February 19th, 1971

Today:

Walking across the plaza of the Nassif Building at lunch, a bouncy, view-from-above, movie-walk. Bank, waiting in line (close-up), lunch, work, steely, young, efficient. Running the photons– great image– lots-a-laughs.

Deadline.

Rush 

Rush

Yoloanda, Jean, Gail, Don, Gregg, Tharon, Velva. Bob, Jimmy

ARMY TIME PUB CO.

I called Mom tonight. To cheer her up– to cheer me up– to make the entire situation less super-tragic. 

Everything seems to be O.K. now– Bobby will leave soon– I’ll go down in a couple of weekends.

She and Rene both cried last night when they realized they had made it impossible (God I’m stoned) to come home for my birthday. God, I love that… am I sick or am I sick? But of course I’ll be bravely forgiving and condescending about the entire thing, and of course, they’ll never forgive themselves for “the way they done me.” Jesus, I am really a sick little Freudian Fuck-off–  

George and Gregg and Tharen: rolling a joint in the camper in front of Army Times. Paranoia. Driving home. Wow, final scene.

The day is over.

Now I am sitting here stoned, happy, and content. Amen.