“Ha Ha Ha.”
January 4, 1997
Just reading Hersey, and other Hiroshima accounts, and got mad as Ed Anger in The [Weekly World] News again.
That lying bastard Conant of Harvard defends dropping the bomb. In his tendentious article he does not even mention radiation sickness: “the Atomic Plague.”
Scene: Conant at podium, all seems very decorous very, very Harvard, then …
“Mr. Conant, you don’t mention radiation sickness in your article? Were you aware of this syndrome when you wrote the article in question?”
All over the hall, voices:
“Yes did he know about …”
And someone has smuggled in a magic lantern, projecting horrible burns.
“No, he didn’t know about nothing.”
Conant visibly reels. He is not accustomed to such treatment.
“Well it was a short article—I could hardly be expected—”
Voice:
“He could hardly be expected—”
Shrill, piercing voices:
“And you knew nothing of Japanese overtures for surrender?” …
Voices:
“He knew nothing …. He was a good nigger, knew his place and kept in it.”
“Good nigger …”
“Knew his place …”
These voices dispersed through the audience, suddenly burst like a bomb in waves of sound—five hundred tape recorders—five hundred voices:
“Get off the stage!”
“Lying cocksucker!”
“Crawl off the stage! Don’t want your type in here!”
“Boo! Boo! Hiss! Hiss!”
Vain attempts to restore order. Conant hustled out by security, pelted with rotten eggs and tomatoes—in a state of collapse.
January 7, 1997
Memoirs—what you wouldn’t want anyone to know.
“My past was an evil river—un fleuve maudit.”
Without tenure—who wants an unemployed teacher of Creative Writing.
So write: the law is Love.
In simple form: a feeling for.
Par exemple, I feel no feeling for a centipede. For an abandoned kitten, I feel much sympathy.
Where did the centipede come from?
And what betrayal of the human species could have led some sonofabitch to feed live baby mice to a caged centipede?
Centipede—come from very hot place, from very hot place which formed the centipede … the OVENS, the Ovens, the Oooovens …
Well, forget [it], who cares anymore.
As Sri Aurobindo said: “It is all over.”
January 8, 1997. Wednesday
Another dream of going through Customs with drugs or guns. Definite fear of arrest and imprisonment.
Walking by marble statues, mutilated—a finger here, a prick there.
I hope tomorrow I will be in a luxury or decent hotel, not in a jail cell.
Strong feel of combat. Get up and fight or Die.
Lying bastards from some do-what-we-tell-you orders:
“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