My mom and stepfather in town. I gave Bill my last entry to you to read. You might ask me why; two reasons: 1) because I wanted him to see how badly I felt, since I really wanted someone who could help me to know…and I thought he might give me some…I think this is what I was after…I was hoping he might give me some perspective on whether what I was feeling was cause for medical intervention (that is, on the part of my own psychiatrist; and by intervention, I mean a change in prescription). I'm a little embarrassed that I did that. I’m uneasy as I recount it to you. It makes me feel…wimpy. Why can’t I just wait and tell my psychiatrist how I feel and let him make the call? More on that (I think) in a sec, but the other reason I wanted to tell Bill was that…and I wrote this in the piece…what do I call it? Piece? Entry? Session?…that I had had a conversation earlier with him in which I had gruffly told him that I couldn’t be more specific about everything that was wrong because everything was. And that made me…left me feeling like I wanted to be able to tell him, but didn’t want my Mom to hear. Lots of feelings about all this today, as they are both in town, as I said. Anyway, back to that other thing. They make me feel like I’m a little boy. I feel like such a failure after being with them. I showed the thing to Bill and we talked a little about it and he said his overarching reaction was that I needed structure. He said this in a caring way, that this is what he was concerned about (I told him that I wasn’t showing it to my mom and he understood why that would be the case), but still…and I even agree with him (wrote “me” instead of “him” before changing it). But it makes me feel like…what am I doing here, trying to make a career as a selfstarter, when I need a parent (and me at age 35, no less) to tell me that I need more structure and on top of that to know that he is right. Also, my mom can’t stop correcting how we’re parenting. In little ways. She thinks this thing is dangerous, she thinks he needs to be more stimulated. I feel like dirt…a little kid. And I can’t tell Persis about it because she’ll use it as...’it’ being the fact that I feel that way…as ammunition for her own rants about my parents.

I want to succeed as a writer. I think it’s possible for me to do so. But there’s so much pressure to just give up. Be realistic. Be practical. Every fiber of my being – nice cliché – shouts this almost as loud as it shouts, “Of course that’s realistic and practical, but that’s exactly why you shouldn’t give up.” Then I start again to feel like an idealistic fifteen-year-old. Does anything miraculous ever really happen? Do people ever finally make it? Or is it always a case of the overnight sensation taking thirty years to happen? Thirty years of uncelebrated work, or thirty years of lonely unproductive obscurity? Cause I’m definitely heading toward the latter.

I’ve been thinking I should look into getting an office. Just renting an airconditioned room in some building nearby, that I could go to, to be away from this house and all of my stuff here. That’s definitely a move toward structure. I could certainly afford it, few hundred bucks a month, maybe. Just a room with a desk and air conditioning and a plug. That’s how I wrote the Holocaust script that I was working on years ago.

I’m afraid to get high. Bill was asking me why. I haven’t gotten high – did I tell you this? – since I got here, and part of it is because I’m afraid to. The last few times – I should give you the punchline by saying that I got a little high this morning [But just to be clear, this was written in the afternoon, sober once again.], sort of an experiment – it’s made me more anxious, angry, confrontational. That’s not something I need. But it’s also not something I can really predict anymore. So I’ve been wary about it doing that to me. But here’s the other thing. I realized as I was coming down off my gentle high that one of the reasons I respond badly to it, is because toward the end of the high I realize that…or maybe this is just…I don’t know…maybe I'm just making up a reason after the fact…but I really feel disappointed to be coming back to my life. I get to leave for a couple of hours, and I really enjoy that. But then I have to come back and deal with it. I can’t stay in that mellow, everything’s-gonna-be-okay place because everything’s not gonna be okay unless I get off my ass and do something about it.

I imagine my mom criticizes me for being passive. She was suggesting…it’s almost not worth the trouble describing the situation…she had offered to take Burt to a park, and I said that would be fine, and then I went off and followed Burt around the house, letting him go where he wanted…wait, she said that he needed something more to do. Aw fuck, I’m all tangled up I this. Let me see if I can describe what happened.

Thinking…






My mom brings Burt back from playing with him, says she’d be happy to take him to a park. I feed him some pineapple. She says she’s going out to the porch. He eats some pineapple, then wanders out to her. I say that if she really wants to take him somewhere, I’ll go check on his schedule. I go up to talk to Persis, who’s upstairs talking to Bill (talking about how our discussion about getting lunch went wrong [More meshugas. No time to go into it here.]). She and I decide or work out that mom and Bill will take Burt to a park. I go back downstairs. Mom is in the playroom with Burt, who has a plastic hanger in his hand. My mom points out (in a kind of bitchy way) that she thinks it’s dangerous. I say, “Well, it’s not a wire hanger.” I want to tell her to shutup, she’s always making these little comments, like I said. I wish she would just trust that we are conscientious parents and that if she sees us seeing Burt carrying something that we will take it from him if we think it’s dangerous. She appears to have no real faith in our judgment as parents. And then she goes and does the thing that she did when she was on the porch: when Burt was initially reluctant to come to her, she fake-cried. My stomach turned. I considered my reaction, perhaps longer than I should have, before saying that I wanted to ask her not to fake cry in front of him because I don’t think he could tell the difference. It was very interesting; she was pretending to be rejected by him, crying because he would not come over to her. And I thought, “My God, the effect of that upon a child who doesn’t know the difference between fake and real crying…” I don’t actually think he got it entirely, but it did kind of shock me. And that’s something that really wouldn’t have shocked me before. I mean, I fake cry on occasion, if I’m wanting to communicate that a way that he has touched me hurts. I try to show him in terms that he can understand. But to fake cry because he does not want to come over to you? Maybe she was feeling sensitive because I had pointed that out, and that’s why she got on my case about him running around the house instead of being out at the park.

Am I a bad parent? I’ve always trusted that Burt would be able to communicate displeasure and that if he were bored, he would make himself known. Rather, if he’s running happily around the house, there’s no reason to rush him off to a park just because I as an adult think that that would be more fun for him. That’s a classic case of projecting onto him my own preferences for fun time, rather than considering his behavior as the best indicator of his satisfaction.

But then when I just followed him around the house some more after she said those things (I know I’m not making any temporal sense here; don’t want to take the time to make it clear; I know what I’m saying), she then got mad and said that she was starting to get irritated because she didn’t just want to wait around. So I said, “I thought you were going to the park.”

“Sure.”

“Well then go ahead!”

But in fact, I was acting as if she were responsible for the communication delay, whereas I had just wandered off with him not in any particular hurry to make any decisions. And so I’m afraid she thinks that I’m passive, and that’s why Burt is unstimulated, because I won’t get off my ass and take him somewhere. I just wanted to laze at home.

I don’t have what it takes to be successful. Persis talks about cultivating a relationship with the daughter and granddaughter of the Provost of the University, who she has been told can authorize funds for the hiring of an individual faculty member in the event that there is not financing available through traditional means. This is something I would never do. I would never cultivate a relationship with someone…well…is that really true? I feel like I wouldn’t cultivate a relationship for the sole purpose of getting some sort of professional advantage, but in fact, many of my personal relationships are that way…I don’t know about many. Some. Friends I have and keep because of how useful they may be to me professionally. People I’ve been friendly to in order to make good impressions and get ahead. I guess I do do it. But obviously not with the right people, the people who can get me where I want to be. I guess it’s just another way of saying that I’m not happy with where I am, and bemoaning…or looking for excuses for why I am not there. I read a blurb in Variety today; a blurb from the lead actor in the show House, who was nominated for an Emmy award, and he said something like the nomination validated his choice to become an actor, to try and make a living at it, because he’d been doing it for 20 years and wondering the whole time, “Am I really an actor?” And then I have these sickening insights as I’m lying on the couch watching TV for the first time since I’ve been in Eugene, insights where I realize that by working so inefficiently I am essentially postponing the rest of my life. I am frittering my life away – without exaggeration – each day that I allow myself to dally in front of my laptop. This idea that the script is a major undertaking, a long process, really makes it convenient for me to just kick back and work slowly. Whereas, if I characterized it as a short process, maybe I would finally get off my ass and start hacking away.

I wrote a fun interchange on Friday that was basically the meat of what I wanted to explore. It was a dialog (strictly a working scene, just one in which the characters artlessly debate a particular point) that condensed into a few pages the reason why I was interested in the idea of a porn star and an abstinence activist meeting up. I hope I am able to translate that this week into some continued progress on the structure of the script, which remains that most challenging aspect.

Sleepy. Feel disjointed. Maybe it’s not such a great idea to write too close to the…to a particular event. The coals haven’t really subsided yet into a clear…what?…what do coals do? Anyway…




Days are not bad. When I’m not thinking. But when I sit down to write these, the gloss is ripped off. Can’t disguise the fact that I’m unfulfilled, disappointed in myself, and impatient. I can run, but I can’t hide.

Wish Burt would stay away for a week; I’m developing an affection for my life before kids.


What else?


Wandering. Running down the clock.


Two and a half minutes left. I’m confirming Friday at 11:30. My plane gets in – or is scheduled to – at 9:05 at the airport. Shouldn’t be any problem getting to you, and I’ll call if anything does come up. Just wanted to let you know about that possibility. Didn’t want to come in Thursday night because it’s hard for Burt with be to be without me.

Almost done. Falling asleep. Will go take a nap till Mom and Bill get back, and polish this later.




Waiting for the bell. Here it comes. Taking off a few seconds early.