Went out and got the papers. The usual load of rubbish, apart from an interesting piece by Philip Toynbee on the boring pointlessness of the writing of Beckett and Burroughs. He should have cast his net wider, to include Osborne. He made the point that this kind of writing treats of despair despairingly. He rightly says that this is a fundamental misconception of Art.
January 2, 1966
1. Surprised that the lagging Hum160 might catch up with the other class by virtue of its poetry. Still, I discovered some irresponsible students who thought that anything they write would fly. Thought wrong.
2. I expect my back to complain come lunch. I’m bent on finishing the first encoded draft of a thirty page monster. Damn you, brother, the back would say, damn you letting me carry the burden of your inchoate thoughts. The second draft would be written merely to appease my back.
3. A someone tried to ask me about her previous someone. Told her that I have not heard from her ex-someone. Told her that I never want to hear from her ex-someone. I realized too late that I said an unpleasant thing. I preempted any further questions from her about her ex-someone. This could mean that she would never have reason to talk to me. Sad thing on many levels.
4. When I’m through with storytelling and checking duties, I’ll begin wearing my excitement to return to Los Banos. Not a moment too soon either.
5. Never a better pochero than my father’s.
6. I resolved to keep quiet rather than lie.
7. I’m going to miss one helluva party.