In the Shadow of the American Dream by David Wojnarowicz Read Free Book Online

married and exuding all kinds of strange sexual energies. As soon as a guy appears in my dreams it seems I am faintly aware of the sexual currents inherent therein. Nothing terribly physical came of it all but the dream was one of the first I’ve had that when I woke up I recalled no violent fears or pressure of death and anxieties floating within it in the ropy passages of light and dark. It was like a night on the grand calliope of Breton’s Amusement Park—something more soothing than the sexual Asbury Park of my seven-year-old mind.
    July 30, 1977
    What will I think of all this scribble ten years, thirty years from now in the change of history, where will Jim be or John or me in relation to all these activities? It’s the starry mirror of the eyes’ slow revolution to the impossible or fictional future then reeling back again to the past. FZZAMMM …
    August 1, 1977
    Met Huncke after work, dropped over to Arlene’s house where he was staying. He was wrapped up in a bathrobe with white flesh coming out from the folds of cloth. He made us a vodka and grapefruit drink and we talked about Louis and the book. He said Burroughs and Ginsberg were to write notes for the back cover of the book and he would do the intro! I told him about Louis and Ondine trying to fix me up with the girl in Brooklyn. We were eating pitted black cherries and vanilla ice cream. I explained that I slept more with men than women at this point in my life. He said he understood and before I knew it he was calling it an evening. He repaid twelve dollars of the original twenty-two. I was under the impression that he owed me seventeen dollars, not twenty-two. Since he had no change of a twenty, he gave me twelve. Don’t know if I’ll see the rest and at this point don’t care. I like Huncke both in an awestruck way: it’s been great meeting him after reading stuff by and about him; and he is a kind of model in roles that I form my life after, things that directly influence me in directions. I also like him personally: his storytelling abilities are almost unmatched. But I’m not sure what he thinks of me. I’m sometimes like this naïve dude who’s very easily taken, not by him necessarily but apt to be taken by anybody who has the desire to do that. I don’t know if he looks at me that way, if I should assert myself at times and not do certain things. The things I see as going along to make a strong friendship, someone else could see as foolhardy or soft.
    August 13, 1977
    Jim McLaughlin, Louis Rivera, Dennis Deforge, and I went to a bar on Christopher Street. A miniature Ponderosa Ranch—style place with bleached cow skulls on the wall and a horse hitching post in the center of the room. Little lightbulbs flickering all over the place which was shadowy dark. One leather guy with muscle-bound chest and belly protruding from suit of leather with straps and white pants low sexy the belly kept moving through the crowd like one moves through a thick fog or water of a flood—looked like an SS agent with marble eyes and abandon wiped across his lips.
    Met a guy there. Had noticed him looking in my direction but he didn’t seem to want to approach with Jim, Louis, and Dennis around so when they split I stayed behind and talked with him.
    We went for a walk around the Village near Soho—Houston Street—West 4th. His name was Ken Sterling. I liked him immediately, can’t tell exactly what it was but a mixture of self-assureness. He was handsome in a way that people are handsome but not centered on it—one who doesn’t spend time exercising good looks is extremely attractive in itself. We ended up at a cafe drinking cappuccino and a thunderstorm broke out. He finished college at nineteen. Just turned thirty years old. Was interested in linguistics, self-taught five languages, and currently studying Chinese. We went to his place in the West Village—a small two-room place