[Passage from my journal, 18 April 1981]
9:54 pm PST—Thingz to do: (1) Finish research for the Music in Culture Paper (2) Write the Music in Culture paper (3) Come up with topic of the Ephesians and Colossians paper (4) Do something about the Vortigern paper (5) Consider getting photo taken and going down to El Monte early next week (6) Write my mother and step-father (7) Finish transcribing material for the Dean.
Present trips: Okay, the major hassles over the past bit have been: (1) the best-friend’s-girl thing (2) Finishing “Keep on Piping” (3) Visiting the damn churches (4) Current new obsession with Mark Twain (5) Finding time to work on “Bad Vibrations” (6) Transcribing tape for the Dean.
For whatever reasons, visions of the two of them together periodically torment me—at the weirdest goddamn times. And the most grotesque and irrelevant situations. However, none of this is what I started to throw in. I wrote and rewrote a letter to my cousin, and then couldn’t decide to send it. The oracle gave conflicting advice; but finally gave me the go-ahead to-day (at one point it had said wait till Tuesday). I put the letter out (cut my lip on the envelope flap while sealing it) and then ate breakfast. I suddenly changed my mind and shot out to retrieve it—at the very instant my hand touched the doorknob the postman removed the letter from the mailbox and carried it off. I took it as an omen and let it go (I could have called him back I suppose). So that episode is finished for the moment.
“Keep on Piping” has been a bitch to do; I’ve “finished” it three times now, and I think I’ll have to do it again. Last Friday I got interrupted by a character who wanted to do some splicing, so my “final” mixdown wasn’t too hot; I think I’ll do it over. Incidentally, the way things have worked out, all my versions (but one) are on the same tape.
Nothing to say on visiting the damn churches, really, except that it’s been a constant drag and hassle. I intended to go to an Adventist meeting to-day, but it was raining and I frankly copped out.
My new obsession with Mark Twain results from getting a copy of Puddnhead Wilson in the mail—no, it doesn’t; that was just an aid. I had already been to the library digging up stuff.
Never mind, I guess; I’m getting tired out. Oh, yeah—I’ve noticed recently that my pants had a tendency to fall off me, and like that, but I was fucking shocked the other day to see that—when I looked at myself in the mirror—I could count my ribs. Freaked out I weighed myself on the bathroom scale, and discovered that I’ve lost about twenty pounds sometime. (I’ve been at a little over 130—say 132 or 3 for some time; now I weigh in at 113 to 114.) As a result, I’ve been indulging in food heavily—I had previously not been, from a variety of motives, mostly being hyped up, but also cash and the belief that I was getting fat, somewhat. I never imagined that I was that out of touch with reality.