I Wonder What Images Will Remain

Here are three pages from Patrick’s 1962 diary. I recently found that he’d typed it up, so the transcription is below the pictures.

(Click on the images to enlarge them.)

Diary (page 1)

Diary (Page 2)
Diary (Page 3)

92nd St. NY May 6, 1962

I wonder what images will remain of this day in the future.  The constant racket from the Puerto Ricans behind us mixes with a prima donna’s Berlioz.  A belligerent chico breaks one bottle after the other in the refuse heap under the condemned building across the ruined courtyard, windows blanked by sheets of galvanized metal.  A frenetic flute and guitar back up the chorus of children chattering.  With broken sticks and empty cans they make a Carib rhythm band.

Our little apartment is calm; we are a bit lazy, lying abed much of the day, recuperating from the grueling drive to Kentucky and back. Mari has read a bit of Orwell, written a few postcards. A few moments ago we diverted momentarily by a sudden shower of rain slapping the leaves in our little courtyard.  But now it has stopped and the only sign of rain is the refreshing air coming in the wide open window.

I have typed today four poems to send off as well as a romance story.  That money would certainly be useful now.  The letter to the Parisiennes has been written also, asking for the apartment they offered for the month of August, when their family goes to the south of France. Planning that trip keeps us going at our jobs.

Steppenwolf goes with me from room to room, but I haven’t opened it for several days.  There’s too much of me in it, anyway, or so I like to think.