In Which They Were Taking His Wife Away

ted berrigan by alex katz

Ted and Sandy

by DAMIAN WEBER

Ted Berrigan met Sandy Alper and seven days later they were married. She wrestled him to the ground, sat on his lap, and asked him to marry her. He agreed. She dropped out of college and boarded a bus with him to Houston, where she pawned her watch to pay for the marriage license. She said she dropped out of college because she could tell, in an instant, that “living with Ted would be far more educational than staying in school."

Sandy writes in the introduction,

I lugged a big suitcase out of the dorm, announcing that I was taking some props to the drama department, and we got a bus to Houston. We could stay with Ted’s friend there, Marge Kepler. In Houston we had a blood test and I pawned my watch to pay for the marriage license. We bought Ferlinghetti’s A Coney Island of the Mind as a wedding gift to ourselves. That afternoon we made love (I for the first time), in Marge’s bed. It turned out that she had been his lover in Tulsa. Later the three of us had to sleep together because there was only one bed in the house.

The letters between Ted Berrigan and Sandy Alper were published for the first time in Dear Sandy, Hello. In it Sandy explains that she was young (19) but she knew what she was doing. Once married, they visited her parents in Miami, who searched Ted's things and found letters from Ron Padgett about the drug scene on the Columbia campus. The next day the police arrived to take Sandy to Jackson Memorial Hospital mental ward.

Ted writes,

Sandy, get out of that place. If it takes a month, a year, years, get out of there. Lie, steal, cheat, do anything, but get out and come to me. I will be trying every way I know how to get you free. But they have us where they want, they think. I am sure they are going to have this marriage annulled. They are going to find you “disturbed,” and have the marriage set aside. Well, we don’t need to care about that. Our marriage can’t be set aside, no matter what legal authorities say. What is important is that we be together again. We can’t fight them their way. What we have to do is do anything they say, resisting only when we feel we have to. Don’t sign anything. We’ll do what they say, but when their backs are turned, we’ll be gone.

Come here any way you know how. If you think I can help by coming there, tell me, and I’ll hitchhike there tomorrow. Once we are together, we’ll vanish from their sight until such time as they recognize our love, our marriage, our dignity as human beings. Honey, don’t ever let them make you think you are sick, or disturbed, or anything of the kind. We are all sick, and disturbed, but if you ever believed anything I said, believe me when I say that you are the best, the healthiest, the most good of all of us.

She writes,

I found something about love life in The Brothers K. I am going to show it to the next doctor. Maybe he will see that I am not going to destroy myself and you aren’t. I seem to be struggling for both of us instead of just me. You will be part of my whole self forever.

I think I would like to read more Ibsen.

I talked to the Negro maid today. She is a great lady. She ran away with her first husband at the age of twelve and was married to him for twenty-seven years. He then died. She is good. She thinks the whole business is silly. I wish you could meet her. I wish you could be here. These people need much hope. You show people that sometimes dreams do come true if the dreamer works hard and believes. If he has faith and courage.

She writes,

They are putting the annulment papers in tomorrow. I asked them if they would harm you if you came down, and my father said he might even try to kill you if he saw you or lock you up. The doctor has recommended treatment with an analyst or psychiatrist and I would live at home. They  have accused you of much. Mainly of being schizophrenic and not realizing it or trying to do anything about it. Also you are a moocher and live off of others; Anne, Pat, Margie, your mother. They have evidence, letters etc. and what they have said about you. They also said you were not given your master’s degree, not even awarded it, but your letter of non-acceptance was a front and so many more things.

I wish you would write a letter telling me about all the truth about you. No matter how bad you may think it may be. Ted, even though I believe in you and your love for me, they have created doubts. I am not even sure I will believe either of you.

I do believe your love and many of the things you have said to me because I have seen myself the truth in life and the communication we have had is real.

march 1962

Ted responds,

My darling Sandy, I don’t know where to begin this letter. Are we losing? Are they coming between us? Honey, I love you so very very much. I want to answer all your questions very carefully. I want to tell you everything, give you everything you ever want to ask of me.

But forgive me, I must talk a little first.

Sandy, they’re beating us. They’re getting us down. All this about the annulment, and the detective reports, is something we knew from the first. I told you that this is exactly what they would do. Their plan is to separate us, to annul the marriage, and to use your sympathies and your natural feelings for your parents to drive doubts between us like a wedge until finally we are apart for good.

I beg you, I beg you again, don’t defend me. Not to them, not to doctors, not to other patients, not even to yourself. Remember how it was when we were together, remember how I look and seem to you. Remember the love we have for each other. Have faith in your judgment, your feelings, yourself, in me. If you try to argue with their ideas about me, their supposed “facts,”  you cannot win. Their logic is superior to yours, and mine, their age and experience and their determination are something you cannot cope with by fighting them according to their rules. They know how to handle you. In only five weeks they have gotten you to write a line to me which reads “I am not sure I will believe either of you,” meaning them or me. What will they accomplish in another five weeks? or ten? or fifty?

with anne waldman

Honey, I haven’t heard one word from your parents. I have received no legal notice from anyone. What right do they have to decide whether it is all right for you and me to be married? We must not allow them to even question us except as equals. We cannot act like all they want is what is best for you, when they have locked you up. It seems that all they want is what they say is best for you.

Sandy, don’t forget that Sunday night in Miami. Don’t forget your mother asking if you wanted to use her leather coat in New York, your mother and father handing you over to strangers. Don’t forget.”

Ted goes on to admit every weird or incriminating thing he ever did. He was completely honest, and that section of Dear Sandy, Hello reads like an autobiography. She believed him, she believed in him again.

There was a boy in the ward with Sandy who was disparaging of Ted, and whom she grew to dislike. He was also a writer, but didn’t like beatniks, and became convinced Ted was one.

I just met the new male patient. He is a writer from New York by the name of Barry Weiss. He doesn’t know you or Joe. He lived on 11th street. He doesn’t like poetry much and is very wary of your type, he says. He is cynical. He loves Henry Miller and says he can only read 25 or fewer pages at a time and then he must stop. He has sad eyes. Things writers can only write in aloneness and desolation.

On a different day she writes,

Barry talked to me a little, he thinks perhaps you are just an ordinary beatnik. He doesn’t know you. I wish you could give him a good working over. Send me Tropic of Cancer if you can. Barry did give me some candy and apricots so I can’t hate him. He has a few good qualities. He doesn’t think I have the stuff it takes.

And finally, “Barry is rotten as ever. He may leave. I hope so.” We can only speculate he was a know-it-all who knew nothing, and that Sandy didn’t like pretentious no-fun sourpusses.

They were both reading Henry Miller. She noted, “I just finished reading Tropic of Cancer, Barry loaned it to me. I did underestimate it. But still don’t think it is the greatest book. Some parts I liked a lot. I will read them again. He does have great vitality and life. It makes me want to be out even more.”

He writes, “I’m not really incoherent. I’m in a kind of trance from reading Henry Miller’s Tropic of Capricorn. It is so great I have to stop every few pages and wonder." After speaking of killing birds to eat (a fantasy) he writes:

If I killed a little bird and roasted it over the fire and ate it, it was not because I was hungry but because I wanted to know about Timbuktu or Tierra del Fuego. I had to stand in the vacant lot and eat dead birds in order to create a desire for that bright land which later I would inhabit alone and people with nostalgia. I expected ultimate things of this place, but I was deplorably deceived. I went as far as one could go in a state of complete deadness, and then by a law, which must be the law of creation, I suppose, I suddenly flared up and began to live inexhaustibly, like a star whose light is unquenchable.

Sandy, my beautiful, innocent wife, Miller has just said simply much of what I have been struggling to tell you. If I eat dead birds in vacant lots, it is not because I am hungry, but because I need to discover Tierra del Fuego, the land of fire, the fiery earth. I people my poems with nostalgia. They are in part my bright land. And through the past few months, and most of all through my loving you, through marrying my soul, my self to yours as was preordained, I have now flared up like a burning rose, like a dove, and begun to live inexhaustibly, like a star whose light is unquenchable, good to eat a thousand years.

On a different day Ted writes,

I finished Henry Miller’s book called Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch today, and it really was a good book. Miller continually fills me with the joy of life. Right now I am living like the fox lives. All my senses have become sharper, and I smell, see, taste, and hear much more acutely than before. Food tastes marvelous, because we eat little. The weather is simply exciting all the time. We walk up and down all the streets. And all the time I think of you. I want so much to touch you, to lie with my eyes closed and feel you watching me. I do love you so.

Sandy writes,

I am entranced by Miller. Entranced and re-injected with faith. He is great. Your letter was sad because I want so much for you to be writing but I can’t do much now. I certainly don’t want you to be locked up or anything. It doesn’t torture me too much that you are out and free...

I have started reading Big Sur. It is great. I do have faith and courage. We too someday will be able to live our life. This book so far isn’t as wild that’s why it’s easier for me to take. Anyway he was a lot older. Life gets quieter after 50 or 60 I guess.

They exchanged ideas. They listed the books they were reading at the time, and what they thought. No slouch, Sandy was reading the best books, and open to suggestions from Ted, Joe Brainard, Dick Gallop, and Ron Padgett — a fine group of instructors.

He writes,

I have some new good books of poetry, and I’m reading a lot, not writing too much, except for the series I’m doing with Joe. I’ve read Go, a novel by Clellon Holmes about New York in the 50s, finished Henry Miller’s the Tropic of Capricorn, read a lot of poetry by a lot of people, and am now reading Frederico Garcia Lorca’s Poet in New York, and the selected poems of Vladimir Mayakofsky, the young Russian poet. Dick has finished a book by William Styron called Lie Down in Darkness, and is reading Styron’s second novel, Set This House on Fire. Styron is a young Southern writer, and he is very very good. Both these books are as good novels as have been done in America since A Farewell to Arms.”

His letters read like his poems.

Joe is sitting over on his bed writing a postcard to you. My fingers are sore from pounding the typewriter. When I first get up my hands are not as loose as later in the day, and I miss the keys sometimes and bang up my fingers. We are making hot coffee now, and preparing to work on our collages some more. We’re still working on our religious one, although Joe has done two of his own, without writing, since I wrote yesterday. So, Dick and I are walking the streets, waiting for his check, and reading our books. I’m reading Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch by Henry Miller and Dick is reading The Tropic of Capricorn. I want to send this (my) book to you as soon as I finish.

She writes back,

I finished Daring Young Man. I am going to read some parts again. Oh! To be with you. Someday I would like to meet Saroyan. I will hope you will not be mad but I started Rebecca by Du Maurier. She reminds me of Conrad only not so intense. Her books so far is atmosphere. The second wife is painful in her ineptitude and shyness although I am sure she is a good soul. I want to finish it so that I can start Bread and Wine....

I read “Kaddish” and “Howl” and “Thank You” and “Fresh Air” and scattered other poems today. Nothing else. I have so much nervous energy. I don’t know what to do. Oh Ted just to walk the streets with you would be enough, to talk to you and hold your hand....

I read Lorca every day. He is good — sounds beautiful — very simple, lyric, and clear. Have been reading in the New Yorker about a beautiful grand modern cathedral. We must remember it in case we ever go to Europe.

He writes, “I’m reading Henry Miller (Tropic of Capricorn), poems by John Ashbery, Joe’s notebooks, and a novel by a writer named Clellon Holmes called Go. Dick is reading the newest book on the pre-Socratics, Tom is reading a book by Edward Dahlberg (who wrote the poem Dave said is very great, remember). Tom and I wrote a collaboration today called 'O’Hara’s Sources.' It’s a fourteen-line poem using ground rules.”

Ted was working on his translation of Arthur Rimbaud’s The Drunken Boat, which wasn’t a literal translation, but instead an homage. She mailed to him to say,

Read “The Drunken Boat” again and I like it of course I can’t be too critical of it as a free translation because I can’t read French. I’ll read it again tomorrow. I like the “Spooky Winds” especially where you put it. The last two stanzas seem much different than the other—tone I guess.

Later she says,

I read the revision of “The Drunken Boat.” I feel so good that you dedicated it to me. I wish you were here so you could explain the various changes. Some of them affect the flow and rhythm and style a lot. Later we can do it. Many of the good parts you left the same. I am going to read them a few more times.

And finally,

I went carefully over “The Drunken Boat” the final version is more idiomatic and modern and concise—less 19th-century I guess. We can talk about the fine details later. I think it’s good to know the reason for picking certain words over others in translation. Some sound better but there must be other reasons.

Ron Padgett insists that Berrigan’s The Sonnets were written by having Sandy pick her favorite lines, which he then arranged randomly based on their sound rather than their meaning. In his writing about his friend, Padgett explains that it was a long growing process for Ted to outgrow formalism and become loose. Ted says of The Sonnets, “Wrote by ear, and automatically. Very interesting results....All of this partly inspired by reading about DADA but mostly inspired by my activities along the same line for the past 10 months...working on collages with Joe."

"Ted," Padgett says, "with Sandy’s help, had set in motion the creative machine he had been assembling over the past two years, the machine that would enable him to create a 'big' work."

The letters span two months and end when Ted went down to Miami to rescue Sandy. She received permission from her doctor to go to the local library. It was her first time out of the hospital and she used it immediately to meet up with Ted. (Many of their letters back and forth contained secret plans for what to do if she escaped, but there was no mention of this attempt.) They hitched to Denver, then decided to head back to New York. They settld near Columbia University. She learned to shoplift and wrote a friend about it, who showed her mom, who showed Sandy’s mom. Her parents hired a private detective, again, to get dirt on Ted, and to find out where they were.

Again, Sandy was committed to a mental hospital, this time Bellevue in Manhattan. None of the letters are from this period — maybe he could visit her, and didn’t need to write. There was a little poem he scribbled then: “I never thought . . . / that I’d come so much to Brooklyn / just to see lawyers and cops who don’t even carry / guns taking my wife away and bringing her back.” Then a judge freed her, and her parents gave up the pursuit.

Damian Weber is the senior contributor to This Recording. He is a writer living in Brooklyn. You can find an archive of his writing on This Recording here. He last wrote in these pages about the flies. His most recent album is entitled earnest kid, and you can download it here.

In Which Soon We Will Reach The Other Side

Conan the Barbarian Priest Poet

by DAMIAN WEBER

There is a hole in the earth shaped like a sword where a fire is eternal. In it there is a liquid that burns. Smoke pours out. The low god Crum creates the weapon. The sword solidifies in the molten lava volcano forge crack in the earth. Dark spots in the sword where the metal takes shape look like sun spots. The sword is six feet long (as tall as a Kentuckian — the term Melville used for the length of Moby Dick's penis). The sand is a Mars golden red color. We have entered not only another time but a different world on this earth. It has taken this low god years to forge the weapon talisman standard flag cross. Crum was surely a god to these men because he made metal burn. To spend my days as god over these children Crum growls is there not a man! Crum the low god has a big hippie beard and large feathered hair. His brow is furrowed from years of worry. No one believed he was a god — now this last desperate act to convince the world. The sword is pulled from the fire. A molten mess. A hideous awful blunt instrument for bludgeoning. The lady with the man's face approves. She has jowls like the Rancor Monster and cheeks above her eyes. She has the face of a Nordic queen. She stares into the fire and thinks I am going to kill you. The fire obscures her face as her thoughts become deadly. She disappears into the darkness. Her features become fainter almost fuckable. When I get my hands on that sword she scowls I'm going to cut myself to pieces. Everyone looks on. They are waiting. Each of them wants the sword. The boy thinks of animals he will kill. He could cut a horse in half. He could finally get a hold of the birds in the sky. But mostly he would like to kill the old man—prove he is not a god.

The old man knows they want to kill him. He moves slowly so they think he is feeble. He can't die. They can cut him how they like. He has been cut before — he cut them back. Into pieces. And ate them. And waved them out his ass. The sword is raised in the air. Crum knows this is the moment. They will attack. He looks weak. He lowers the blade and tempers it in the snow. The phallic symbolism is not to be missed. It is used again — to wipe the blade. He knows they will be on him. Let them rush. He lets them cut. It feels good. No it feels bad. But he enjoys it. Like dying in a dream — it's no matter. Let the cat scratch up your arm — only stings. Satisfaction. They see he cannot die. He is a god. Crum. Their god. Now they will learn. He cuts the boy first. I hate kids he thinks. Next the Norse Queen. He sticks the sword in her leg. She is pinned to the ground. He explains to her that she must die then kills her.

Crum gives a speech. It is droll. Fire and wind come from the sky. From the gods of the sky. But Crum is your god.

The boy is back. He has been reconstituted — like meat. He is now Crum's servant. He has wonderful eighties hair. The clouds move behind him. It is good to be alive again he thinks. Right as rain. Next time I kill this old man he’s done. His face is superimposed on the sublime. Best ever yearbook photo. He looks like a young Linda Hamilton. He too is a babe. Once giants lived in the Earth. In the darkness of chaos they fooled Crum and took from him the enigma of steel.

What is this old man talking about? Please stop spitting in my face when you talk. How come the boy asks it's called the enigma of steel when it's a sword? The dad scowls. Crum was angered and the Earth shook and fire and wind struck down these giants and they threw their bodies into the waters. But in their rage the gods forgot the secret of steel and left it on the battle field. We who found it are just men. Not gods. Not giants. Just men. The secret of steel has a mystery. You must learn its riddle boy. You must learn its discipline. For no one the old man got excited no one can you trust. Not men. Not women. Not beasts. This he says (eyeing the sword like a gun) this ... you can trust.

The old man then hands over the sword to the boy so he can feel its weight. The markings on it are clearly Celtic even though this is the time of giants. The boy can hardly lift the sword. But he’ll use it. Your verse is droll he says to his dad. Bad poetry. You say things as you think they should be. Your speech is like you think someone should give. I stand here superimposed in front of the sky on top a mountain. You rely too heavily on the real. I am wholly unreal. Sorry. The poet carves new words into the old man’s arms. Here is language. About to kill the old man he says You have failed the words. He kills him. I killed you dad.

Two riders approach over the snowy hill. Their horses are armored. They are Russian Viking Mongol Futurists. Their faces are painted white like evil teardrop clowns. Some have masks like Japanese samurai some wear fur caps like Genghis Khan and some Soviet fur hats. They are time travelling. And hungry. The staff they carry is a snake with two heads. It is the staff of men who have a second mouth for an asshole. They eat and shit words out the same mouth. They are unable to differentiate. Like most. Hanging off the staff is a scalped human head. It belonged to the last academic poet they encountered who failed to believe language can be made shitting out words.

The poet has killed a deer and brought it into camp. He prayed to Crum you made the animals without speech. They speak perfect words. They are the chapbook I work ceaselessly on. This deer is my first book of poems. I dedicate it to your death. The camp is excited about the kill and makes preparations. They are an advanced culture much like 1850s England with a mill stone to roll wheat. They wear the skins of animals they have killed. Their jewelry makes them a flamboyant clan.

The poet has put on his father's skin and enters the village. Finally he will fuck his mom. He goes to their tent. It is cozy. He goes straight to his tool bench though. He doesn't want to give in too soon. His mom never looked hotter. She's like a drugged Norse queen. Her lips are the poutiest. Her disheveled hair drives him wild — he knows she'll be a demon lay. She doesn't approach him and he thinks God I hate you. What's the point of being a sexy beast if you can't seduce me? He turns away in disgust and gives up. These girls are no help he says to himself as he walks out. He leaves his father’s skin on the ground for his mom to contemplate.

The clan of the two snakes is about to rampage the village. They gallop through the trees. The first sign of attack is a half man half penis animal who perches on a rock and sniffs the air like a dog. He knows they are close. Soon there will be meat in his mouth. Both kinds. He sees him but he isn't scared. He knows they won't kill him. Maybe kiss him a little. The clan heads into the village. Good. He hates them. He runs back to the hut and makes his best friend wear his dad's skin. There is a battle. They overact even in their deaths. It's their need to be dramatic that makes their deaths silly — their words the worst. You do me a favor he yells to no one. The one beautiful word he hears is from a dying man. 18 letters all vowels. It is original — the only believable sentence from this hack town.

In the chaos his mom runs for him. She's so needy he says to himself. But shocked he likes it. It's nice to have a girl need you. He thinks to himself maybe I could love a girl. He now understands what keeps men interested. Of course she had to wait until the village was destroyed. That's so annoying. Waiting until the last minute of your life to finally act. No he was premature in thinking he could love a woman. They are no help.

His best friend fights well in his dad's skin. He has the sword / secret / enigma. He ducks a swing. He cuts a man. Kill that one the leader says. The whole clan surrounds the dad skin — kills him. The poet and his mom look on. The dadskin is eaten by dogs.

The time travelling band of Russian Chinese Japanese Vikings now settle on the mother. She is holding him as they approach. He wants to yell out I have renounced her but doesn't. She is wearing fury boots like were stylish back then and now. She looks like Han Solo. The sword is covered in blood. The poet is excited. He can't wait to see what happens. Is this real life? he asks himself. For once something! Life before was slow motion. Like it was happening to someone else. He decides that from now on he will be alive.

James Earl Jones gets off his horse. He is a beautiful black woman. He has long black hair. He's trying to act. He walks up to her and calms her with his eyes. They are blue which disgusts everyone. She can't believe how weird it looks. She puts up a valiant fight standing doing nothing but James Earl Jones tilts his head slightly with an empathetic bent. He understands! She lowers her sword. She loves him. He looks at her like a creep then turns away. Where are you going? she thinks. He turns around and chops off her head. Like a jerk he must own her before he kills her. Her head falls on the ground — her body stays upright. Then she falls. In slow motion. The poet says to himself Ugly black woman for a lack of anything better to do I am going to spend my life in pursuit of you. I'll give you a head start.

The beautiful black woman moves her hand indicating she would like her helmet. When she puts it on she becomesJames Earl Jones again. Seriously wicked.

The whole encounter was wordless.

The clan leaves the town slowly. The huts are on fire. Heads on spikes. One sexy baby is placed upright and hernstraw hair makes her look like a scarecrow. The clan doesn’t take anything. They take hearts. Girlhearts.

Time is passing. It is now the future. He has a chain around his neck — a slave. A line of slaves. They look like Ewoks dressed in animal skins. In Ewok skins. They walk past a pagan statue much like a penis with a dead body at its base. It has no meaning. Senseless.

The slaves have travelled a great distance. The one that looks like the Artful Dodger has excellent eighties rock hair. He is clearly the hottest. Part little boy part little girl. They are out of the snow and in the desert. One of the boys falls. He is killed. A large javelin — wait a spear. They travel into spring. They are in Monument Valley. The snow capped mountains in the background are superimposed. He is travelling toward the digital west. But they have reached their destination. A carousel turned by boys. It is a millstone for rolling wheat and making fluffy breads. The Wheel of Pain. This is an important outpost. There is a death man on lookout. He is a blackbird. He caws at the newcomers. He has red hair and looks like Ronald the bear Weasley. No like the bully from A Christmas Story. He has Farrah Fawcett hair with swooshy flair. The poet is clamped to the wheel — loves his new activity. He has no other desires. This is a new life. He can't believe it. All I have to do he thinks is do this forever. Never to think again. To kill the poet’s head is a great favor — a poet’s superpower. He kicks a rock as he works. I'll see you on the other side rock. He turns to the boy next to him. I'll kill him first he thinks. Hey you. What's your name? The boy from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory turns to him and says Chuck. He looks at him. He can't believe it. That's cute he says I think I'll call you Andy. Do you know how to fade out Andy? Become nothing? To be strong? I'll show you. I won't say anything for the next 15 years and when I come back l will be my pure being. You should try it. See you on the other side Andy. The poet kills his head and becomes.

Fifteen years later he’s back. Turns on his head. He's now Arnold Schwarzenegger. Neat he thinks. His hair is long and he lost his shirt. When he wakes he looks like a man possessed. The world is new to him again. Another superpower of the poet is to have the world afresh. See he thinks the world is mine. Why would anyone not want to own this world when it is so mine? Hey Andy he says do you see that distance in the distance? It's mine. Oh hey rock good to see you again. Would you like to be owned by me? Too bad rock. I gotta break.

He is huge and has tits on his back. He is clean shaven and thinks what did these fucknuts do to me while I was out? Proving that the external world comes to you when you are ready the poet is freed from the wheel. Another superpower of the poet is that the external world is shaped in the mind. It's like telekinesis except it’s more like active appreciation. You are only as free as you think you are he says to his captors. The red headed blackbird unclamps him from the wheel and drags him up a mountain. Anything’s better than crawling he thinks. As the skin is torn from his back he wonders how humans can survive. It is a marvel he thinks my skin didn't shed. He doesn't howl in pain. He takes a new form. The world swirls purple like an absinthe drunk. No it’s back right again. This world is too easy he thinks.

Sit here! his captor tells him. He barks the order like talking to a child. You use language against itself the poet tells him and yourself. There is no place to sit. All I see is Earth and I don't sit on the Earth. It becomes me.

Sit here!

Should I sit on that mountain behind me? Should I sit on the dinosaurs? I'm playing — I'll sit.

He sits across from the first truly religious dude he's ever met. The man sits on a ledge over a pit. The pit has torches surrounding it and small statues like squatty gods. Together with the believer on one side and the poet on the other this is the new religion. But the poet notices the man is chained and has a hammer for a hand. The new religion is combat. Am I to kill this man to initiate the new world? The man doesn't move — he looks at the poet with complete disassociation. The poet is unfazed too. His is a peaceful dead face. They sit for hours probing each other’s minds asking questions through the air. Did you know your folks? How free is free? You ever been with a woman?

Night falls. The village has gathered. The men wear wigs under black bandanas. The women look like young boys with splotchy faces. Their skin is showing everywhere. They treat the poet like a dog — hand him scraps.

They unchain the hammer — he rises. There is murder in his eyes. He wants to become a priest. He wants it too much the poet thinks. There is a howl among the girls. Sexy. The poet is pushed into the pit. He backs away from the man but is kicked into the center. He wants to let the people think he doesn't have to kill this man. Your religion is for assholes! he yells. An iron fist hits him in the stomach. The man grabs the poet in a bear hug and tries to rip him in half. He bites off the poet's ear — he is awakened. Yes he doesn't need to kill but he wants to. He grabs the man’s arm behind his back in a chicken wing — breaks it cleanly. He rolls him over and breaks the other arm. The man doesn't quit. How ridiculous. The poet breaks his knees and still he thrashes wildly. Hold still the poet says soon you will reach the other side. You want to look like a fish? The poet puts him in a headlock and breaks his neck.

The crowd is stunned. You believe he says this is the new way. But there is no way. Only life. There are no answers. And no gods. Except me. And you. And love. And words. If I must kill this man then I must. If I must kill you ... then I must. But there is nothing I must do. I believe in nothing. In inaction. And the peace of self‐belief. I am not your new god. I am a priest. Learn the way.

The people jump into the pit and touch him like he is holy. He is handed a large wood standard that looks nothing like a Christian symbol (yes it does). They throw another faithful into the pit — the poet fights again. Yum.

The poet finds himself in china. He is locked outdoors in the sun. He is given texts to read as if he were learning for the first time. He didn’t tell them he was a University at Buffalo language poet who studied under greats like Robert Creeley Charles Bernstein and Susan Howe. He likes to read. Especially the post moderns and New York School. All halfbougie collegegrad bohotourists. But he really hates the beats. Too much religion. Not enough history. He likes poetry about poetry mostly. Writing about writers. Process poems. And nice things about the girl you like.

A slavegirl is brought into his cell. The door is locked. They watch. She is dressed in a robe but they take it from her showing her breasts. She does not attempt to cover herself. She stands naked except a brown diaper. She has long brown hair and wears an iron crown. They expect the barbarian to take her but he would rather write about how girls cause constant hurt feelings. Women are like mom. Family to be protected. Fear is on her face. He goes to her — covers her. She is relieved. Don't worry he says girls disgust me. Here eat my food. You'll be my pet. I'll call you RaceCar. I'll teach you the way.

The jailers look through the bars disgusted — hoping to see hot eighties tiger sex. He shoos them away. Away captors of our minds! They walk away in amazement. Certainly he is holy. Or half gay.

At night the China King has a dinner. Number One Kitchen. My biggest fear is my sons will never understand me he whines. What is best in life? he quizzes his sons.

The oldest son speaks first. The open steppe. A great horse. Falcons at your wrist and the wind in your hair. He answers proudly looking at the king. Say wrong to that dad!

Wrong! the king yells. The oldest son knew he was wrong. He likes to egg on his dad who's an old fool who he'll kill soon. The dad turns to the poet and asks him what is best in life. To crush your enemies. To see them driven before you. And to hear the lamentation of their women. The family agrees. But the poet knows this is not true. He only said it because he is captive. He knows what’s best in life is complete peace. To write when you want. Friends who are better writers than you. A house full of modern poetry. Coffee in the kitchen. And NPR all day. A world without women. And after you have created something truly modern — give up and only read newspapers from foreign cities. Maybe start a correspondence with a young poet who tries too hard to be a poet. Like Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet and write about what makes bad poetry. Especially when your poetry sucks dude! That would be a bunch of fun.

Night's on. The full moon is out. The poet thinks if he tries hard enough he can become a werewolf. No. He curses his unresponsive body and retreats back into his mind. Sleep. But he is kicked awake by his jailer. He is brought over to the chopping block and wonders if his head is coming off. If I don't want life too bad I won't get hurt feelings. He closes his eyes. Not to want. It’s his chains that are cut. The poet looks dumb. The jailer kicks him. Go he says you're free.

I was always free quoth the poet.

The poet runs. He runs across the shrubby deserts of China into the shrubby deserts of Arizona directly onto the set of Mad Max and the Freedome. There are black dogs chasing him. German Shepherds — a breed that doesn’t exist yet. He outruns them for miles. Finally they overcome him. No they're wolves. The wolves he wished he became last night during the full moon. Wish granted. He climbs a rock formation with ancient statues not completely unlike Easter Island. He sees a symbol carved into the rock. It is a box on a stand like a TV. A witch! He falls through the opening and down the steps. He makes the most ridiculous noises. Skeletons on the wall tell him he is going to get more than laid. He sees the witch. She is wearing a brown diaper.

There's warmth and fire she says. Do you not wish to warm yourself by my fire? So obvious. She crawls on all fours like a shecar. Her dark brown hair is a mane. She looks at him. She tosses magnesium into the fire—a white hot flash and screams from the dead. She crawls to him as low to the ground as she can. There is a tiger skin on the wall — he expects hot‐eighties‐tiger‐sex. They said you would come she starts. The music in the background is heavy drumming. From the north a man of great strength. A conqueror. A man who would be king by his own hand. Who would crush the snakes of the earth. What is it you seek?

A clan of men who eat and shit words.

She comes closer and closer until she sees he won’t back away if she kisses him. He isn’t pleased but not unwilling. She winces as he jabs her. She starts an enchantment. Zamura she calls out to her demon mom. The cave turns blue then purple. She opens her eyes which are now vertical like a cat. She lets out a tiger yell — her teeth are sharpened. She reaches for the poet and tries to eat his face. Wind comes from her chest. She is completely freaking out. He rolls over and tosses her into the fire where she burns instantly. She flies around the cave and leaves in a streak of fire.

Day comes and he walks back into the world. A dad. The poet looks around at the new world. He wonders which way to go. It doesn't matter.

Food a man calls out. Food. He is chained to the wall. I have not eaten in four days. It's a Mexican.

And who says you will? the poet asks. He likes being a jerk. More importantly he wants to see how Zen the Mexican is. Especially if they’re going to hunt gash together. The correct answer is I need nothing and will have it! Instead the Mexican says Need food so I have strength. The wolves are coming. The Mexican knows the best way to interest a poet is to not say what the poet wants. Poets talk about what they want to talk about. Fucking poets he thinks so easy.

Wrong! Don't think about the wolves. They are only ghosts of the external world. Your hunger is not real. And these chains he says breaking them are not real. Come with me and learn the way. Soon you will reach the other side.

The two walk over a mountain and set up camp next to an ocean. In the twilight they cook ancient animals over a campfire. In the morning they run across the wheat fields of ancient China and over the sands of Arizona. They run and run and run both amazed they never grow tired. There is magic in the earth. A city materializes in the external world. Civilization the Mexican says. The poet could strangle him. He hasn't said a word in two days — then that lie. He knows this isn't civilization but a figment. When he sees a city he doesn't think Girls! like we do today.

They enter the city. The people are Mongolian Chinese Viking Witches from evil snake cults wearing Turkish turbans on camels and Asian elephants. They pretend they are talking but only mouth empty words. The poet can sense something inauthentic about the city. Citizens try to sell them goods. But they are on a quest to shed possessions including their bodies. Especially their minds.

They ask a man if they know about the snakes. He is white unlike the rest. He wears a Chinaman's hat but looks British and sounds American. The only snakes I know of are on those cursed towers. He points up to a smokestack with a ring of snakes. They have spread to every city. Two or three years ago it was any other snake cult. Not now. It is said they are deceivers. They murder people in the night. I know nothing. The man then offers them Black Lotus which the poet assumes is an opiate. That's okay he says if I want to feel something ... I'll break my fingers.

At night the poet and the Mexican try to find a way into the tower. They ask everyone. Even a camel. They reach the tower. But out of the darkness a figure appears. It’s a leg. A woman's leg. She reveals her face. She’s trapped. She thinks they’re guards. She’ll have to fight. She pulls out her sword. Her blonde hair blows across her face. She has cheekbones so high on her face it’s a butt. She’s a beefcake Helen Hunt. With her Roman nose. She wears a leather bikini and has one hundred feet of rope. Her long pale arms are the same color as her hair. She only has breasts because of muscle. You're not guards she says.

Neither are you the Mexican says putting away his sword. Thieves like yourself come to climb the tower.

You don't have a rope she says. Ha (attempting a dramatic voice) two fools who laugh at death! The poet puts down his sword. He looks concerned.

The Mexican climbs the tower without a rope. He uses his knife. The poet uses her rope — her butt in his face. They reach the top. The girl goes first and enters a chamber. She’s almost been seen but quickly hides. Women in white robes walk by with candles. They have long monkey arms. Their faces are hidden and they appear to be handmaidens to the girl without a hood. She is the sacrifice. The Mexican follows but the girl motions for them to go a different direction. The boys climb down to the lowest level. They reach the dirt bottom covered in human bones. The poet kicks a rat.

She sneaks up behind one of the skinny white teenagers — snags her from behind. Now she wears her robe. She has a complete view of the ceremony — the handmaidens take off the robes of the sacrifice. Her hair covers her breasts and she is wearing a white diaper. She kneels before the pit. She’s going to dive. She clasps her hands together like praying to Moses’ god. She starts to sway like she is speaking tongues. She is convulsing and becoming possessed. Her bony hips pierce out the diaper. She is excited to reach the other side.

The boys climb through a pipe leading to a green light. They see the orange and black snake. It's guarding the jewels. It eyes them. They should turn and run. They grab as many stones as they can. It rises up larger than the room. The poet strikes. He slams the sword through its mouth. Black blood comes out. It’s over quickly.

The sacrifice dives into the pit. She screams. The snake has been killed. Its head off. Its body thrashes. The poet and the Mexican climb the rope. They are followed by the girl. They reach the top. Their rope is gone. The girl decides to jump into the pool below. The poet next. Then the Mexican. They are free. They are rich. They go to a bar. The Mexican walks between the dancing girls. He gooses a butt. But the poet is with the girl. He's a serial monogamist.

They are at the table with their big cups. The jewels are on the table. Looks like the poet is asleep. She reaches across to sneak. The poet grabs her hand and looks at her. He grabs the biggest jewel — runs it over her hand. You’re like a diamond he says. You're as cold as ice. You're willing to sacrifice. Our love. He’s quoting Foreigner. He’s expressing himself in power rock ballads. Especially when words don't mean anything anyway. He turns her hand over and holds her wrist by the sensitive part. He thinks to himself I want you to feel this. I want you to feel how sexy this is. He knows nothing is sexy — sexy is to think you're sexy. It works. Her hand loosens. Can you hear me? he thinks to himself I want you. He holds her wrist too long but doesn't care. Lingering has made something unsexy sexy — now everything is sexy. He gives her the jewel. He places it in her hand. He sings He's a fool ... a fool for love. What he wouldn't do for love. He’s singing Sandy Rogers. Once a fool ... you got to follow the rule ... always a fool for love. Sounds like a chance to advance the cause of true love. It works like crazy. You're in the movies the girl says try to be sexy. Take that smirk off your face. But it doesn't matter. His arms are huge and she sits on his lap. He peels off her leather halter‐top. But the poet knows how to touch. He rubs her over like a cat. Her skin shines with vegetable oil. Her spine sticks out like a dinosaur. Her butt is like an oxen. How long do I have to pretend to enjoy this? he thinks. The girl realizes she is losing him and puts his face in her breasts. Now. He is in the present. His mind wanders but it is good to be back. She makes a face like she's seen in the movies of people who like it. It drags on too long. This is a kid movie. Finally it is over. But no. First they must look at each other like two people finding each other. Now it is over. He kills her.

She is back. They walk through the elfin village. A tiny midget tries to subdue a pig. He grabs it by its legs. To what purpose? Next two fat guys grapple. It's a wild world. The Mexican has found himself a girl too. More shots of everyone happy. How long is this interminable scene?

The guards come in. They surround the poet. They’re taken to the hall of the King. It is large and empty. The king has a depression. He is another Britain. His voice is nasally and powerful and grating.

These are the thieves you requested sire!

I thought there were three.

Our companion the girl says died in the gardens. Good one. Lions ate him. The girl thinks to save someone besides herself. Unlike the poet who is in his own head only. Thanks to art. The guards bring out the Mexican—the King gets pleasure out of the lie. Do you know what you've done? the king asks. What daring. What outrageousness. What insolence. What arrogance. I salute you. Snakes! In my beautiful city. Everywhere their towers. You alone have stood up to their guards. And what are you? Thieves! And my daughter’s fallen under their spell. She follows them as a slave. Seeking the truth of her soul. She is to be his! He gives them jewels. Steal my daughter back.

When they are alone the girl begs the poet no. To hell with it. Fuck all. The Mexican agrees. Let’s take what we have. I have never had so much as now. All my life I've been alone. She talks like they do in the movies about not losing someone. The poet says no. He gives a long winded speech about family. About fathers and friends and trulove. It drags on. She agrees and will go with him. But in the night he leaves her. She wakes up to find him gone. Relieved! She rubs her hand where he was the night before. Her breasts slip out. There’s nothing better than being free. Of you. She cries a little. It’s nice to know there’s instant justice.

Finally alone again he feels free. He's on his horse. He has his sword and his thoughts. He's like any guy after a breakup feeling so free (for the first week). So many things he can do now he couldn't do before. Man she was so annoying.

The Ural Mountains are behind him. Even though he’s in Spain. The ground is dry. It’s spring but there is snow. Now he’s traveling through a blizzard. And now over Kansas. He spots hippies. They carry flowers and hand him one. They wear robes that are ripped and brown. They are the Children of Doom. Doom’s Children. They are flagellants — scourge themselves. They tell him to throw down his sword and return to the Earth. But we are the earth the poet says nothing is unnatural. He doesn’t accept the flower. A symbol — not real words. Things in place of words. Symbols represent what you want to say ... instead of what you say. Your language is misunderstood. Your language is for assholes. There is a cute hippy girl with brown hair. A dream. He wants to show her the way. Using words that aren’t replacements for other words. Jerks. He leaves the hippies.

He travels. He finds standing stones that look like Stonehenge. There is a Japanese Wizard. He is a hermit. Luckybastard. Hey I’m a wizard mind you. This place is kept by powerful gods. Harm my flesh and you’ll have to deal with the dead!

Can you summon demons? Your words are nothings.

I would summon the demon more ferocious than all in hell.

The poet laughs. It’s not a good laugh. But schadenfreude. Harm joy. The black happies. Like meeting someone and knowing you will enjoy killing them. They talk about Stonehenge. These have been here since the time of the Kings. Domains once glittered like the light on the windy sea. The poet speaks hate. Domains don’t glitter. Or Glisten. And ... it doesn’t happen on the windy sea. Not a moment for poetry. Start over ... and leave it out. Do flowers grow here? the poet asks. It is a set up. His answer will show what type of poet he is. He expects language about the first flowers of spring. Maybe with poison. If he’s a bohemian he’ll mention some as medicine. Too easy to draw them out. Poets you can see a mile away. For once an original idea! Flowers? the wizard spits. He looks at the poet. The poet smiles. They both laugh. They agree. Poetry sucks.

They drink wine out of a pot. The poet drinks too much. Because he wants to.

In the morning he trades his horse for a camel. He rides into the desert. Warrior? the wizard calls out. What are the flowers for? The poet wants to answer that they misrepresent language. A mockery of a joke about something important to him. A reminder to not take things serious. Instead he chooses his words. Only use words that are original. He kicks the camel and yells For a girl! The wizard cackles. He understands language. Symbols aren’t useless.

The poet rides until he comes to an encampment. There are many hippies. They live in tents at the foot of the mountains. They pray like Muslims by bowing. They have the contented air of self‐satisfied people with nothing to do but enjoy greatness. The poet looks at them with a sidelong glance. He is unsatisfied with his sneering. Why snicker? Why not use his words? A line of women rub each other’s backs like at a rave. It is a meditation. The poet travels through them with the flowers in his hand. The words are cutting his hands. I can’t stand symbols he thinks. The children repeat the incantation Doooooooooom. They meditate on their destruction. The poet agrees there is no hope and shit all is useless. He has asked for oblivion before. He has called it down on dead men. But it is a false paradise. For the weak to mollify the weak. Don’t produce results.

The poet sleeps on the ground next to a fire. He has lit his flowers. He wishes he had whiskey. It’s going to be a long night. In the morning he wakes to a commotion. The children of Doom are moving. They follow a group of priests who wear white robes. They are distributing robes — they fight over them. To the death. When they collect their robes they smell them. What kind of cult is this? He grabs a robe—smells it. He walks among them. He nods his head like a smirking shit. He can’t help himself — subterfuge is his weakness. He can’t pretend to be other. The priests walk in a line. Their white hoods look like Klansmen. There’s thousands of them. They are heading to Death Mountain. They reach a large staircase cut into a mountain. Two bad guys walk down the stairs. They are the actors from Spinal Tap. They have long hair and mustaches. One of them is Lemmy from Motorhead. The other is Jeff Hanneman from Slayer. They’re looking for the poet but he is by the reflection pool. A girl asks him What do you see? The poet answers Infinity. Might as well play up the role. I see nothing ... only doom. She agrees. He stands up and is twice her height. What is this hell?

The princess walks out of the mountain and stops at the top of the stairs. She is a babe. She has a snake wrapped around each wrist. Her arms strain.

I have seen you. I have watched you. For a thousand years … I have watched you. Where did that voice come from? It must be Doom. It Is. James Earl Jones steps out of the mountain. He raises his hands in a fey salute. The poet sees him. There he is. Doom lowers his hands which says You may be seated. Like at Mass. Who among you still fears death? Who ... will not face ... emptiness? The poet looks into his hypnotic eyes. He doesn’t fear death. He faces emptiness.

He is grabbed from behind. He struggles. His teeth are clenched. They yell Infidel! It takes 8 people to grab him. They lift him over their heads. The crowd runs away to watch the infidel be killed. Doom gives up. Mass is over. The princess walks forward. She has a skeleton face and two small slits for a nose like a snake. Still a babe. She makes the peace sign and crosses her arms. The snakes don’t bite her face. They’re like jewelry. She is sad. She wants to feel the death of the infidel. She can read minds. She likes to die over and over.

The poet is incapacitated. He is covered in blood. They throw him in the reflection pool — he is heading to infinity. Doom stands over him. Her hands at her side like a shocked mother. I wish to speak to you now Doom says. Where is the Eye of the Serpent? You gave it to a girl? Probably for a ... night’s pleasure. You broke into my house! Murdered my servants and my pet. That’s what grieves me the most! You killed my snake.

You care too much the poet says to ask for oblivion. You lie … with words. You killed my mom … my people!

With a wistful sigh Doom laments his earlier ways. Must have been when I was younger. There was a time boy when I searched for steel. When steel meant more to me than gold or jewels.

The riddle ... of steel.

Yes! You know it don't you boy? Steel isn't strong boy but flesh is stronger! Look around you. There! A beautiful girl!

A babe is standing on a cliff. There are hundreds up there. Doom looks at her. She lifts up her arms. They are lockedin a mind. She smiles — she’ll enter nothing. She steps off the edge and falls 182 feet onto a stunt bag below. The poet doesn’t see the import.

That is strength! he sneers. That is power! Without words. Doom’s eyes are burning. You talk too much. Contemplate this on the tree of woe. Crucify him!

In the desert there is a solitary tree. The poet has been nailed to it like Romans used to do. The poet has lost his mind. He is daydreaming — hallucinating. He believes he is yelling against a country of morons. It’s because of followers that he is here now. Followers of Doom who killed mom. Followers of the slave trade that bought him. Followers of fights that made him fight. Followers of the presented. And he himself was a follower. To get revenge — he followed.

Vultures swarm overhead. They pick at his flesh. He grabs it in his mouth and bites. Its head falls off. The poet dies. This stupid world. It got me.

In the distance there is a vision. It’s the Mexican. He isn’t running fast — pick it up. The girl is there too. They cut him down. The girl asks the wizard Do the gods owe you favors? She wants him brought back. She’ll fight demons. She’ll pay the price. She’s got no fucks left to give.

Night comes and they start the ceremony. The wizard is drawing runes on his dead body. These words are picturesthat summon demons. He mumbles incantations. Speak up! He has circled the wound on his wrist as a location of power. He paints face tats on him. He is tied to stop the demons from taking him. The Mexican has a jug. He passes it to the girl — she refuses. The wind picks up. The clouds turn red. The demons lift his body but she throws herself on him. She fights with flailing punches. Big missing haymakers. The demons are little worms with skulls. They are transparent and tough to find. They crawl on her back — try to take her. She battles without end. She wins. It’s like falling in love all over again. He is back from the dead. She has successfully fought for love — like in magazines. She’s crying. She can’t believe it. But he’s still dead. She hugs his body. In the morning he opens his eyes. She doesn’t waste a moment. The gods she says cannot sever us. If I were dead … and you were fighting … I’d come back from the darkness … from the pit of hell … to fight at your side.

Conan can’t believe it — alive for one minute and this! There is no pit of hell. And never will you come back from the darkness. There is no darkness … only yourself.

He takes a moment to practice his swordsmanship. It’s good to be alive he thinks. Good to taste the tasty air. Damn I love having this in my hands. He sharpens his sword with a rock. He is lost in his own world. Hacking and chopping limbs and heads. Giving good speeches. The Mexican suggests they steal the princess and not kill Doom. They could get away. Agreed? Beefcake Helen Hunt wants it too. She wants to get away. She asks. Conan doesn’t answer. Instead he sharpens. I came back from the dead to kill and they want to keep their lives.

It’s morning — they ride. They leave the wizard behind. It’s not his fight. They ride over the sand dunes of Arizona. The white sands of New Mexico. The rocky terrain of Mongolia. The mountains of Spain. It’s summer — it’s easy. They’ve found the back entrance to Death Mountain. It is the volcano of Stromboli off Sicily which inspired Mordor. They ready for battle. Conan puts his sword in the fire–in order to melt it. War paint is applied to their faces. They arm themselves with every weapon. They are Rambo hiding grenades in their armpits. They hide little knives in their crevices. The Mexican has his bow and arrows. I get to be Legolas! The crawl a hole in the mountain. It is on fire. Inside is a scene of industrialization. Mine workers stoking fires. They walk like Patsy played by Terry Gilliam in Monty Python’s The Search for the Holy Grail–like Englishmen. The light underground is red. They are stretching people on the rack—except they’re dead. Truly wigged friggers. They’re smelting iron — lifting a cauldron of fire. No it’s a stew. They’re cutting human bodies. Soilent Green. They use the head and hands. Weird. Bodies hang upside‐down like cows at market. Conan hates sneaking. He feels like a wuss.

They follow the stew into the orgy chamber. Naked bodies everywhere. Legs in the air—for no reason. Huge pillows make an orgy. Some are making out pretty hard — that’s sweet. They’re serving wine and cold cuts. The gimp wears a mask. Conan looks at the orgy and takes a mental snapshot. There’s a tiger? The soup is green and the body parts aren’t cooked well — they look gelatinous and white. A babe pulls a hand out of her soup and bites into a finger. Disgusto.

There’s the princess! She’s up top with Doom. He’s in his throne not moving. She lays on the floor next to him like Princess Leia when she was slave to Jabba the Hutt. He is in a trance. His eyes are blue from the spice from Dune. He’s travelling. Now his eyes are vertical slits like a snake. His face is bulging. Holy shit! Doom’s face is stretching. He is now a snake. So he was a god? The snake slips out of his body and into the wall. Carrie Fisher doesn’t notice — she is on muscle relaxants. When the orgy notices the fires they don’t budge. They are in the moment. If I were to die right now that would be no big deal. It’d be the best. Conan runs through the orgy killing only dudes. He dumps the stew. A skull pours out. The cauldron falls down the steps—smashes against the wall. Lemmy from Motorhead has an almighty ax and Jeff Hanneman from Slayer has a huge hammer. The guy with the hammer almost smashes his head like a watermelon — like Gallagher. The lair is falling. They grab the princess who bites and scratches and claws. She hisses like a cat. The girl knocks her out with a backhanded slap. They escape.

Doom is back. He lifts his men out of the rubble. He walks out of the lair and watches them ride away. He pulls a snake out of a bag and stretches it straight as an arrow. He puts it in his bow and releases. From a mile away he strikes the girl. She is dying. They lay her on the ground. She pulls the arrow out of her back — it returns to a living snake. She tells Conan to let her breathe her last breath into his mouth. He thinks it’s melodramatic but does it anyway. Refuse a last wish because it is trite? She dies. They burn her body like the Japanese.

He swears revenge. I’m going to chop off his head and toss it down a flight of steps. He wants to send his people packing — walk away from religion when they see their leader is not a god. I’ll take his snake eyeballs and lick them. Cut his body and free his blood. He promises to never fall in love.

They’ve made camp by the wizard’s tent. They use the large stones as a fort. They tie the princess so Doom can see her. He will kill you the princess says. He has seen your fires. He will come for me and when he does he will kill you. Conan wants Doom to kill him. He wants a fight to the death and doesn’t care who wins. Her taunting pisses him off. He picks up a large rock and throws it at her. It smashes above her head. He grins.

They’re preparing. Turning sticks into spears and sticking them into the ground. Conan says I remember days like this when my father took me into the forest. Almost 20 years of pitiless combat. No rest. No sleep like other men. And yet the spring wind blew. He is getting whimsical reminiscent sentimental sloppy. The end is near. It was great being alive. The leaves were so dark and green then. The grass smelled sweet with the spring wind. He asks the Mexican You ever felt that wind?

It blow where I live too. In the north of everyman’s heart.

What the shit is that supposed to mean? Conan asks. Do you mock? Conan realizes his emotions are controlling his words. Screw it — he wants to be sad. For us there is no spring. Just the wind that smells fresh before the storm. He’s said something poetic and hates it. I hate poetry he thinks. Especially mine. He figures he will let it go. He doesn’t need to say it right. He’s about to die. And the Mexican is going to die with him. What does it matter if he slips into sentimentality and trite pedestrian commonplace hackneyed corny stale tired cornballs? His words will be like him soon—lifeless limp dull flat banal clichéd lame cheesy old hat.

There they are the friggers! They came. This is going to be great. He can’t wait to kill them. It’s hard to tell how many there are — 10? 12? 20? Conan picks up 3 axes. The Mexican has placed arrows around the encampment — ready. They’re so ready. It’s five to one. Good odds. They are close. They bear the standard of the snake shitting the snake. It’s hard to tell which one is Darth Vader. Finally. Oblivion. As expected! He waits behind a rock and attacks a rider by surprise. They are cut in half. He does it again. And again. That’s three. Hope the Mexican is keeping up. Conan kills another one. The Mexican has a spear. He gets one. First kill. He’s on. The guy with the hammer hits Conan. It’s a game of hide and seek in the rocks—now you see me now you don’t. He finds Conan hiding behind a rock and he smashes Conan’s head. But it was a trap. Instead he’s spiked. Conan stands up and looks at him. The look in the dying man’s eyes makes him never want to die. He realizes he’s going to die. He wants to have another go. Maybe this time not such a dick. He watches the dying man with great interest. You’re dying he says not me. It’s good to understand. The whole time you were dead. This is how it always was. He soaks up the sight. He knows it will be him that will die one day. It is him that was always dead. We are both shit he tells the dying man.

While he is preaching the other guy from Spinal Tap attacks. Lemmy — with an ax. But it is no matter. Conan has ascended. He is now light and thought. He digs his hand into his chest and rips out his heart. He doesn’t understand. Do you not understand? Conan asks. It is because you are weak.

Doom watches all. Then rides.

It’s night. Doom is in front his followers. He is atop the steps. He looks out over his children. There are thousands of them — holding torches. It is a beautiful sight. Proof of the sublime. And they believe. He speaks. The Purge is at last at hand. Day of Doom ... is here! All that is evil. Your parents. Your leaders. Those who call themselves your judges. Those who have lied ... and corrupted the Earth … they shall be cleansed. Doom’s Children approve by saying Doooooooooooooom. You my children are the water that will wash away all that has come before. In your hand you hold my light. You burn away the darkness. You burn ... the way!

Doooooooooooom.

Conan walks up to Doom from behind.

My child Doom says. You have come to me. For who now is your father if it is not me? Who gave you the will to live? What will your world be without me? James Earl Jones likes telling white dudes he’s dad. What a trip. He’s falling for it. He’s confused.

Have you learned the riddle? Do you still believe in steel? When you are stronger!

Words are shit he says. You talk too much. He hacks Doom’s shoulder. He hacks his other shoulder — rips off his head. He lifts it for everyone to see. He tosses the head down the steps — it rolls forever. The villagers can’t believe it. They turn their heads in shame. They had been worshipping a man not a god. They walk up to the reflection pool and throw in their torches. One by one they quit religion. Without speaking they leave. They set fire to all they see. They still hate everything — especially their absentee dads.

Conan sits on the steps and watches. The princess is there. She wants him. She lifts up her hands in prayer. She is the new witch. As he walks down the steps she opens her arms to him. She bows at his feet. Get up he says don’t bow to me. Conan thinks. He kicks her down the steps. No one he yells ever listens!

Damian Weber is a writer living in Buffalo. You can find an archive of his work on This Recording here.
You can purchase his book a dictionary in the subjective here.

Paintings by Gertrude Abercrombie.

"The Wheel" - Laura Stevenson (mp3)

"The Hole" - Laura Stevenson (mp3)

Laura Stevenson's third album, Wheel, was released on April 23rd. You can purchase it here.

 

In Which He Was One Of Those Kids Who Drove Me Crazy

Categories

by DAMIAN WEBER

The diaries of Andy Warhol were meticulous. Their purpose was to create a record of business expenses and personal expenses that could be presented to the IRS in case of an audit. But they became more. It was a conversation between two friends, who would call each other daily at 9 a.m. and talk for an hour or two. Pat Hackett would keep notes, then immediately type them after getting off the phone, capturing his voice while it was still stuck in her head. This log was over 20,000 pages, which she edited to 800 and published as The Andy Warhol Diaries.

I have experienced a lot of hostility about the friendship of Andy and Jean Michel Basquiat — mainly surrounding the idea that Andy was using him. My friends make disparaging and dismissive comments that Andy was a hack and a jerk. But a lot of these same friends aren't impressed by Jean Michel either. Trying to persuade them is to argue against "nuh-uh," and "you're wrong." So, instead, here's every diary entry he composed about Jean Michel, for your consideration. The point, the reason why, was because, I love Jean Michel, I love Andy, and I love the truth. 

Monday, October 4, 1982

Down to meet Bruno Bischofberger (cab $7.50). He brought Jean Michel Basquiat with him. He's the kid who used the name "Samo" when he used to sit on the sidewalk in Greenwich Village and paint T-shirts, and I'd give him $10 here and there and send him up to Serendipity to try to sell the T-shirts there. He was just one of those kids who drove me crazy. He's black but some people say he's Puerto Rican so I don't know. And then Bruno discovered him and now he's on Easy Street. He's got a great loft on Christie Street. He was a middle-class Brooklyn kid-I mean, he went to college and things-and he was trying to be like that, painting in the Greenwich Village.

And so had lunch for them and then I took a Polaroid and he went home and within two hours a painting was back, still wet, of him and me together. And I mean, just getting to Christie Street must have taken an hour. He told me his assistant painted it.

Tuesday, October 5, 1982

And I forgot to add that with Jean Michel Basquiat the day before, he reached into his pocket and said he'd pay back the $40 he owed me from the days when he painted T-shirts and used to borrow money from me, and I said oh no, that's okay, and I was embarrassed — I was surprised that's all I'd given him, I thought it was more. 

Monday, November 15, 1982

Jean Michel Basquiat who used to paint graffiti as “Samo” came to lunch, I’d invited him.

Wednesday, May 18, 1983

Oh, and Paige is upset — Jean Michel Basquiat is really on heroin — and she was crying, telling me to do something, but what can you do? He got a hole in his nose and he couldn't do coke anymore, and he wanted to still be on something, I guess. I guess he wants to be the youngest artist to go. Paige gave him a big art show uptown last month and she's the reason he's been around the office-they're "involved."

Wednesday, June 1, 1983

Bruno came to lunch, and Jean Michel Basquiat. And after Paige'd been crying away that he was destroying himself on drugs and was going to die, here he showed up as healthy as a horse, he's put on twenty pounds, and he was just in Jamaica, and he looked actually handsome. He gets his hair cut at this shop on Astor Place that's gotten so chic, it used to be $2.50 for a haircut and now it's $4 something.

Tuesday, August 9, 1983

Paige stayed overnight with Jean Michel in his dirty smelly loft downtown. How I know it smells is because Chris was there and said (laughs) there were crumpled up hundred-dollar bills in the corner and bad B.O. all over and you step on paintings. The day Jean Michel came over to exercise with me he made a point of saying that Paige had made it to work on time, so that's how he was letting me know. He'd thought that Paige was Jay's girlfriend, which she was at one point, but then he asked her out and she went. And they had a date and this was the date-they rented a U-Haul and went out to Brooklyn to a black neighborhood and went to a White Castle and had eight hamburgers and then two people came in with big sticks and they thought they were going to kill them. You know, it was a "kooky date." This was the day before he went to St. Moritz to see Bruno. Mary Boone and Bruno are both handling him. And Thomas Ammann without either one of them knowing had a few works of Jean Michel's to sell. I don't know where he got them. He said from some "secret source”-oh wait! I bet it was Paige! Oh Thomas is a creep, meeting all these people through us and then being secretive. I bet they were from Paige because she had that show a few months ago of Jean Michel's stuff!

Monday, August 15, 1983

Cabbed to meet Jean Michel Basquiat at the workout with Lidija, he was doing it with us (cab $5). He's in love with Paige Powell.

Thursday, August 18, 1983

Went to meet Jean Michel Basquiat and did a workout with Lidija (cab $5).

 

Sunday, August 21, 1983

Cabbed to meet Jean Michel Basquiat and Paige Powell ($5). And Paige is just so nutty, she laughs so loud at nothing. I would put her in the category of schizophrenia. Jean Michel said he never finished high school. I'm surprised, because I thought he went to college. He's twenty-two.

Monday, August 22, 1983

Went to meet Jean Michel at the office and I took pictures of him in a jockstrap. 

Friday, August 26, 1983

Cab to meet Jean Michel and we worked out ($6). He's going to rent the carriage house we own at 57 Great Jones Street. So Benjamin went over to get a lease and I hope it works out. Jean Michel is trying to get on a regular daily painting schedule. If he doesn't and he can't pay his rent it'll be hard to evict him. It's always hard to get people out.

Wednesday, August 31, 1983

Cab to meet Lidija ($5). Worked out with Jean Michel who brought me some of his hair, cut off and put on a helmet. It looked great. He got Bruno to pay his first month's security and rent. He wanted to buy the Great Jones Street carriage house from me but I told him that together with our other one around the corner from it on the Bowery it was a nice lot, and that we might put a theater on it some day. He and Paige had a big fight because they had a date for 9:00 and he didn't show up till 1:00. 

Friday, September 2, 1983

Jean Michel didn't show up for the workout because he was up all night. He was in love that day with Paige.

Monday, September 5, 1983

Labor Day. Jean Michel called, he wanted some philosophy, he came over and we talked, and he's afraid he's just going to be a flash in the pan. And I told him not to worry, that he wouldn't be. But then I got scared because he's rented our building on Great Jones and what if he is a flash in the pan and doesn't have the money to pay his rent (supplies $35.06)

Monday, September 12, 1983

Jean Michel was late and he had to go back downtown so he was missing his pedicure. So I went over there and took his appointment ($35).

Tuesday, September 13, 1983

Jean Michel came over, he was drugged-out and excited, he brought a painting he wanted to show me. He told me a story about how he'd wanted to buy a pack of cigarettes so he did a drawing and sold it for $.75 and then a week later his gallery called up and said they had this drawing of his there and should they buy it for $1,000. Jean Michel thought it was funny. It is. And he was on his way upstairs to see if anybody would buy a painting of his for $2. I mean, because now his paintings go for $15,000 and so he wanted to see if anybody would give him $2 for one. Lidija was there, did a workout. Oh, and the girl Jean Michel took around the world and left in London arrived in New York and wanted a ticket back to California.

Wednesday, October 5, 1983 New York - Milan

Jean Michel came by the office to work out with Lidija and I told him I was going to Milan and he said he'd go, too, that he'd meet us at the airport. Worked all afternoon till 4:30. I hadn't thought Jean Michel would come, but while I was waiting in line at the airport he appeared, he was just so nutty but cute and adorable. He hadn't slept in four days, he said he was going to watch me sleep. He had snot all over the place. He was blowing his nose in paper bags. It was as bad as Christopher. Paige has turned him into sort of a gentleman, though, because now he's taking baths.

Thursday, October 6, 1983 - Milan

Jean Michel came by and said he was depressed and was going to kill himself and I laughed and said it was just because he hadn't slept for four days, and then after a while of that he went back to his room.

Saturday, October 8, 1983 - Milan - Paris

Jean Michel came in when we were leaving. He said he was staying on with Keith Haring to get publicity. Jean Michel's trying to get so famous so fast, and if it works, he'll have it, I guess.

Wednesday, October 12, 1983

And Paige is really upset because Jean Michel hasn't called her. He hasn't called us, either. She sells his paintings, she's been doing that for a while. And he dropped Mary Boone — she took 50 percent, Paige only takes 10 percent. He's still with Bruno, though, so that's how he'll still be shown. I told Paige that Jean Michel was after Joanna Carson in Milan, and maybe I shouldn't have. Paige said she might just forget him, that it had to be all or nothing. But naturally people are people and a fool is a fool so no matter what they say, they'll just go on being in love.

Tuesday, October 18, 1983

Jean Michel came by and I slapped him in the face. (laughs) I'm not kidding. Kind of hard. It shook him up a little. I told him, "How dare you dump us in Milan!" Benjamin put me up to it.

Friday, October 21, 1983

Jean Michel came in and Paige Powell was there with some clients. And Paige had set it up for Jean Michel to go to Vassar with Jennifer that night to give a talk — Jennifer goes to school there now-and the car was going to pick them all up. But Jean Michel told me he didn't want to take Paige up to Vassar with him because he would be wanting to fuck the girls up there. So when I got home there was a message from Robert Hayes saying Paige was hysterical because Jean Michel had never come in the car to pick her up. So that was mean. And I told her that that's the way life goes and I said we'd go out for drinks and I called Sean McKeon to come with us so that I could handle it better. And Sean's had a crush on me for a few years, and it's nice to be around someone who likes you. So we went to the Mayfair and had two champagnes and a coffee ($40). And Paige was so upset-here she'd just handed Jean Michel a $20,000 check for selling some of his paintings. She said she'd never show or sell his stuff again. I told her I'd let her do an exhibit of my work called "The Worst of Warhol" where I would just go into my closets and find all the really horrible stuff that had never worked out, so then she cheered up a little. But then in a little while she left because she was still so nervous. Sean dropped me and I went to bed.

Wednesday, October 26, 1983

Jean Michel was at the office all afternoon. Paige came in but left in a huff. I guess it's over between them because he wants to be free and easy and she wants to be involved.

Tuesday, November 1, 1983

And now Jean Michel has this blonde WASP girl that he's fucking. I think he hates all white women.

Sunday, November 13, 1983

At 9:00 Thomas picked me up and he said Richard Gere and Silvinha would meet us at VanDam, so we went down there and it was empty on Sunday night. Had broiled fish but didn't eat it. Richard was wearing a little hat and a mustache, and that's his look from The Cotton Club. And he was screaming about newspapers never getting things right, he was grand. He said he only came because he wanted to meet Keith Haring. He's buying art. He told me how he threw a Come painting of mine into the fireplace. What happened was I'd given Jean Michel a Come painting and he had it with him when he and &chard got drunk together, and Jean Michel didn't have anything to write his phone number on for Richard Gere except this painting of mine, so he wrote it on that and gave the painting to Richard. Then when Richard woke up the next morning. He said he saw it and thought it was disgusting and threw it into the fire. I told him it was my Come but actually it was Victor's. And Richard said that if he had all the money he wanted, he'd buy all the paintings of Balthus, who does the little girls smiling like after sex. They cost over a million now.

Tuesday, November 29, 1983

The New York Times had a big story on AIDS. The tourist business in Haiti is down to nothing.

Probably the tourists were only there secretly for the big cocks. Because Jean Michel is half Haitian and he really does have the biggest one.

Wednesday, December 14, 1983

Bruno came and drove us crazy. He didn't bring Jean Michel's rent payment, so later I called Jean Michel about his rent being due and then I had a fight with Jay because he gave Jean Michel my home phone number. He said, "Oh, I didn't know you didn't want..." I yelled at him, "Are your brains still with you?" I mean, he knew I wouldn't have Jean Michel coming up to my house — I mean he's a drug addict so he's not dependable. You can't have — I mean, so then why would I want him to have my home phone? Jay should have known better.

Tuesday, December 20, 1983

Jean Michel came up to the office but he was out of it. Clemente brought up some of the paintings that the three of us are working on together, and Jean Michel was so out of it he began painting away. Jean Michel and Clemente paint each other out. There's about fifteen paintings that we're working on together.

Monday, January 2, 1984

Got back to New York and got a Scull limo ($20 to the driver). The driver said he'd picked up Jean Michel and drove him to the airport to go to Hawaii for two months. And I hope he paid his rent in advance.

Wednesday, January 11, 1984

Jean Michel called from Hawaii. He said it wasn't so primitive out there, that the first guy he saw said, "Aren't you Jean Michel Basquiat, the New York City graffiti artist?" And he said he met these hippies out there and mentioned my name and they said, "Oh you mean that death warmed-over person on drugs?" And I mean, it's him they should be talking about. Jean Michel called again from Hawaii. I told him to cut off his ear. He probably will.

Monday, January 23, 1984

And Jean Michel is meeting all these women in Hawaii and he's going to L.A. to paint Richard Pryor and then going back to Hawaii. And Paige is going out there and I told her that she should make sure he's really going to be there when she gets there. I mean, she'll make all these plans and she'll get there and he'll be gone.

Sunday, January 29, 1984

No one was available to accompany me to the office, and I was afraid the elevator would get stuck, so I didn't go down. Paige made it to Hawaii. Jean Michel did make it back from Los Angeles to meet her there, I guess, and they were going off to some ranch.

Tuesday, February 7, 1984

Jean Michel called from Hawaii and talked a long time. Paige is back here now and she's in seventh heaven, overfucked, I guess. And now he's flying this other girl out there. Paige was stupid and paid her own way — she insisted because that's the way she is — and now he's paying for this other girl. He's paying $1,000 a week for this house. He owes us three months' rent and he's trying to get Bruno to pay.

Monday, March 12, 1984

Jean Michel came by, he's back from Hawaii, and he brought a rent check which was good.

Saturday, March 17, 1984

Dolly Parton was coming to the office to be interviewed. She arrived and she was great. She had two people with her. She said she has a place in New York and goes out and around, but I don't know how she can unless she puts another kind of wig on. She talked nonstop for four hours. She's a walking monologue. Jean Michel came by and he misunderstood something she said about "plantations" so he didn't like her but then I got him to come back in and she charmed him. She repeated herself a lot, called herself "trash" a lot. She said most of her groupies were lesbians and fags. She has a group of dykes that follows her around. She had her hairdresser and her girlfriend Shirley pick her up. They just came in a cab, not a limousine. I worked late.

Wednesday, April 11, 1984

I think Jean Michel called a couple of times before 8:00 but hung up. Then at 8:00 he called and we talked.

Thursday, April 12, 1984

Jean Michel came by. He'd been out all night. Got him to work on one of our joint paintings. He wanted spaghetti so we got some from La CoIonna ($71.45). He fell asleep and then he got up and he was up front by the phones with a big hard-on, like a baseball bat in his pants. I guess that's being young, I forget about those things.

Monday, April 16, 1984

Jean Michel was at the office, he brought his lunch and he was on the floor painting and not talking much. I think he stays up all night and so that was his bedtime. I did a Dog painting in five minutes at five of 6:00. I had a picture and I used the tracing machine that projects the image onto the wall and I put the paper where the image is and I trace. I drew it first and then I painted it like Jean Michel. I think those paintings we're doing together are better when you can't tell who did which parts. Then the streets were deserted and we finally figured out it was Passover. Dropped Benjamin ($7). 

Tuesday, April 17, 1984

The 860 office said that Jean Michel was waiting there, but I went to the new office and since I was high I terrorized everybody. Walked down to 860 and as we passed the new chic food place on 23rd Street a couple of black truck drivers yelled, "Hey faggots!" so that got me down. Especially because truck drivers are usually the ones who're cheerful and recognize me and wave. Maybe these were faggots themselves. Got to the office and called Jean Michel and he came up and painted over a painting that I did, and I don't know if it got better or not.

Wednesday, April 18, 1984

Kate has eyes for everyone. She's so bubbly, so pretty. Let's hope Jay stays in this good mood. And Jean Michel was after Kate, too-she styled an Interview shoot of him and de Antonio in Armani clothes and he left five joints for her. 

Monday, April 23, 1984

Cabbed downtown ($7). Called Jean Michel and he came up and ordered Chinese food from a place on Sixth Avenue. And then Keith Haring wanted me to go and see his paintings before they got shipped out, because he said 1 influenced him-he's painting on canvas now. So we ate Chinese food and things from Pie in the Sky.

Monday, April 30, 1984

Then Jean Michel called me. His show at Mary Boone is coming up this weekend and I guess he's nervous. Sent out for lunch ($44.25).

Wednesday, May 2, 1984

Jean Michel was there but he was nervous about his show and I had to push his hand around the canvas. For the first time in a while he'd taken heroin, I think, so he was moving slow (cab $7).

Thursday, May 3, 1984

Jean Michel called and wanted us to come down to the Mary Boone Gallery to look at his show, so I said we would. So I took Jay and Benjamin and it looked great (cab $5). Jean Michel was very nervous. He was with a pretty Korean girl who's the secretary of Larry Gagosian, his gallery person in L.A. But he'll just break her heart. All these pretty girls go for him. They were lovey-dovey, holding hands. Then Jean Michel wanted to go to dinner, so we decided to go down to Odeon because that way we'd be close to the Area party for Vincent Spano that Vic Ramos was having (cab $6). 

Saturday, May 5, 1984

It was beautiful and sunny, did a lot of work. Called Jean Michel and he said he'd come up. He came and rolled some joints. He was really nervous, I could tell, about his show opening later on at Mary Boone's. Then he wanted a new outfit and we went to this store where he always buys his clothes. He had b.o. We were walking and got to Washington Square Park where I first met him when he was signing his name as "Samo" and writing graffiti and painting T-shirts. That area brought back bad memories for him. Later on his show was great, though, it really was. 

Monday, May 7, 1984

So went to the office and the office was busy. Bruno was there and Jean Michel was hiding our work from Bruno-the ones that just Jean Michel and I are doing. Bruno has the ones that Jean Michel and I and Clemente did, but he doesn't know about these that're just the two of us.

Tuesday, May 8, 1984

Jean Michel came up and was so paranoid, he smokes so much marijuana and then gets paranoid. Then he called me up in the middle of the night and said that his painting at auction went for $19,000. I bet mine went for nothing. Probably. My Liz. Probably $10,000. I can just see it. So his went for $19,000. And there were all these parties for the Museum of Modern Art and I was invited to all of them but I didn't go to any of them.

Monday, May 21, 1984

I had invited Jean Michel as my date and I was next to him, so maybe they thought it was a girl's name. Richard Gere's Silvinha moved her seat to sit next to Jean Michel. And Jean Michel gave me all his meat for the dogs, and Silvinha did, too.

Tuesday, May 22, 1984

Jean Michel came down to the office early. He was reading his big review in the Voice. They called him the most promising artist on the scene. And at least they didn't mention me and say he shouldn't be hanging around with me the way the New York News thing did. 

Thursday, May 24, 1984

Jean Michel came by and he was in a pretty good mood. We had Chinese take-out food. He was painting some big black screaming people. Worked till 7:00. 

Monday, July 2, 1984

Jean Michel called at 8:00 in the morning and we philosophized. He got scared reading the Belushi book. I told him that if he wanted to become a legend, too, he should just keep going on like he was. But actually if he's even on the phone talking to me, he's okay. And the phone calls from pay phones are now .25 . I'm just not going to make calls anymore. All the pay phones uptown were converted already to .25; downtown there are still some .10 ones left.

Sunday, August 5, 1984

Jean Michel wanted to go to the Jermaine Jackson party at Limelight. So we went down there (cab $7). And it was one of those parties where the bouncers were all dumb Mafia-type guys who didn't know anybody. Jean Michel took us to the wrong section and they told us to beat it, and he said, "Now you see how it is to be black." And all the people who I don't know, Jean Michel's just sitting there and then he'll say, "Hi, man." He went to school with them or something. He told me he went to a school in Brooklyn, St. Ann's, that's sort of chic because you had to pay. And then he said that when his father lost money he had to be bussed to a public school that was a lot of Italians and the boys there used to beat him up and he didn't like it. But I guess the education was good, though, and that's why he's smart. Oh gee, that was Benjamin calling and he said that he and Paige were at the Limelight and they heard 1 was in the VIP room and they tried to get in but couldn't. And-this is funny he said that there were three Olympic guys there wearing their gold medals. So I guess those were the ones 1 thought were drag queens with jewelry! Gee.

So anyway. Jean Michel wanted me to see his paintings down on Great Jones Street, so we went there and it's a pigsty. His friend Shenge — this black guy — lives with him and he's supposed to be taking care of the place, but it's a sty. And the whole place just smells so much of pot. He gave me some paintings to work on. Left there (cab $8).

Monday, August 6, 1984

Jean Michel ordered a lot of champagne and he said he'd pay for it but I wouldn't let him (dinner was $550). It was underplayed, nobody said "Happy Birthday" and it went smoothly. Paige had a strapless pink dress on and she took her camera into the kitchen to do movies. Jean Michel dropped me off and it seemed like being with Jean Michel didn't bother Paige too much, she's more recovered from him. Then when he was dropping me off he said that he wanted to go fuck her. I told him that that would just start trouble again. I told him he should give her some artwork because she's the only girl who ever really helped him out, gave him his first uptown show and sold so many of his paintings. And she never would let him pay for her, she was being very independent, paying her own fare to Hawaii and things like that, and I don't know why he never liked that, somehow. And it was nice to see little Suzanne the makeup girl the night before at Limelight wanting not to get stuck with him — it was refreshing to see a girl trying to get away for a change.

Tuesday, August 7, 1984

I was meeting David Whitney and Philip Johnson for dinner at the Four Seasons. Invited Keith Harring and Juan and Jean Michel. Philip goes to bed at 9:00, so he wanted to have dinner at 6:30 but I made it 7:30. Keith wanted to go to Rounds, the gay place at 53rd and Second, and I didn't, so I said I'd never been there because I hadn't in five years, and so we walk in the door and the first thing the waiter says is (laughs), "Mr. Warhol! It's so nice to see you again!" Jean Michel wouldn't go to Rounds. He called this morning and told me that in the old days when he didn't have any money he  would hustle and get $10 and he didn't want to remember that. So Jean Michel went downtown with Keith. I walked the Doc uptown and he kissed me on the cheek, which was so tender.

Monday, August 20, 1984

Jean Michel called at 7:30 A.M. from Spain but I was in the shower and I missed it. He was in Ibiza and now he's in Majorca, he's the new darling of the Bruno set. And I'm just expecting him one day to come in and say, "I hate all these paintings, rip them up," about the ones we've done together, or something. Oh and Keith told me that the name Jean Michel used to use, SAMO, stood for "Same Old Shit," and he said that Jean Michel was the biggest influence on the new artists.

Tuesday, September 11, 1984

So Jean Michel just called me and I haven't heard from him in two days. Now he's staying all the time at the Ritz Carlton instead of down on Great Jones, and his room is like $250 a night.

Saturday, September 15, 1984

Had dinner with Jean Michel who brought a woman who's doing a cover article on him for The New York Times Magazine. He's getting the cover! And he told her all this stuff about being a male prostitute before but she can't use it. I guess he told her because he wanted to be fascinating. The right woman can get anything out of him.

Sunday, September 16, 1984

Jean Michel called and he told me about the problems he's having with Shenge, who takes care of his place on Great Jones Street. Shenge has his own place downstairs but then he goes up and uses Jean Michel's bath and bed, and now after staying at the Ritz Carlton, Jean Michel is used to having his bed tucked in. He found Shenge on the streets, he wasn't living anywhere. He's like a Rastafarian. He's married, he has a wife and little boy in the Bronx, I think. Shenge's bed used to be right by the front door so it was like he was just yanked in off the street, it was so peculiar.

Monday, September 17, 1984

And Bruno had called earlier. These combined paintings of Jean Michel and me and Clemente that he said were "just a curiosity that nobody would want to buy" that he paid $20,000 for like fifteen pictures for, he's now selling for $40,000 or $60,000 apiece! Yes! And I have a funny feeling that he's actually giving Clemente more because I can't see him doing this for this little. And I should get more because I bring up the prices . . . oh but well, Jean Michel got me into painting differently, so that's a good thing.

Sunday, September 23, 1984

Tried Jean Michel because he'd wanted to go to the Pop Art show at the Whitney and then work together, but he wasn't around. Jon and I went there without him (tickets $5).

Saturday, September 29, 1984

Talked to Keith and Jean Michel. Wanted Jean Michel to come over and paint, but he was giving his mother a birthday party so I went to meet him and met his mother. She's a nice-looking lady, a little matronly, but she looked good. He sort of resents her, though — he said she's been in and out of mental hospitals and he felt neglected. But he doesn't have to be ashamed of her, she was really nice and everything. His father was a no-show. They're divorced and the father is living with another woman. He's an accountant. And Jean Michel still keeps a room for $250 a day at the Ritz Carlton. And that fifty-foot concrete table that he had Freddy the architect do up special for the Great Jones place, it filled the whole room and Jean Michel just broke it up into pieces.

Tuesday, October 2, 1984

Jean Michel came over to the office to paint but he fell asleep on the floor. He looked like a bum lying there. But I woke him up and he did two masterpieces that were great.

Wednesday, October 3, 1984

Jean Michel called three or four times, he'd been taking smack. Bruno came by and saw a painting that Jean Michel wasn't finished with yet, and he said, "I want it, I want it," and so he gave him money and took it, and I felt funny, because nobody's done that for me in so long. That's the way it used to be. Then cabbed to Mr. Chow's where Jean Michel was having a birthday party for this girl who'd talked him into having it for her. He had Diego Cortez and Clemente and people and when I got there he was asleep, snoring actually. We woke him up to pay the check, because I wasn't going to get this one.

Friday, October 5, 1984

Jean Michel came by. Worked all afternoon.

Sunday, October 7, 1984

It was a beautiful day. Talked to Jean Michel and he wanted to go to work, so we planned to meet at 860. I went to church and then there were no cabs, so I wound up walking halfway to the office (cab $3.75). I let Jean Michel in downstairs. He did a painting in the dark, which was great. This was the day of Susan Blond's wedding to Roger Erickson, and the thing was at the Cafe Luxembourg and I didn't want to take Jean Michel home with me to pick a painting up for a present, so we both made her a painting there. Jean Michel is so difficult, you never know what kind of mood he'll be in, what he'll be on. He gets really paranoid and says, "You're just using me, you're just using me," and then he'll get guilty for getting paranoid and he'll do everything so nice to try to make up for it. But then I can't decide what he has fun doing, either. Like when we got to Susan's he didn't like it, I don't know if it's because of the drugs or because he hates crowds or because he thinks it's boring. And I tell him that as he becomes more and more famous he'll have to do more and more of these things (cab $10).

Monday, October 8, 1984

Picked up Jean Michel and he has people ringing his bell every fifteen seconds, it reminded me of the old Factory. He says things like, "Listen man, why don't you call before you come over." A guy he'd given fun drawings to once when he was needing a place to stay sold them now for a fortune-$5,000 or something. So Jean Michel's finding out how you have to be a business, how it all stops being just fun, and then you wonder, What is art? Does it really come out of you or is it a product? It's complicated.

Monday, October 15, 1984

After work I went with Jean Michel to finally check out of his hotel room at the Ritz Carlton, but when we got there he decided it was too beautiful to leave.

Tuesday, October 16, 1984

Jean Michel, me, John Sex, and Fab Five Freddy cabbed uptown to the Lyceum and the Whoopi Goldberg show ($8). We were late and in the second row. Whoopi was great, for one and a half hours just a blank stage but she held your interest. She's really intelligent and everything. She does a thing where she asks for quarters from the audience, but then she didn't give them back. So when it was over and we went back to see her she said that she usually gives them back — I asked her — but that a guy had given her a dollar bill and that threw her off, and now she had about $4 and so she might just now give the money to a Catholic charity. She really liked Jean Michel and I invited her to dinner, but she said she had cramps or something. 

Tuesday, October 30, 1984

Jean Michel was in bed with some new girl and didn't show up. Bruno arrived and surprised us. And his wife-Yoyo. And they looked at the big paintings that Jean Michel has been doing silkscreens on, and they had a sour look, they said it ruined his "intuitive primitivism." But he'd always Xeroxed before and nobody knew, it just looked like new drawings, and put on with that stuff. Worked till 7:30.

Wednesday, October 31, 1984

Bruno just called — at the Christie's auction Jean Michel's painting went for $20,000. I think he's going to be the Big Black Painter. It was one of his sort of big paintings. I think Jean Michel's early stuff is sort of better, because then he was just painting, and now he has to think about stuff to paint to sell. And how many screaming Negroes can you do? Well, I guess you can do them forever, but . . . And he bought a $700 mask for Halloween yesterday. Mexican. He just spends money. He did give up the room at the Ritz Carlton and he doesn't take limos now, so that's an improvement. But what he should do — and I've told him this — is keep his early paintings and store them so that he'll have them to sell later on. Because Bruno just buys up everything and then sells them off slowly. But Jean Michel really should be keeping them for a nest egg. The paintings that get good prices are Rauschenberg's early pieces and anything by Jasper and Cy Twombly. Wesselmann's sort of selling off . . . Rosenquist's prices are just medium, but I think  he's the best, I really do.

Friday, November 2, 1984

Went to meet Alba Clemente, the beautiful wife of Francesco Clemente at their loft in the Tower Records building. She studied acting, she has a great laugh, and she's rich. They live in India six months a year. That's why his paintings look the way they do, I guess. Then we went to the Odeon (cab $10). It was fun, we chit-chatted about art. There were big silences, though. Jean Michel is so hard to talk to. His thing is he's in love with waitresses, so he gets quiet and watches them. Alba said that her girl who was minding the children had a crush on him (lunch $90). And then we went back to her place so that Jean Michel could meet the girl, Monica, but she'd taken the kids out. And then Jean Michel was getting inspired from seeing Clemente's work and wanted to go do some painting himself. So we went to the studio (cab $3.50) and worked two hours. Jean Michel was painting back in the images he'd painted out when he was on smack and he came up with some masterpieces. Then he called the girl, Monica, and invited her to dinner. She wanted to go to the Lone Star because her semi-boyfriend who's Schnabel's assistant was going to be there, but Jean Michel didn't want to go there because he was afraid if there was competition that he would lose the fuck. 

Tuesday, November 6,1984

So we ordered lunch and that was expensive. Jean Michel ordered a '66 Chfteau Latour wine for $200 (lunch $500). Then we limoed to the Sequoia, the presidential yacht, and it was cold and miserable and getting dark. Same old people. Peter Max and his girlfriend, who's so beautiful, tall and Texan, and I don't know why she's with him. She was at the beginning and ending of Heaven's Gate. A top model, I forget her name. I talked to Chip Carter while I was there. Then we went back to the hotel and Jean Michel rolled a joint. Then we ordered dinner, which was disgusting (tip $5).

Wednesday, November 7, 1984 - Washington, D.C. - New York

I called Jean Michel's room and said we'd be leaving in one second. And I went into his room and photographed him getting out of bed with a hard-on. And then he began rolling a joint. Jean Michel ordered a whole meal but it never came. Cabbed to the airport ($20). Jean Michel and I went to the back of the plane and he was smoking joints, and I realized that he'd left his brand-new Comme des Garqons coat in the hotel room when he'd been rolling, and he called and I called but they'll never send it. He knows just what looks good on him. He's 6'-or 6'1" with his hair. He's really big. Went to Private Eyes (cab $7). Scott was at the door, so he let us right in.

Madonna was on the platform and since Jean Michel had once been involved with her, we started to go up, and the bouncer said, "Step aside for Mr. Warhol." and then tried to block Jean Michel and I said that it was okay, he was with me. And Madonna kissed Jean Michel on the mouth but she was with Jellybean, who said he'd heard his pictures in Interview made him look 6' tall so he was thrilled because he's 2'. And Jean Michel was moody because Madonna got so big and he'd lost her.

Thursday, November 8, 1984

Marina Schiano was there and Jean Michel asked me if she was a drag queen. And Annina Nosei was there. She had a gallery in Soho and Jean Michel used to do paintings in her basement. She would bring people down to look at him like an attraction and he would yell, "Get the fuck out of here!" He destroyed twenty paintings once, he ripped them off the walls. And after she reminded him of all these old days he felt funny being at this chic uptown place. He's not happier now that he's uptown because it's all before him now and he doesn't know what to do. I told him, "Look, those tantrums weren't real anyway." He's confused. Stayed till 11:30.

Monday, November 12, 1984

Cabbed to Mr. Chow's for Jean Michel's party ($7). And it was great. I feel like I wasted two years running around with Christopher and Peter, just kids who talk about the Baths and things, when here, now, I'm going around with Jean Michel and we're getting so much art work done, and then his party was Schnabel and Wim Wenders and Jim Jarmusch who directed Stranger Than Paradise and Clemente and John Waite who sang that great song, "Missing You." I mean, being with a creative crowd, you really notice the difference. It’s intriguing both ways, and I guess both ways are right, but… And Jean Michel became the hostess with the mostest last night. He said it cost him $12,000 — the Cristal was flowing.

Thursday, November 15, 1984

There were a lot of parties this night but Dustin Hoffman called and said he'd left tickets for Death of a Salesman so Benjamin and I got to the theater and met Jean Michel there at 7:58. At intermission the people behind us tapped Jean Michel and asked if I was really who I was. 

Thursday, November 22, 1984

Thanksgiving. Went to see Boy George at the Garden with Jean Michel and Cornelia. I just couldn't like him because it reminded me of what Jackie Curtis could have been, but Jean Michel really liked him. Boy George is so fat. And then Jean Michel started remembering Halston's last Thanksgiving for turkey and wanted to get there, so we left (cab $6). The turkey was already put away and dessert was out. Bianca started punching Jean Michel and me really hard, I actually got a black and blue mark. She was screaming about how we had to contribute to the Brooklyn Academy of Music.

Thursday, November 29, 1984

Jean Michel came in and painted right on top of the beautiful painting that Clemente did. There was lots of blank space on it that he could've painted on, he was just being mean. And he was in slow motion so I guess he was on heroin. He'd bend over to fix his shoelace and he'd be in that position for five minutes.

Monday, December 3, 1984

Jean Michel had a date with Paige last night and I think they made it again, which would be a mistake. 

Sunday, December 16, 1984

And while this was going on, the phone rang and it was Jean Michel from Sweden and when he heard these other kids were at my house, he began to go crazy because he's never been there. But it's just that I don't like anything pre-planned. If he just dropped in or something it'd be okay.

Thursday, January 10, 1985

Benjamin dropped me at Jean Michel's and he has like twenty people working for him, getting big canvases ready. It's really neat and clean there now and it looks great. And he has a $5,000 TV set that's really big. Bruno wants me to go there for Jean Michel's opening. Someone was saying that when all these dealers heard there was a really talented black artist who would probably die off soon from drugs, that they hurried to buy his things and now I guess they're frustrated because he's staying alive. I think Jean Michel will be the most famous black artist after this New York Times thing comes out.

Saturday, January 12, 1985

Jean Michel called and said he was coming by to work and he did, and he brought his mother. Jean-Michel's mother is a sweet mother, she brought him a birthday present that said from Mami-M-A-M-I.

Wednesday, January 16, 1985

I talked to Jean Michel and invited him to the party that Fred was giving for Natasha Grenfell at Le Club. And he asked if he could bring — he said, "My girlfriend," and I was shocked. I said he'd never called anybody that before, and he said her body was so hot that he would come five times in a night. This is a black girl he met who works at Comme des Garcons. 

Tuesday, January 22, 1985

Talked to Jean Michel and he was in a funny mood. He thinks his "girlfriend" doesn't love him and so he's taking heroin again. The black girl. Charlotte. I told him I would come and visit him. Cabbed to pick him up ($8). We went to Odeon and had two tables and there were twelve of us. Boy George had that boy Marilyn with him. Jean Michel was nodding out. There was a little kid with Keith who didn't say anything, and Keith didn't say much, and I didn't say anything, so Boy George had to do all the talking and he's really intelligent, really a smart kid, and he does talk a lot.

Wednesday, January 30, 1985

Jean Michel invited me to dinner with his father at Odeon (cab $6). And the father was this thin normal-looking man in a business suit, smart, and so you can see where Jean Michel gets his smartness. And now Jean Michel doesn't even like his girlfriend from Comme des Garcons, Charlotte, because she borrowed money from him. He likes to give people money but then he resents them for taking it. He'll say, "They're using me." It's a funny attitude. And in a moment of passion once he told her he loved her and she told him that she was a "free woman," so he tied her up and told her how dare she think that he meant it.

Saturday, March 9, 1985

Talked to Jean Michel and he said he was straight, but he sounded like he was on something. He was with Jennifer, Eric Goode from Area's sister, who's his new girlfriend. He's got three or four girls on the string now, but he's only still in love with Charlotte, from Comme des Garcons. And Jean Michel was complaining about the show that we're having with Bruno... oh, I don't know, I think that whole period is over, with him coming up to paint. He hasn't come that much to the new building, just a few times, and-well, he's feeling on top now that his show is running downtown, but I don't know if he's working.

Thursday, March 28, 1985

Jean Michel was really sweet and sent over a drawing for me. He's gone off to Hawaii.

Friday, May 3, 1985

Then, I’d promised Jean Michel this dinner at Le Cirque. So Benjamin dropped me and I glued and went over there. He’d invited Eric Goode and his girlfriend and Clemente and his wife Alba and then when he ordered the most expensive wine they said they were out of it, and then when he ordered the next most expensive, they were out of it, too. I don't think they wanted to give it to us, see, because it was a free dinner. Sirio's been telling me for years he wanted to give me one, so here it was. And they gave all these excuses and apologies, and then Jean Michel ordered the cheapest wine, and that they had. And it was actually good. And the next day when Paige and I went there with Interview, Sirio was still apologizing. But anyway, it cost me in tips ($200).

Wednesday, May 8, 1985

There was a big Area party. Jean Michel picked me up and we went down there. And my display window had my Invisible Sculpture in it and Jean Michel's stuff looked great.

Thursday, May 9, 1985

Went to Jean Michel's, picked him up (cab $6). And he's working again and his work is wonderful, it's so exciting, and I think he will last. 

Sunday, May 12, 1985

Jean Michel called, he's working on his painting for the Palladium. But it's collapsible and he can take it away any time he wants.

Tuesday, May 14, 1985

And Jean Michel was in a dark mood. He'd bought Jennifer a dress to wear to the opening and then he didn't even bring her, he left her home. And I didn't lecture him about the heroin he takes because I didn't want to have a fight.

Wednesday, May 29, 1985

Then Jean Michel came over to paint and he was laughing and kidding around and Paige called up to me on the phone and screamed, "Get him out of here!" And I just didn't know what to say, she hung up before I could even think, and then she just left the office. She was calling Jean Michel a creep and everything.

Monday, June 10, 1985

And Jean Michel said he got a huge bill — like maybe I think $100,000 — from his dealer in L.A., Gagosian, for his stay there when he was living so high.

Friday, June 21, 1985

Called Jean Michel but he hasn't called me back, I guess he's slowly breaking away. He used to call me all the time from wherever he was.

Wednesday, July 10, 1985

Jean Michel came by and did a masterpiece upstairs. He wants to get work done before he goes away again. He had Jay filling in paintings, and I'm going to have Jay fill in, too. He tried to hire Jay away, but Jay didn't want to work for him.

Friday, September 6, 1985

Jean Michel came in and our show is on Saturday. But really, the shows that get noticed are in October and November, so it's still kind of early, but it'll be okay, just a little thing. And in his stupor Jean Michel knocked paint onto the Dolly Parton portrait and messed it up. And Sandy Gallin keeps calling, saying he wants it right away, and 1 wish they wouldn't rush me because I want to make it really good and it's not ready.

Friday, September 13, 1985

Jean Michel called and said he was invited to the MTV awards thing. Keith called, same thing. MTV must want artists to do their logos for them. And Keith was upset because his tickets were up on the mezzanine. Jean Michel arrived in a limo. He said he didn't want to go with Keith because Keith was too pushy. And it did get sick later on-Keith just wanted to be photographed so badly. And he wanted to go with me so he'd be sure to be photographed.

Saturday, September 14, 1985

Called Jean Michel and said I'd pick him up and did. Went over to the Tony Shafrazi Gallery (cab $5) and it was wall to wall. I was wearing the Stefano jacket with Jean Michel's picture painted on the back, but I've decided I can't wear odd things, 1 look like a weirdo. I'm going to stay in basic black.

Thursday, September 19, 1985

When we were at the Odeon I asked for the paper, and there in Friday’s Times I saw a big headline: "Basquiat and Warhol in Pas de Deux.” And I just read one line — that Jean Michel was my "mascot." Oh God.

Friday, September 20, 1985

I had my opening at Leo Castelli's to go to, of the Reigning Queens portfolio that I just hate George Mulder for showing here in America. They were supposed to be only for Europe — nobody here cares about royalty and it'll just be another bad review. And I told Jean Michel not to come to this. I asked him if he was mad at me for that review where he got called my mascot, and he said no.

Sunday, November 24, 1985

Jean Michel hasn't called me in a month. so I guess it's really over. He went to Hawaii and Japan, but now he's just in L.A. so you'd think he'd call. But maybe he's getting tight, maybe he's not throwing money around the way he used to. I heard he locked the door to his bedroom when he left so Shenge can't get in, and he didn't leave him any money, either. Can you imagine being married to Jean Michel? You'd be on pins and needles your whole life.

Sunday, December 8, 1985

Went to church. Paige called and she's thinking of going to a place uptown to get treatment for being a chocolate addict, some treatment they give heroin addicts. And she said she finally is completely over Jean Michel. It happened to her at the Comme des Garcons fashion show. She said he looked like a fool out there on the runway modeling the clothes and that's when she finally was over him.

Monday, December 9, 1985

Jean Michel called me early in the morning to tell me about the fight with Philip Niarchos he had at Schnabel's on Friday night. I guess he still remembers some funny comment Philip made once about how now they're "letting n------ into St. Moritz."

Thursday, December 19, 1985

Tina Chow called and said there was a dinner for Jean Michel at 9:00, just really small. Jean Michel had his mother and her friend there. I brought him a present, one of my own hairpieces. He was shocked. One of my old ones. Framed. I put '"83" on it but I don't know when it was from. It's one of my Paul Bochicchio wigs. It was a "Paul Original."

Sunday, December 22, 1985

Then went over to Jean Michel's birthday lunch at Mortimer's that Marsha May from Texas was giving. And finally I gave Jean Michel a gift he really loved-the rhythm and blues six-album set, that Atlantic just put out. And Ahmet Ertegun wrote some of the songs, those were his big years. Jean Michel was reading the liner notes all through lunch. And then afterwards Jean Michel wanted to go to Bloomingdale's, it was 4:30. So we went over there. He wanted to get a $3,000 gift certificate for his mother and when he took out his gold Amex card one guy asked to see ID but the other guy nudged him and said, "It's okay."

Wednesday, January 8, 1985

Called Jean Michel in L.A. and he said no stars had been at his opening, and he said Jon Gould had been there but he wouldn't talk about him to me for some reason.

Monday, January 20, 1986

Jean Michel woke me up at 6:00 this morning and I went back to sleep and now my tongue can hardly move. He's got problems because he's trying to get Shenge out of the house, he says he's been supporting him for three years, but the main reason is that (laughs) Shenge is now painting like he is. They're copies of his paintings. Jennifer's away. And oh, Jean Michel must be so hard to live with. I told him I'd had dinner with Kenny and the Chows and he wanted to know why I didn't invite him and I said that I'd called him three days ago and he didn't call back.

Tuesday, February 25, 1986

Jean Michel called and said he found a dead person in his backyard yesterday. He called the police and they were in the backyard all day, and by 6:00 they still hadn't taken the body away. He was from the flophouse next door. And Jean Michel sent the cat that didn't catch rats down to Atlanta, he sent it on a plane for $100 down to some gallery there. The poor cat probably never got taken care of — I mean, can you imagine being a cat in the hands of Jean Michel?

Monday, March 24, 1986

Went home after dinner with Jean Michel and caught the Academy Awards. Saw Geraldine Page saying she deserved it.

Sunday, April 6, 1986

Jean Michel was picking me up to go see Miles Davis at the Beacon and it was rainy and cold, and I curled up and watched W for a while, and ate some garlic and then he called and said to meet him over there (cab $4). His cab arrived after mine and he had Glenn O'Brien with him and some other people. He and Glenn are friends again. B.B. King played first and he's just great. And then Miles Davis came out, blond, in gold lame, and he plays really terrific music. High heels. Then we went to Odeon for dinner.

Monday, August 18, 1986

The day started with Jean Michel calling from Josie's, she's the South African Calvin Klein model.

He's not in a gallery now. He left Mary Boone and they're both glad. He wants to be with Leo, but I don't think Leo's taking anyone on. Jean Michel would just like to have one show there, though, even though he knows Leo won't sell anything.

Thursday, November 27, 1986

And then Jean Michel called and he’s furious at Paige because he finally found out about his father playing the cannibal in Paige’s pictorial spread for Tama’s book, A Cannibal in Manhattan, he’d just seen the item on Page Six about it. He said, “What is she trying to do? Is she after my father?” And he said his father’s writing a book, and he said (laughs), “He’s not even a drug addict — how can he write a book? About what?” That’s the first time I ever heard Jean Michel say something funny. I wonder if that’s his sense of humor. And he didn’t go to Germany for his big show. 

Damian Weber is the senior contributor to This Recording. He is a writer living in Buffalo. He last wrote in these pages about Ted Berrigan. You can find an archive of his writing on This Recording here. You can listen to his album here. You can purchase his book a dictionary in the subjective here.