Last Words. William S. Burroughs
Scientists are mired in respectability. Does it not penetrate their skulls that some phenomena might only occur once? Or at a certain pattern in time—only every third Tuesday, etcetera.
And they have an insatiable appetite for Data: “More data!” they scream, “and nothing anecdotal.” (This maybe the only data in some cases.)
“Not conclusive!”
Is anything ever?
December 16, 1996
Reading account from 1879 settlers. Hospitable:
“Tie your horse and come in.”
I always carried a gallon of whiskey to smooth things out. Wouldn’t say no to a shot of whiskey? They wouldn’t.
Of course the dog always announced my arrival. Principal function of country dog to give notice of approach.
“Pays the hand $15 per month. Pays me $5 per month for your sleeping and breakfast here.”
Them was the days.
Dream last night. John de—no sex—and water again last night. I was holding onto the bowsprit—which dunked into the water sometimes.
Always these dreams of water, dirty, clear, deep blue—waters deep blue.
December 17, 1996. Tuesday
Cold heavy depression now. Disintegrating—into grass with snow, making old gentlemen with white whiskers.
Gray clouds—black branches—water ebbing, leaves, then:
“Me stranded—”
I told “me” so—
“The razor inside sir, jerk the handle.”
I just did, and it all leaked out like hydraulic fluid and I said: “Let it go”—
And I went and I laughed like the little boy on the ghost horse—laughing a laugh that was not of this world.
(Entire story one of the best in this genre, like Radiant Boys.)
I hate a liar I’d set one on fire they perjure the universe turn everything around till the worst is applauded as the best and the best kicked into the gutter and spit on.
“I Am Enraged”—(a column like Ed Anger’s):
The vile bestial settlers and sheep people wiped out the marsupial wolf.
Settlers need varmint like a cult needs enemies—and they [are] impervious to facts.
“Coyotes is decimated me lambs, me calves.”
Absolute hogwash, of course.
Killed all the wolves and lynxes, so the deer overgrazed and starved.
Try beating sense into them—look at that face:
“How did you know it was about the wolf critter?”
“It sticks out all over you.”
“Well they was killing our stock.”
“No they weren’t. Wild dogs—and how many was killed?”
“Well not so many.”
“Exactly.”
Slake this evil killing fever—stockmen need varmints like cult-ists need enemies.
Trucks unloading vicious, slobbering dogs:
“All right, turn ’em loose—kill, kill, kill.”
Now dream of spilling pot seed on the floor, then putting into a picture where the seeds would stick.
What a bloody fool I was—unsung hero of a war with aliens nobody knew about (except the soldiers), and certainly would not want to hear about or believe now. And which “we” apparently lost.
In a dream an old bum told me:
“We lost!”
Remember David Edge for the British, wising me up about the CIA contingent:
“They order you to do things they are afraid to do themselves, and then laugh at you for doing it.”
Remember the (enter T.P.)—the flying contraption I was on. Arch music laid on by Paul Bowles. Christopher Wanklyn was also there. I could feel the ship cracking up under me, just made it back on Pan music.
Paul said to Christopher:
“I was afraid it was going up.”
“You mean the ship?”
“No, the whole planet.”
Paranoid fantasies. Real enough at the time and in retrospect.
No, I wasn’t hallucinating. “They” would like me to think I am—as Laurie Anderson says:
“THEY ARE.”
Well, old unhappy far off things and battles long ago.
But the scars are still there.
Reversal:
“I’ll take these into the art room,” says the Butler.
“Certainly sir,” says the titled master.
“Don’t give me no shit, sir,” says the Butler.
“Don’t give me no shit,” master interjects. “Sir?”
“Of course, you cocksucker ...”—after long pause: “Sir.”
December 22, 1996. Sunday
Gloomy Sunday. Last night no breakfast, in the Land of the Dead. Dave and Sue were there in hotel room sort of, and I see the time is 7:20 A.M.
Go down. A room with a long table and a photo of some vague food—meat? Vaguely red. Halfway up back wall is a large opening, I presume accesses the kitchen.
Now four striped gray cats come out. Then I see a black dude with a high starched white collar. Face like ceramic mask. I brace him for breakfast. He does not react.
From Paul Bowles:
“I disturbed an agitated centipede.”
“Don’t kill it.”
“Someone should.”
Why the hell not. To me it is the most abominable of all creatures.
What hideous dead-end led to the creation of a centipede? If you can’t stand it, kill it!! With every other [animal] almost I say don’t kill it: snakes, lizards, any decent life-form. But you’re not a decent life-form anymore. Centipede legs is sprouting outa you.
“Get outa my bar. Quick. I don’t like centipedes!”
Just a guess: Centipede came from a hot impasse. Scorpion crawls out cold—
maybe—well, a man has to play the cards he is dealt—
and who deals the cards?
“Making [it] just as hard as you can on the dealer.”
Dealers change—his will is the wind’s will.
Papa Hemingway said it:
“It just doesn’t come anymore.”
Your credit’s gone Papa—your margin is et up.
Suicide is never good.
“It is a cowardly vetch, O my brothers.”
How you doing,