The Journals of
Wednesday September 19th 1962
This is a story I have. When I begin to write, of a sudden, upon the first sheet of a stack of papers, I must assume this to be the beginning
Some of the papers two or three down perhaps another twelve, are already written that makes my lot somewhat easier
I remember the day that I wrote them and placed them there, and I remember that there is nothing in them that can be detrimental
I have certain ideas founded on most substantial truths they are tested as they are tried and they are invaluable
My story is begun and I must introduce myself in other colors.
I am a singular person as perhaps you are yourself.
I am a singular person in a singular environment. As I write I am assailed by numerous persons who I do not know. I am the butt of unguessed derisions. They are throwing things at me Bric-a-brack cups and saucers, teaspoons muffins stuffed animals all manner of things and I take no notice.
Such is my nature.
For I have taken it to myself to write, and I Will write these things down and it may take me several days and nights I don't know
It is as though I had landed here driven by a small force. A Vesuvian Fart that I have landed simian smiled and desperately clutching these last my final relics circling ever inwards over the bent pines and pinions and in and ever around the young shoots and saplings, over the wet ground where the rain falls on Twistling's grave forever
The floor wags crazily pressing, arching itself up against the soles of my feet, and my pen is an angry endless sound like the growling of mastiffs and sinks teeth into my fingers
crazy too the colors of the mind Like a quilt woven I say Penelope was no vision of the heat inexplicably, from human hairs and tinted afterwards in the hidden pools that lie all concealed in the hills & known only to those frenzied angels the Brainmakers.
This is my room. I have been here nearly seven weeks. In that time I have done many things that I felt deserved my attention I have worked diligently and surprisingly well. The room glows about me it is more than enough
I have one small window and through it I see my trees, the one painted a brilliant cerulean blue and the rest, as trees are most naturally, of a height and fullness and possessing a changeable aspect, both of texture & light. Their shadows too are uniformly controlled
Behind them the city is low and blue, but the window is closed and very dirty and the room too very uncertain in its smoke.
There is no sun. There isn't. I am not so obscure.
Behind me the wall is gone. It was a yellow wall, fearfully high. And the wall too was dirty As dirty as the lenses of my eyes As smoky and opaque as these small panes
it was gone when I awoke this morning.
I do not set down improprieties.
I am angry and my hand is pink upon the sheets and I cannot turn anywhere but I am assailed by Bric-a-brack-China and spode
and in such a house as this! it is absurd.
Days pass. it seems to be a salt upon the windows. And the heat is oppressive. it grows worse each day yet I walk about as though it had been so always these are small minds and small meshes
htiW lla ym traeh I dah ton tnaem ot yas ti ekil siht ereht si a ekatsim ereh I bur ym selkna tub ti sworg on reraelc
ruoY ecaf selgnad erofeb em ekil a llams noollab tub ti si sa hguoht I was uoy morf eht mottob fo a dnop. erehW era uoy gniog?
AH These are the papers. They lie before me conjuring the snake from my soul and I shall not rest for they are the ultimate edification.
Tilt the floor moves. I am being canted backwards again. The straps bite into my flesh and my legs become warmer. This is the third time. At first it was only a matter of inches Now I am raised nearly a foot off the floor the silence envelopes me
The plowed fields slip away