June 1st, 1971
I am lying lengthways across my bed now, moody, naked, breathing hard from that last cigarette, half-way fucked-up from a joint Karen and I smoked two hours ago and BLOATED from McDonald’s.
Cheeriest! What a pig I am.
I really should clean up my life.
Last night Margie came over. It was quite a reunion– I had missed her over the weekend. Margie seems to be walking around dragging behind her all the little chairs we were both bound in as children. I know Margie so totally that I can read her vibrations as spontaneously and as clearly as my own. I love Margie– her essence is so kind and gentle and good– but she is so bound into personality traps and complexes that she exudes a sort of middle-class fucked up kid aura.
I really think that’s a piggy attitude but I know I’ve gone far above it. So I’m in a strange position. Whenever I introduce her to a roomful of freaks it always comes as a shock to me when I realize that they are not perceiving her as I perceive her. They’re seeing her as she presents herself– I can see what is behind that.
Margie really needs to open up and get more colorful. She’s just one great big jumble of hyper, Piscean, Midwest fuck-ups.
Maybe Margie’s living here will open her up to trust us more and perhaps get some self-confidence.
That last paragraph made me remember! Chip told me yesterday that he is definitely moving out and has already told Mr. Battle that I am in line for the apartment! July 1st (which was a wreck because initially he said for two weeks– then changed it to July 1st– the wait, however, should make it even better)
We all had dinner up there last night. A big rice and chicken affair with Ed and Peggy, Karen, Chip, Dave, Dick, Gwenn, Chip (Dick’s friend), Margie, and myself. We were all really stoned. Dick has a gadget he ripped off of a hospital. It’s the “muzzle” that they administer anesthesia with– the hole where the tube formerly was has been replaced with an empty spool of thread and a lit joint is placed in the spool. You put it over your nose and mouth and Goddam! What a hit. Two hits from it and you’re nearly unconscious.
Somehow though, I began to get a little bit uptight there. THE SAME fucking old hassles. The first time I can remember coping with this particular personality problem was in high school– or maybe junior high school.
The whole number centers upon my feeling in a group situation like a real ass. I feel as though I am being criticized for being such an ass by everyone else. Try as I might– I have never been able to come across “cool” with people I don’t know. I always seem to feel like a kid amongst the “big kids.”
I realize that I do have a pretty awkward, unhip rap. (Reading that just did make me realize it). But the fact is I am no hick. (Am I?) Christ, I’m really getting into an encounter with my personality here.
Self! I accuse you of being:
a strange, lean/wolfish, scrawny, baby-faced boy who:
is guilt-ridden, paranoid, unproductive, sexually perverted, mangy, and thick!
Clumsy, awkward, unattractive and come across queerishly phony.
My God, I never knew I really held such a low opinion of myself. I’ve really got to get off my down trip.
The task: in Summation: I’ve got to reach a point where I believe I am just as hip as the next person.
My God: this is getting even clearer to me now: I DON’T HAVE ANY BALLS!!!
They were robbed, cut off, stolen when I was just a kid. My father, Grandma, Mom– all of them, they all took them.
Christ I never really knew all this before.
Balls is much more than a physical thing. Balls is a mental stance. Balls is a basic pride and a basic confidence. I was beaten down so bad when I was a kid that I ended up with NO BALLS.
I ain’t got no fucking balls!
Holy pee-pee! I see the billowing clouds of heaven rolling away and in the midst of the clearing stands a magnificent winged creature bearing aloft a fleshy sac of BALLS!
Will the heavens roll back and a band of heavenly angels finally, after 20 uptight, pussy-wallowing years present me Larry with my very own set of BALLS!
I have just penetrated to the core of my existence. I am flashing on every scene I’ve been in since the day I was born– (good scenes, mind you, and nice scenes) But one thing was wrong the lead player came onstage without his balls!
I have always been just a whining groveling child at my father’s feet gazing upward at his big sac of balls glaring me in the face. He has beaten growth from me with his cock rather than his fists or a club. My fear of him, my basic, ultimate belief in my incompetence.
God (I can’t even finish that sentence). I could never either compete with or identify with my father. God, how that fucked me up. And that tinges, modifies and screws up just about every encounter, every situation, and experience I have.
All the development I have made this past year, all the slow grinding gradual painful shells I have broken through have just lead me to this final face-down!
Do I dare to think that all the vague, strange changes that my head has been going through lately were the beginning growth of balls pushing out of my crotch! Do I dare believe–
I feel as though I have just stumbled across some fantastic insight into all my personality problems.
Done at home in your spare time, ABSOLUTELY FREE!
Just get yourself a little blue neurosis-book and you too can analyze your own mind in your own home.
I’ve got to stop writing now and think this out–