could cry "I love you!" sigh, groan, roll eyes, relish the catharsis openly. I can't. Awareness of the insanity of what I feel parallels the feeling.
I wish I were a boy again-unquestioning, with no need to analyze the moment. I had that feeling when I first stared at her photograph; I was emotionally overwhelmed. Now reality impinges. I'm pulled in two directions simultaneously-toward yearning and toward reason. It's at times like this I hate the brain. It always builds more barriers than it can topple.
� � �
Sitting on the bed, writing, the headphones on again; the Sixth this time. Its somber feeling reflects my own.
By the time I got around to hunger, the Coronet Room was closed. So I bought a bag of Fritos, some beef jerky, a small bottle of Mateus, and some soda water. Munching now and drinking a Mateus spritzer, the ice ordered from room service. Can't say the crunching noises in my head do Mahler any good.
I'm going through the books again, searching for something more about her.
There is no more, however. I feel frustrated. There has to be some more written about her. Where do I find it though?
Christ Almighty, Collier. You get dumber every day. Ever hear of the public library?
Poor Elise. An idiot has fallen in love with you.
November 16, 1971
Just got back from the main library in San Diego. It turned out to be within a block or so of the bookstore I went to yesterday. I was there when it opened.
I got up at five and walked the beach for three hours, getting rid of the headache. By half-past eight it was letting up so I downed a cup of coffee and some toast, had the valet get my car and impart instructions to me, and took off for the library.
Thought at first I was in for trouble. A young girl at the front desk said I couldn't take out books with a Los Angeles library card. I knew I couldn't possibly spend the day there reading - I was, already, getting nervous. Then an older and a wiser head prevailed. With proper identification and the key tag from my room, she allowed that I could get a temporary card and borrow books. I almost kissed her cheek.
Twenty minutes later I was out; thank God for file-card systems. Drove back fast, experiencing that same sensation as I got closer to the Coronado; as though this great, white, wooden castle has become my home. Gave my car to the valet and plunged into the hotel's quiet embrace. Had to sit down on the patio and close my eyes, let it all seep back into my veins. The patio a good place for it; like the heart of the hotel. Sitting there, I was surrounded by its past. Peace rilled me and I took a deep breath, opened my eyes and stood, walked to the back elevator, rode it to the fifth floor, and regained my room, carrying the books I'd gotten.
� � �
There is a book about her entitled Elise McKenna: An Intimate Biography by Gladys Roberts. I'm going to save it for last because, despite the feeling of anticipation I feel right now, I know that, once I've finished the biography, it'll all be gone and I want to savor this excitement for as long as possible.
Writing this and listening to the Fourth; the easiest one, I think, the least demanding one. I want to concentrate on her.
The first book is by John Drew, called My Years On Stage.
He wrote that his first impression of Elise McKenna was that she was too fragile. Big women in the theater were the vogue in those days, I gather from the photographs I've seen. Yet he repeats what I've already read, that she never missed a performance.
� � �
Her mother appeared in plays with her at first-playing Mme. Bergomat to her daughter's Susan Blondet in The Masked Ball; Mrs. Ossian to her daughter's Miriam in Butterflies. It says they went to California with this latter play. I guess acting companies toured the West Coast regularly, explaining the tryout here.
� � �
Even though I've written almost everything down, I still feel as though I've rushed through this book too rapidly en route to the
I wish I were a boy again-unquestioning, with no need to analyze the moment. I had that feeling when I first stared at her photograph; I was emotionally overwhelmed. Now reality impinges. I'm pulled in two directions simultaneously-toward yearning and toward reason. It's at times like this I hate the brain. It always builds more barriers than it can topple.
� � �
Sitting on the bed, writing, the headphones on again; the Sixth this time. Its somber feeling reflects my own.
By the time I got around to hunger, the Coronet Room was closed. So I bought a bag of Fritos, some beef jerky, a small bottle of Mateus, and some soda water. Munching now and drinking a Mateus spritzer, the ice ordered from room service. Can't say the crunching noises in my head do Mahler any good.
I'm going through the books again, searching for something more about her.
There is no more, however. I feel frustrated. There has to be some more written about her. Where do I find it though?
Christ Almighty, Collier. You get dumber every day. Ever hear of the public library?
Poor Elise. An idiot has fallen in love with you.
November 16, 1971
Just got back from the main library in San Diego. It turned out to be within a block or so of the bookstore I went to yesterday. I was there when it opened.
I got up at five and walked the beach for three hours, getting rid of the headache. By half-past eight it was letting up so I downed a cup of coffee and some toast, had the valet get my car and impart instructions to me, and took off for the library.
Thought at first I was in for trouble. A young girl at the front desk said I couldn't take out books with a Los Angeles library card. I knew I couldn't possibly spend the day there reading - I was, already, getting nervous. Then an older and a wiser head prevailed. With proper identification and the key tag from my room, she allowed that I could get a temporary card and borrow books. I almost kissed her cheek.
Twenty minutes later I was out; thank God for file-card systems. Drove back fast, experiencing that same sensation as I got closer to the Coronado; as though this great, white, wooden castle has become my home. Gave my car to the valet and plunged into the hotel's quiet embrace. Had to sit down on the patio and close my eyes, let it all seep back into my veins. The patio a good place for it; like the heart of the hotel. Sitting there, I was surrounded by its past. Peace rilled me and I took a deep breath, opened my eyes and stood, walked to the back elevator, rode it to the fifth floor, and regained my room, carrying the books I'd gotten.
� � �
There is a book about her entitled Elise McKenna: An Intimate Biography by Gladys Roberts. I'm going to save it for last because, despite the feeling of anticipation I feel right now, I know that, once I've finished the biography, it'll all be gone and I want to savor this excitement for as long as possible.
Writing this and listening to the Fourth; the easiest one, I think, the least demanding one. I want to concentrate on her.
The first book is by John Drew, called My Years On Stage.
He wrote that his first impression of Elise McKenna was that she was too fragile. Big women in the theater were the vogue in those days, I gather from the photographs I've seen. Yet he repeats what I've already read, that she never missed a performance.
� � �
Her mother appeared in plays with her at first-playing Mme. Bergomat to her daughter's Susan Blondet in The Masked Ball; Mrs. Ossian to her daughter's Miriam in Butterflies. It says they went to California with this latter play. I guess acting companies toured the West Coast regularly, explaining the tryout here.
� � �
Even though I've written almost everything down, I still feel as though I've rushed through this book too rapidly en route to the
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