Half of 1978 ends today. It;'s 10:30 and Im ready for the new half-year. Tomorrow morning I depart my departure to Charleston, West Virginia where I will paint Alice's father's house. As a teenager I painted two houses in my neighborhood in the Blue Hills. Ten years ago. My parents' and a neighor's split-level. All the houses on my street with split-level. My older brother and I were a team. The job took us two weeks. My hand hasn't touched a brush since. So many of my friends here are artists. I asked Ro for advice.
"Put down a drop cloth. Start at the top and paint with up and down strokes. Wear a hat and long sleeve shirt to protect yourself from splatter. And don't do it by yourself."
Alice says she will help.
A ticket on Piedmont is waiting for me at JFK. I have $70. Her father will pay me $500 for the job. At present I'm lucky to earn $100 a week. I hope to finish in two weeks. Alice says it is not a big house. Her father is a lawyer. It has to be as big as my parent's house, but it is not a split-level. At least it isn't a hillbilly shack up some hollow with moonshine rinnign down the creek. Chareleston is the Capitol of the Mountaineer State. I know mothing about it, but I suspect her home is in the suburbs.
This afternoon I asked Ro what I should buy for a gift.
"Perfume. Opium by Yves St. Laurent. It's a natural scene with mandarin, jasmine, patchouli, and vanilla. Very sensual."
We made love at my place and then I went up to Bloomingdale's. Matthew worked in the perfume department. He wants me badly enough to give it to me. I trade a kiss for the perfume.
Alice doesn't wear any. She is a hippie. She smells good without any, but I couldn't think of anything else to get. I sniff the perfume. Patchouli. She will like that. She's a hippie. I open the box and spray on a little. The attar warms on my skin. It reminds me of smoking opium and I wish I had some.
I pack a bag. Jeans, tee-shirts, and an old seersucker jacket. Alice says it's hot in the mountains. I bring a bathing suit, thinking I'll swim in a creek. I haven't flown since Chuck and Jackie's Philadelphia wedding in 1975. I was in the wedding party. They moved to Cinncinati. It's not far from West Virgina. Maybe I can find their phone number by dialing 555-1212.
The New York Post featured a report about a Miami voodoo priest who creates voodoo dolls of victims by gathering his victims' nail clippings and hair with water and a little rum and then puts them into a Waring blender after which the finished product is poured into a small doll. Supposedly the victim wakes thinkign he is a doll.
Charleston-NYC is an eight-hour flight. My flight is at 1:30. I'll get there two hours before take-off. An hour flight to DC. A three-hour layover. Then an hour to Charleston. 7-8 hours. A distance of 500 miles. Ten hours by car. Longer by hitchhiking and West Virginia is the original hillbilly country. They hated hippies. They must hate punks even more. I'll soon find out.
Later
The musicians at CBGBs only talk about music, drugs, or other musicians. My world has fallen into a world of drum, guitars, and bass. Their only goal in life. Hit tthe Top 10. Even Teenage Jesus and the Jerks. Hard-driving noise band with Lydia Lunch singing. My fav song EVERYTHING. It is so radically nothing with James Chance on sax, but in their eyes I see the dream of opening for the Rolling Stones. All the girls on the scene think Richard Hell is cute. No one thinks that of Teenage Jesus. They sound like they're covering Lour Reed's Metal Music Machine, whihc is almost unlistenable. Cecil Taylor loves them.
OPIUM Black tar On tin foil Stuck into a pipe A match Fire Smoke furls in the air Suck Suck Suck My mind stalls Into a dream Of nothing A land of Nod So sweet nothing So nothing at all In a sleep smooth as glass
Teenage Jesus and the Jerks
I woke up dreaming
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