaye”; he is dressed in a tuxedo and singing. I have never heard him sing but in this picture — his arms are outstretched and his palms up — he seems to be a crooner. Underneath his picture are what appear to be his lyrics: “Love just comes and it goes. That’s the way love is.” And, on the next page, “What’s going on?” Gaye’s name is cited again. Is he gay, I wonder.
During one short phase in my young life, I liked to play dress-up and wear my mother’s clothes. I believe it was when I was six years old. But Mother discouraged me. I was, in any case, quite content to dress as a boy. I am not sure that I completely understand transvestism and the desire of some men to masquerade as women. I did enjoy, from time to time, though, the secret drag clubs our crowd frequented years ago. We were influenced by Christopher Isherwood; no doubt some of us liked to imagine that we were night-crawling in Berlin in the twenties.
Can’t stop frightening thoughts. Some angel came to visit me and I was scared because I don’t believe in angels and she said that’s why I need your help. She was carved in stone but she could move and in the background there were millions of graves.
What are her most frightening thoughts? Is this a dream? A story? I want to race through the journal — not really a journal, a jumble — to find something definitive, something that is her own interpretation of an event, perhaps, something that is explanatory. I do not know what it might be. But there is more of the same, odd phrases and lists, names that I have never heard of. A calendar with the dates of her last periods, I determine, and a list of colors — blue, lavender, gray, green, just a list, which makes no immediate sense to me. Unless it has to do with her stab at watercoloring.
Then Dr. Brodsky said: Delimitation is always difficult.
A Clockwork Orange
Burgess is certainly in Bliss’ library. Bliss knows him. Orange is a cult book. Burgess was most likely influenced by Finnegans Wake; I thought it remarkable that his book found such success with the young. But didn’t Helen once tell me something about this issue of delimitation? I pour myself another drink. I think someone demanded of her that she delimit. Who was it? Her father? She rarely if ever mentioned him. I remember now. Her college guidance counselor did, when Helen was called to her office for a consultation. It must have been just afterward that Helen left school. The woman insisted to her: Delimit, you must delimit! But when did Helen tell me this story?
W wants to be me and I won’t let her. She hates me sometimes. I hate her. I love her. She loves me. The way I don’t know her I always won’t know her and she knows me in the way I think she knows me, to really know—
I abhor split infinitives. This passage must refer to her complicated relationship either with her sister or with a friend. A rather different kind of writing, I think. Were she beside me now I would explain to Smitty that one’s family — and one’s friends — plagues one throughout life. Near to this entry is a picture of a rock or punk band called the Ramones; Gwen mentioned them in a letter. They are a motley crew of unhappy-looking boys, with long hair and small dark glasses. Surly types. On the opposite page is a picture of a dog. I suppose the dog is hers. Is she cunningly commenting upon the Ramones?
J makes me sick, the liar, he’s a total fuck up—
This cryptic assessment of John is accompanied by a single squiggly line and then a list of words: “punk junk gag hag lag jag did dit dot dope hope mope hip yip yippies.” And so on. I wonder if this might be labeled graphorrhea — a mental illness marked by the writing of a long succession of meaningless words.
I’m at a picnic and she won’t speak to me and I try to be nice but she’s in a disgusting mood and I can’t really do it whatever it is I’m supposed to do and my parents ignore me. My friends too. What did I do wrong this time? Later I phone Iggy Stooge but he’s busy.
HELL WHERE DOES HERPES COME FROM ANYWAY?
In the water there’s a rock it’s huge and it has the profile of a man but not the same man as before and nobody else sees it. Then everyone goes for lunch and there are different rooms and bigger and smaller ones and everyone knows everyone else but I’m an outsider. I say to someone I’m going to make movies but they don’t believe me, and the place is a movie set and then Crete, and me, I’m just trying to find a place to live and no money and some awful guy I slept with is on the set too but I’m standing next to the director and feel okay with him, very close to him. The Who is playing loud and some woman is singing, not Daltry or Townshend, and I don’t even like them anymore, and she’s screaming something about her mother who’s famous.