Thirty

[Passage from my journal, 13 March 1981]

11:41 pm PST—[Newroom Claremont] I don’t really have anything to say, but I wanted to write at least one more journal entry while I’m still technically and legally in my 20s. What the fuck. To-morrow I turn 30—end of an era and all that. Of course eras are always ending and beginning, so one shouldn’t make too big a thing of them, but this is a fairly significant one. You know—is it true that I’m no longer young? and all that. You can’t trust anyone over 30. Well, whatever.

I got up fairly late to-day, even though I had a number of things I needed to get done. As it turned out, I scuttled most of them, which was stupid but there it is. Read the paper first, before my eyes were even adjusted to the morning light, and read about the end of the school busing plan down here. I’ve never been wild about busing, but it’s clear that the people who are rejoicing are the bigots and racists who quite frankly are opposed to the idea of racial equality and all that. The weird thing is that the whole integration thing benefits mainly the people interested in a monocultural US—facilitating the melting pot and the whole bit. If you want a fragmented US, segregation is the way to go. The only way to go. However—

I washed my clothes again, and then took off for the store to lay in a supply of groceries. Bought various items of junk, came home, and then took off again for the store down on Holt in Pomona. Bought some instant food stuff and a cake for my birthday to-morrow, and then spent an hour across the street, trying to make up my mind to buy two albums—Utopia’s Deface the Music and Big Brother and the Holding Company’s Cheap Thrills. I asked about the record price system because I didn’t understand it at all, and the guy explained it to me as if I was a moron; it’s really simple. All records marked $7.29 or $6.49 are $5.99. All records marked $5.99 or $4.99 are $3.88. I didn’t have the nerve after that to ask what a record marked $3.99 actually cost, so I didn’t buy the Oingo-Boingo EP featuring “I Want to Make Violent Love to You” (which next to “Holiday in Cambodia” is my favorite popular song at the moment). I did pick up that Cheap Thrills thing by Big Brother and the Holding Company for $3.88, as well as Utopia’s Deface the Music.

Came home and then again hit the bus to go to school and spend a few hours working on an electronic music project—this damn Reed Pipe piece which has taken so damn long. I’ve just got started on the second section and still don’t have anything coherent down on tape. Ah well, whatever. Came home after that. Called my father to find out why my package hasn’t arrived (he hasn’t sent it, as it happens), and then ate and bathed. After that didn’t do much except wrote in “Ishtar Week” (a.k.a. “Flies”) and then wrote this journal entry. That’s it for the day, I guess. The last day of my 20s—last day of my youth so to speak (but then, I never was young—as they used to say about me, I was born an old man). I’m not depressed at all—I’m down (what I think of as being blue), but not at all depressed. I’m a little amazed, but not really. It’s possible to enjoy being down when you’re not actually depressed (three minutes to go)—it’s not at all the same feeling. Okay—this is it, just a few minutes left (in one sense—in another I have until 8:07, but why spoil the drama?). Can’t think of garbage to fill it up with, and I now have less than a minute so I guess I’ll just fill it up with any words that come to mind so that I write something before I turn officially 30—I just did. 30. 30. Doesn’t that mean the end of a piece? Well, it’s the end of this entry anyway.

-- 30 --

From the Notebook of James Erskine Harvey, Writer

[A passage from the notebook of James Erskine Harvey, a character in Cellophane Visions, written 7 February 1981]

S

o far the trip has been fairly dull. No one else seems to be able to get into the spirit of the thing. I have had to interject all the fun myself, which is hard work. I don’t mind it though. I am afraid that my jokes and clever sayings have been going right over the heads of my companions. They are not a very sharp bunch. I have been giving the benefit of my entertainment to even the people on the street who we go past. Some of the chicks have responded favorably to my lines; if we were not speeding by at 60 mph I would have scored a score of times I bet.

Now we have stopped to eat. Our waitress is wearing a short skirt. Her name is Deborah. None of my companions is very observent. They have not noticed her.

Rattlesnake, Cascadia. I am not sure of the date. We have spent the night in a motel here. They had rat poison in the refrigerator and the lampshades are made of plastic trays with holes cut in them. They pictures on the walls are jigsaw puzzles glued together. We did not tell the proprietors how many of us there were, which was just as well because it would have cost us more money if they knew. They say that anyone staying after nine will be charged for another day so everyone is packing to get out of here and get an early start before they get up.

Nowhere, Nirvana. We have stopped here to eat. This little town has historical interest, for it was here that the Silicon Kid met his dismal end in a gun battle with Sheriff Hawk. He was only 23 at the time. We are buying hamburgers and stuff at a fast food joint. I read all about it in one of those historical signs they put up along side the road.

Dusty, dry, the road stretches before us like an endless ribbon on a typewriter. Beside it are the skulls and bones of unfortunate creatures that were not fast enough in crossing the road and whose internal parts in consequence lie bleaching under the hot desert sun. They impress one with the impermanence of life in this world. Is there another world to which one goes after death? I often wonder. Or is death simply the end for us all, the end of the road of life? Other people never think of things like that, but are content to take things as they come, without asking questions. Sometimes I wish that I too was like ordinary people.

The next town is Deadwood. It is more than fifty miles away. It is not as hot as I had expected it to be but that is because it is November.

The road of life. If life is a road where do we find the road signs? Are they the words of the prophets and sages of antiquity, or are they written inside our heads? Do we each of us have to find our own road signs? And what if we should come to a bridge that has been washed out by a torrent? Is that the end, or can we get across it to the other side?