Big Sur/Chapter 34
The whole day begins simply enough with me getting up feeling fair and going down to the creek to slurp up water in my palms and wash up, seeing the languid waving of one large brown thigh over the mass of Dave's nylons indicative of an early morning love scene, in fact Romana telling us later at breakfast “When I woke up this morning and saw all those trees and water and clouds I told Dave ‘It’s a beautiful universe we created’”―A real Adam and Eve waking up, in fact this being one of Dave’s gladdest days because he’d really wanted to get away from the City again anyway and this time with a pretty doll, and’s brought his surf casting gear planning a big day―And we’ve brought a lot of good food―The only trouble is there’s no more wine so Dave and Romana go off in Willie to get some more anyway at a store 13 miles south down the highway—Billie and I are alone talking by the fire—I begin to feel extremely low as soon as last night’s alcohol wears off.
Everything is trembly again, the trembling hand, I cant for a fact even light the fire and Billie has to do it—“I cant light a fire any more!” I yell—“Well I can” she says in a rare instance when she lets me have it for being such a nut—Little Elliott is constantly pulling at her asking this and that, “What is that stick for, to put in the fire? why? how does it burn? why does it burn? where are we? when are we leaving” and the pattern develops where she begins to talk to him instead of me anyway because I’m just sitting there staring at the floor sighing—Later when he takes his nap we go down the path to the beach, about noon, both of us sad and silent—“What’s the matter I wonder” I say out loud—She:—“Everything was alright last night when we slept in the bag together now you wont even hold my hand ... goddamit I’m going to kill myself!"—Because I’ve begun to realize in my soberness that this thing has come too far, that I dont love Billie, that I’m leading her on, that I made a mistake dragging everyone here, that I simply wanta go home now, I’m just plumb sick and tired just like Cody I guess of the whole nervewracking scene bad enough as it is always pivoting back to this poor haunted canyon which again gives me the willies as we walk under the bridge and come to those heartless breakers busting in on sand higher than earth and looking like the heartlessness of wisdom—Besides I suddenly notice as if for the first time the awful way the leaves of the canyon that have managed to be blown to the surf are all hesitantly advancing in gusts of wind then finally plunging into the surf, to be dispersed and belted and melted and taken off to sea—I turn around and notice how the wind is just harrying them off trees and into the sea, just hurrying them as it were to death—In my condition they look human trembling to that brink—Hastening, hastening—In that awful huge roar blast of autumn Sur wind.
Boom, clap, the waves are still talking but now I’m sick and tired of whatever they ever said or ever will say—Billie wants me to stroll with her down towards the caves but I dont want to get up from the sand where I’m sitting back to boulder—She goes alone— I suddenly remember James Joyce and stare at the waves realizing “All summer you were sitting here writing the so called sound of the waves not realizing how deadly serious our life and doom is, you fool, you happy kid with a pencil, dont you realize you’ve been using words as a happy game—all those marvelous skeptical things you wrote about graves and sea death it’s ALL TRUE YOU FOOL! Joyce is dead! The sea took him! it will take YOU!” and I look down the beach and there’s Billie wading in the treacherous undertow, she’s already groaned several times earlier (seeing my indifference and also of course the hopelessness at Cody’s and the hopelessness of her wrecked apartment and wretched life) “Someday I’m going to commit suicide,” I suddenly wonder if she’s going to horrify the heavens and me too with a sudden suicide walk into those awful undertows—I see her sad blonde hair flying, the sad thin figure, alone by the sea, the leaf-hastening sea, she suddenly reminds me of something—I remember her musical sighs of death and I see the words clearly imprinted in my mind over her figure in the sand:—ST. CAROLYN BY THE SEA—“You were my last chance” she’s said but dont all women say that?—But can it be by “last chance” she doesnt mean mere marriage but some profoundly sad realization of something in me she really needs to go on living, at least that impression coming across anyway on the force of all the gloom we’ve shared—Can it be I’m withholding from her something sacred just like she says, or am I just a fool who’ll never learn to have a decent eternally minded deepdown relation with a woman and keep throwing that away for a song at a bottle?—In which case my own life is over anyway and there are the Joycean waves with their blank mouths saying “Yes that’s so,” and there are the leaves hurrying one by one down the sand and dumping in—In fact the creek is freighting hundreds more of them a minute right direct from the back hills—That big wind blasts and roars, it’s all yellow sunny and blue fury everywhere—I see the rocks wobble as it seems God is really getting mad for such a world and’s about to destroy it: big cliffs wobbling in my dumb eyes: God says “It’s gone too far, you’re all destroying everything one way or the other wobble boom the end is NOW.”
“The Second Coming, tick tock,” I think shuddering—St.Carolyn by the Sea is going in further—I could run and go see her but she’s so far away—I realize that if that nut is going to try this I’ll have to make an awful run and swim to get her—I get up and edge over but just then she turns around and starts back. . . “And if I call her ‘that nut’ in my secret thoughts wonder what she calls me?”—O hell, I’m sick of life—If I had any guts I’d drown myself in that tiresome water but that wouldnt be getting it over at all, I can just see the big transformations and plans jellying down there to curse us up in some other wretched suffering form eternities of it—I guess that’s what the kid feels—She looks so sad down there wandering Ophelialike in bare feet among thunders.
On top of that now here come the tourists, people from other cabins in the canyon, it’s the sunny season and they’re out two three times a week, what a dirty look I get from the elderly lady who’s apparently heard about the “author” who was secretly invited to Mr. Monsanto’s cabin but instead brought gangs and bottles and today worst of all trollopes—(Because in fact earlier that morning Dave and Romana have already made love on the sand in broad daylight visible not only to others down the beach but from that high new cabin on the shoulder of the cliff) (tho hidden from sight from the bridge by cliffwall)—So it’s all well known news now there’s a ball going on in Mr. Monsanto’s cabin and him not even here—This elderly lady being accompanied by children of all kinds—So that when Billie returns from the far end of the beach and starts back with me down the path (and I’m silly with a big footlong wizard pipe in my mouth trying to light it in the wind to cover up) the lady gives her the once over real close but Billie only smiles lightly like a little girl and chirps hello.
I feel like the most disgraceful and nay disreputable wretch on earth, in fact my hair is blowing in beastly streaks across my stupid and moronic face, the hangover has now worked paranoia into me down to the last pitiable detail.
Back at the cabin I cant chop wood for fear I’ll cut a foot off, I cant sleep, I cant sit, I cant pace, I keep going to the creek to drink water till finally I’m going down there a thousand times making Dave Wain wonder as he’s come back with more wine—We sit there slugging out of our separate bottles, in my paranoia I begin to wonder why I get to drink just the one bottle and he the other—But he’s gay “I am now going out surf castin and catch us a grabbag of fish for a marvelous supper; Romana you get the salad ready and anything else you can think of; well leave you alone now” he adds to gloomy me and Billie thinking he’s in our way, “and say, why dont we go to Nepenthe and private our grief tonight and enjoy the moonlight on the terrace with Manhattans, or go see Henry Miller?”—“No!” I almost yell, “I mean I’m so exhausted I dont wanta do anything or see anybody”—(already feeling awful guilt about Henry Miller anyway, we’ve made an appointment with him about a week ago and instead of showing up at his friend’s house in Santa Cruz at seven we’re all drunk at ten calling long distance and poor Henry just said “Well I’m sorry I dont get to meet you Jack but I’m an old man and at ten o’clock it’s time for me to go to bed, you’d never make it here till after midnight now”) (his voice on the phone just like on his records, nasal, Brooklyn, goodguy voice, and him disappointed in a way because he’s gone to the trouble of writing the preface to one of my books) (tho I suddenly now think in my remorseful paranoias “Ah the hell with it he was only gettin in the act like all these guys write prefaces so you dont even get to read the author first”) (as an example of how really psychotically suspicious and loco I was getting).
Alone with Billie’s even worse—“I cant see anything to do now,” she says by the fire like an ancient Salem housewife (“Or Salem witch?” I’m leering)—“I could have Elliott taken care of in a private home or an orphanage and just go to a nunnery myself, there’s a lot of them around—or I could kill myself and Elliott both”—“Dont talk like that”—“There’s no other way to talk when there’s no more directions to take”—“You've got me all wrong I wouldnt be any good for you”—“I know that now, you want to be a hermit you say but you dont do it much I noticed, you’re just tired of life and wanta sleep, in a way that’s how I feel too only I’ve got Elliott to worry about. . . I could take both our lives and solve that”—“You, creepy talk”—“You told me the first night you loved me, that I was most interesting, that you hadnt met anyone you liked so much then you just went on drinking, I really can see now what they say about you is true: and all the others like you: O I realize you’re a writer and suffer through too much but you’re really ratty sometimes . . . but even that I know you cant help and I know you’re not really ratty but awfully broken up like you explained to me, the reasons . . . but you’re always groaning about how sick you are, you really dont think about others enough and I KNOW you cant help it, it’s a curious disease a lot of us have anyway only better hidden sometimes . . . but what you said the first night and even just now about me being St. Carolyn in the Sea, why dont you follow through with what your heart knows is Good and best and true, you give up so easy to discouragement . . . then I guess too you dont really want me and just wanta go home and resume your own life maybe with Louise your girlfriend”—“No I couldnt with her either, I’m just bound up inside like constipation, I cant move emotionally like you’d say emotionally as tho that was some big grand magic mystery everybody saying ‘O how wonderful life is, how miraculous, God made this and God made that,’ how do you know he doesnt hate what He did: He might even be drunk and not noticing what He went and done tho of course that’s not true”—“Maybe God is dead”—“No, God cant be dead because He’s the unborn”—“But you have all those philosophies and sutras you were talking about”—“But dont you see they’ve all become empty words, I realize I’ve been playing like a happy child with words words words in a big serious tragedy, look around”—“You could make some effort, damn it!”
But what’s even ineffably worse is that the more she advises me and discussed the trouble the worse and worse it gets, it’s as tho she didnt know what she was doing, like an unconscious witch, the more she tries to help the more I tremble almost too realizing she’s doing it on purpose and knows she’s witching me but it’s all gotta be formally understood as “help” dingblast it—She must be some kind of chemical counterpart to me, I just cant stand her for a minute, I’m racked with guilt because all the evidence there seems to say she’s a wonderful person sympathizing in her quiet sad musical voice with an obvious rogue nevertheless none of these rational guilts stick—All I feel is the invisible stab from her—She’s hurting me!—At some points in our conversation I’m a veritable ham actor jumping up to twitch my head, that’s the effect she has—“What’s the matter?” she asks softly—Which makes me almost scream and I’ve never screamed in my life—It’s the first time in my life I’m not confident I can hold myself together no matter what happens and be inly calm enough to even smile with condescension at the screaming hysterias of women in madwards—I’m in the same madward all of a sudden—And what’s happened? what’s caused it—“Are you driving me mad on purpose?” I finally blurt—But naturally she protests I’m talking out of my head, there’s no such evident intention anywhere, were just on a happy weekend in the country with friends, “Then there’s something wrong with ME!” I yell—“That’s obvious but why dont you try to calm down and for instance like make love to me, I’ve been begging you all day and all you do is groan and turn away as tho I was an ugly old bat’—She comes and offers herself to me softly and gently but I just stare at my quivering wrists—It’s really very awful—It’s hard to explain—Besides then the little boy is constantly coming at Billie when she kneels at my lap or sits on it or tries to soothe my hair and comfort me, he keeps saying in the same pitiful voice “Dont do it Billie dont do it Billie dont do it Billie” till finally she has to give up that sweet patience of hers where she answers his every little pathetic question and yell “Shut up! Elliott will you shut up! DO I have to beat you again!” and I groan “No!” but Elliott yells louder “Dont do it Billie dont do it Billie dont do it Billie!” so she sweeps him off and starts whacking him screamingly on the porch and I am about to throw in the towel and gasp up my last, it’s horrible.
Besides when she beats Elliott she herself cries and then will be yelling madwoman things like “I’ll kill both of us if you dont stop, you leave me no alternative! O my child!” suddenly picking him up and embracing him rocking tears, and gnashing of hair and all under those old peaceful bluejay trees where in fact the jays are still waiting for their food and watching all this—Even so Alf the Sacred Burro is in the yard waiting for somebody to give him an apple—I look up at the sun going down golden throughout the insane shivering canyon, that blasted rogue wind comes topping down trees a mile away with an advancing roar that when it hits the broken cries of mother and son in grief are blown away with all those crazy scattering leaves—The creek screeches—A door bangs horribly, a shutter follows suit, the house shakes—I’m beating my knees in the din and cant even hear that.
“What’s I got to do with you committing suicide anyway?” I’m yelling—“Alright, it has nothing to do with you”—“So okay you have no husband but at least you’ve got little Elliott, hell grow up and be okay, you can always meanwhile go on with your job, get married, move away, do something, maybe it’s Cody but more than that I’d say it’s all those mad characters making you insane and wanta kill yourself like that—Perry—"—“Dont talk about Perry, he's wonderful and sweet and I love him and he’s much kinder to me than you’ll ever be: at least he gives of himself”—“But what’s all this giving of ourselves, what’s there to give that’ll help anybody”—“You’ll never know you’re so wrapped up in yourself”—We’re now starting to insult each other which would be a healthy sign except she keeps breaking down and crying on my shoulder more or less again insisting I’m her last chance (which isnt true)—“Let’s go to a monastery together,” she adds madly—“Evelyn, I mean Billie you might go to a nunnery at that, by God get thee to a nunnery, you look like you’d make a nun, maybe that’s what you need all that talk about Cody about religion maybe all this worldly horror is just holding you back from what you call your true realizing, you could become a big reverend mother someday with not a worry on your mind tho I met a reverend mother once who cried . . . ah it’s all so sad”—“What did she cry about?”—“I don’t know, after talking to me, I remember I said some silly thing like ‘the universe is a woman because it’s round’ but I think she cried because she was remembering her early days when she had a romance with some soldier who died, at least that’s what they say, she was the greatest woman I ever saw, big blue eyes, big smart woman . . . you could do that, get out of this awful mess and leave it all behind”—“But I love love too much for that”—“And not because you’re sensual either you poor kid”—In fact we quiet down a little and do actually make love in spite of Elliott pulling at her “Billie dont do it dont do it Billie dont do it” till right in the middle I’m yelling “Dont do what? what’s he mean?—can it be he’s right and Billie you shouldnt do it? can it be were sinning after all’s said and done? O this is insane!—but he’s the most insane of them all,” in fact the child is up on bed with us tugging at her shoulder just like a grownup jealous lover tryin to pull a woman off another man (she being on top indication of exactly how helpless and busted down I’ve become and here it is only 4 in the afternoon)—A little drama going on in the cabin maybe a little different than what cabins are intended for or the local neighbors are imagining.