sick”—“I’m SICK” I yell emphatically to the trees, to the woods around, to the hills above, looking around desperately, nobody cares—I can even hear Ron singing at his lunch inside.
What’s even more horrible he tries to show compunction and wants to help me, “Anything I can do”—Later he goes for a lone walk so I go in the cabin and lie on the cot and spend about two hours groaning out a lament: “O mon Dieux, pourquoi Tu m’laisse faire malade comme ça—Papa Papa aide mué—Aw j’ai mal au coeur—J’envie d’aller à toilette ‘pi ça m’interesse pas—Aw ’shu malade—Owaowaowao—” (I go into a long “awaowaowoa” that I guess lasted a whole minute)—I toss over and find new reasons to groan—I think I’m alone and I’m letting it all go a whole lot like I'd heard my father do when he was dying of cancer in the night in the bed next to mine—When I do manage to stagger up and go lean on the door I realize with double upon double horror that Ron Blake has been sitting there all this time listening to everything over a book—(I wonder now what he told people about this later, it must have sounded horrible)—(Idiotic too, cretinous even, maybe only French Canadian who knows?)—“Ron I’m sorry you had to hear all that, I’m sick”—“I know, man, it’s okay, lie down and try to sleep”—“I cant sleep!” I yell in a rage—I feel like yelling “Fuck yourself you little idiot what do you know what I’m going through!” but then I realize how oldman disgusting and hopeless all that is, and here he is enjoying his big weekend with the big writer he was supposed to tell all his friends what a great swinging ball it was and what I did and said—But methinks and mayhap he took away a lesson in temperance, or a lesson in beatness really—Because the only time I’ve ever been sicker and madder was a week later when Dave and I came back with the two girls leading to the final horrible night.
