Stoned in Hollywood

Sun Feb. 2
I was too depressed to write here yesterday, although if I would have brought this book to the bar Checca in Q-town on Santa Monica where I went with Ball I would have filled these pages. There were pictures I wanted to take, too: the wraith-like smoke where it passed through the light, the muted sky. In the morning I walked to Ralph's and got a paper and some juice and a couple gallons of water and a fifth of vodka. I drank the vodka in my juice, alternating with coffee and read the paper at the little table under the kitchen window. I sketched Pablo Neruda. Then Getoff came and we went to the bar. I was restlesss among all the pop nerds in their pop nerd thrift shop clothing. After a couple beers and some chicken dumplings, I walked to Cahuenga and Vine, past the seedy houses and HBT Headquarters to the reggae shop. I pressed the doorbell button and was buzzed in. I handed twenty bucks over the steel mesh door and a hand handed back over a bag of weed. I walked down to the Spotlight Club and grabbed a book of matches off the bar. I walked to the back of the room. Hollywood lowlifes lined the walls. I walked back down the street. I wanted to photograph the red painted wooden general store on Selma. There was a park where I thought I could smoke and write in a little book, but the gates were locked to keep out we drug abusers. There was a black jacket there, but I didn't look through the pocketes. I loaded my pipe as I walked down the sidewalk and stopped long enough to light a match to it. I walked the miles stoned. The fags on Santa Monica and Highland hooted at me. I felt conspicuous to the passing cars, a tall redbeard striding down the street in a tacky Hawaiian shirt. South of Melrose, the street turns residential. An antique man, bent eighty degrees over his cane, scuttled like a crab under his fedora. He looked out of his dusty flesh with clear intelligent eyes, rarer out there than I was. I walked past him and instantly regretted having said nothing. Further downt the street strolled two Orthodox Jews. When I got home I ate a sandwich and leftover Thai pad thay and watched tv. Ball came and left. Mark and Getoff and Erik and Christina and May and Shirelle came and left. I just watched tv. Then I went to bed. Shirelle came home around two. I didn't talk to her. The guys came back a little later. They rang the phone and pounded on the door and squirted the window with a hose and played their guitars and sang. I thought of getting up and writing, but I didn't. I'm in a bad state. I really don't care about anything. When I'm done here I think I'll walk up to the video store with my camera. I already read the news today. I read about Amnon's and Absalom's treachery. What else? What the fuck else? I'll get that film developed for Craig. Tomorrow Loosey is coming to observe a lesson. I've got to go to the DMV. If they give me back my driver's license, it will cost one hundred dollars. It looks like I'll have to pay taxes this year instead of get a refund.