#thelasthundredmiles | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

August 23rd, 1981

Spectacular morning-- the sky is an intense bright blue. Treetops and houses seem to shine with a whiteness. And it's nearly cold! Bizarre weather for August. Wendy and John are busy making a lunch. The beautiful day signals good weather for sailing. I'm having hot black coffee-- about to shower and go downstairs for breakfast. This day is a gift.

----

Anchored in a cove on the Chesapeake bay. Lying in pure white light as the boat rocks gently suspended between the deep placid blue of the bay and the bright bright blue above.

----

Brilliant day sailing and sunning. We bought steamed crabs and brought them back. After naps, we ate crabs and salad on the patio at dusk. I had intended to go to a meeting here on the Hill tonight, but I had the time wrong and missed it. So it's been a day and night of total relaxation. We all walked the dogs down Capitol Hill and brought Haagen Dazs back, all retiring to bedrooms to watch TV. Within 48 hours I have completely shed the fatigue and exhaustion I brought with me. My face is pink with sun, my body relaxed and horny for David's sweet ass. I've thought of him all day. A man passed in a sailboat today-- and I had a vision of David middle age and handsome. He called tonight and I ache with wanting to see him.

----

My love for Wendy is primal, powerful and complete.

0 notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

July 9th, 1981

[continued]

This has been the second day of New York's first heat wave this summer. Temperatures hovering around 100 degrees-- walking out of air conditioning into the heat is like walking into a sauna. Everyone seems grouchy and bedraggled. I went to a meeting tonight at Washington Square-- and spoke for the first time. My nearly psychotic fear of speaking at meetings has been a source of great anxiety for me. Sharing your experiences in a group situation is, I think, a fundamental part of the A.A. recovery. I've felt in a corner with the problem-- and although speaking tonight was not relaxed or easy, I pray that the ice has been broken and I can start relaxing more about speaking. I just got off the phone from talking to Jim-- my late night check-in call to tuck me in. I am awed by the role that he is playing in my life-- listening to me rant and rave, whine and bitch, moan and groan. Listening to all the endless details of my days and patiently consoling, soothing, admonishing, exhorting and loving me through all of it. This man who walked into my life two months ago has now become my confidant and friend. I cherish him. My gratitude is enormous. How do you express thanks to someone for saving your sanity on a daily basis?

I'm tired tonight. The past two nights I've had trouble going to sleep-- tossing and turning until after 2. It feels good to feel physically tired, drowsy-- after a happy busy day. I tuck myself into bed, cozy and snug, listening to the air conditioner hum.

8 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

April 20th, 1981

"This is the baffling feature of alcoholism as we know it-- this utter inability to leave it (alcohol) alone, no matter how great the necessity or the wish."

"...certain nonalcoholic people who, though drinking foolishly and heavily... are able to stop or moderate, because their brains and bodies have not been damaged as ours were. But the actual or potential alcoholic, with hardly an exception, will be absolutely unable to stop drinking on the basis of self-knowledge.

"Then we have a certain type of hard drinker. He may have the habit badly enough to gradually impair him physically and mentally. It may cause him to die a few years before his time. If a sufficiently strong reason-- ill health, falling in love, change of environment, or the warning of a doctor-- becomes operative, this man can also stop or moderate, although he may find it difficult and troublesome and may even need medical attention."

-The Big Book

#thelasthundredmiles #journal #diary #alcohol #alcoholic #sober #coping #alcohol recovery #rehab #architecture #drunk #drinking #hangover

8 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

July 22nd, 1981

Tonight I went with Chuck, a man I met at the Tuesday Night East Village Group, to an AA meeting at a detoxification center uptown near Roosevelt Hospital. The building is a huge, dark Spanish style structure that looks like a fortress. We rang a bell to be admitted and entered into what looks like may have been a school at one time. It is an odd combination of impressions. The first is that of a hospital.

There is a quiet, a professional hush that I associate with hospitals. But it is also dark inside, poorly lit and not quite cleaned. The floors are stained and there is an odor of cooking in the hallways. I think of a dormitory. We are led upstairs by the attendant who admitted us. Chuck identified us as being from AA. At the end of a hallway we enter a lounge area, perhaps twenty people in pajamas are lying on sofas, sprawling in chairs, a couple of men play cards, a television set is on low volume in the center of the room. A few people watch us distractedly. We sit at a table together and wait for a few minutes. It is not quite 8:00. When it is time, an attendant walks into the room and turns off the television and announces it is time for AA. Chuck and Frank and myself carry straight back chairs into the center of the room. Chuck stands and addresses the people. He tells them that we are from AA. He reads the AA preamble and introduces Frank who beings to speak. Frank's qualification is powerful and compassionate. I stare at my boots and feel tears forming in my eyes. It will not do to cry here. Occasionally I look up and scan the faces about me. Worn, hard-lined tough faces. Eyes blank with pain. I have seen that pain in my own eyes. I know it well. Frank's talk is eloquent and emotional. He talks of his years of drinking and the pain and fear and despair of his life. This marvelous healthy man whose very presence exudes well-being and strength tells of his own slow death, and of his recovery through the grace of god and the fellowship of AA. It is a round robin discussion when he finishes speaking. A few people speak. I pray to God that I will see their faces again, out of detox and in meetings. I spoke also. This is only the second or third time I have spoken up. When the meeting was over, we stood and said the Lord's Prayer. I was greatly moved to see these battered men and women standing with bowed heads reciting aloud this invocation to God. "Give us this day..."

After the meeting, we went for coffee. I like Frank immensely. He is gay and formerly a high powered advertising executive. Now he works for GSO-- the administrative, service arm of AA. A remarkable man. I hoped he liked me. He was riding a bike, and walked Chuck and I to our subway stop. We shook hands and he said he hoped our paths would cross. So do I.

At home, I had a nice talk with Jim and a long nice talk with with Joanne. Allan is asleep and I am in the living room with Johnny Carson and Rona Barrett talking about Audrey Hepburn. Walking Sadie tonight I had water thrown at me by a man in a rage in the building next door who was ranting at all the people walking dogs on Gay Street that this was not a dog run. New York is a disturbed city.

This peace is internal.

6 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

August 11th, 1981

Stretched across my futon luxuriating in the air conditioning. David came to visit tonight. I am functioning in a state of awed disbelief. He simply cannot be true. He is the most beautiful man I have ever met. His face is perfect-- strong, dark features. A broad forehead, eyes shaded by thick handsome eyebrows-- eyes that are both bright and brooding. An aquiline nose, a beautiful thick mouth that can tease and pout and smile all at once. His chin is dimpled. His hair is sort of dark and radiant against his face. His body is beautifully toned-- covered with thick curly black hair. His chest is a mat of black hair, and his shoulders and back are covered with hair. And his voice is that of an angel. He's sweet and innocent and oh how it pisses me off that my descriptive abilities seem stunted with hyperbolic cliche. I am completely in love with this man (and yes, I know at my age it's ridiculous to claim love after three dates). I simply cannot hold these feelings for him in check. I feel that my Higher Power has finally answered all my prayers. David is the embodiment of all my needs and desires.

Tomorrow night I spend the night with him.

Tonight he laid his perfect head on my chest and said, "Now I know what they mean by peace."

2 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

August 8th, 1981

Sunday morning is quiet and peaceful in the Village. Cool grey morning, the sky is milky opaque hanging low over the city. The Empire State Building is shrouded in fog. The damp air ascends from subway grates with that dark smell that is New York early in the morning. Sadie and I walk to Washington Square. A woman moves in a graceful ballet as she practices the slow movements of Tai Chi; across the way a man strums a slow bluesy guitar. Sadie smells about the moist grass. Joggers descend from brownstones singly and in couples. I see deep blue tiles shining like jewels across the top of an apartment building at the edge of the park. A motorcycle putters down an empty street. I think how very much I love this country, this city and my life.

Within the past week some great changes have occurred. Seeing Phil Wednesday night healed the open wound that I have carried for so long. I made amends, both to him and myself. Seeing him affirmed my love for him. He is a wonderful man and his spirit brings me great joy. Knowing that I love him is a source of peace to me. I made peace with him now, and with my past. And it is all OK. As it should be.

Friday night I had a night of romance and passion with David. But I will write more about him later. Now I must got to mass and then into the office. My current life roars forward like a freight train. The ride is splendid.

2 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

July 25th, 1981

Today has been one of the worst days in sobriety. Out of nowhere, triggered by nothing in particular-- a day of pain and aching. From the moment I woke, from the second my eyes opened, I wanted a drink. The craving has not left me for one second. I've done all the tricks-- ate a big dinner, went to a meeting, went for coffee, and now with TV blaring to distract me, after having just finished my pint of Haagen Dazs, smoking endless cigarettes--

I WANT TO GET DRUNK

I've just felt insane today. Tonight after the meeting I went to the street festival again-- rode the Round Up by myself. And stood like an obsessed madman at a stupid game of chance and lost $30 in quarters. JESUS!!! I HATE MYSELF.

I HATE MY LIFE, MY STUPID PITIABLE DISGUSTING FAT REPULSIVE LIFE

2 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

July 23rd, 1981

At the meeting tonight a man named Howie spoke of his gratitude to the program and of an enormous joy he had just experienced at helping another alcoholic to find the program. As he spoke his entire being radiated with an intense spirit; his eyes shone. This energy filled me. He was transformed before my sight into a unit of pure spirit. It was a beautiful moment I will remember.

Another man spoke of having the faith that whatever is meant to happen in your life will. Whatever is yours will come to you.

Tonight, impulsively, I call Grannie Helen. She told me that Uncle Charles has stopped drinking. He's been in the program since March 17th, one week prior to my coming in. He speaks of how different his life is now. I am filled with such joy.

2 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

3 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

July 13th, 1981

[continued]

I change into my jeans and head for the bars. Oh why the fuck not? Absolutely nothing is going to happen to me in this empty apartment. If there is going to be an end to this 4-months of celibacy, it is not going to happen watching television. Leaving the apartment in this state of agitation, I pause in the hallway and wonder if I put my cigarette out. I know I did, but the fantasy of Sadie pawing at the door in a smoke filled room emerged. I know I put my cigarette out and I will not climb those stairs again to check. I see Sadie's face staring at me as I leave. I feel guilty for leaving her alone. On the street I wait for the light to change to cross 7th. I realize that I am clenching my fists and grinding my teeth as I try to quell the neurotic image of the burning apartment. Guilt. I went to my bank and got $20 and went to Boots and Saddle. Typical crowd. That horrible fat guy I went home with drunk that night smiled at me. I stood next to him and ordered a soda with a twist. We exchange a couple of comments about the heat and I turn to stare at the room, ignoring him. I am ware of him watching me. Frank is there. His back is to me, but he turned once and saw me and quickly turned away. He's been weird to me since I dated Jules, his arch-enemy. No one in the bar interests me and I have that unnerving sense, developed during years of cruising the bars, that nothing is going to happen here. I might as well be invisible. A truly gorgeous Latino came in-- gorgeous, muscled body, thick black mustache. he said "hi" to Frank, came over and put his arms around the horrible guy. I felt like a stupid fat high school girl-- finished my soda and left. Christopher Street lazily thronged with white t-shirted young pretty boy clones. At Ty's I have a Saratoga water. The cute bartender remembers my name. The bar is nearly empty, I drink fast and leave. My attack of loneliness seems to be subsiding. I decide to have a last "drink" at Julius'-- nearing my apartment I am relieved not to see a convoy of fire engines battling a burning building. Julius' too is quiet. I halfheartedly cruise an interesting guy standing across the room. He smiled and turns away. A heavy, hairy bearded number with an accent and jewelry enters and stands next to me at the bar. There is a thick fold in the front of his jeans. We are aware of each other being aware of each other and pretending not to. I sip my Saratoga and pretend its gin and tonic and realize that, drunk, I would get this trick. Sober I cannot. I leave and come home-- hoping I have broken his heart. The phone was ringing when I get in and it was Jim who got the story of tonight and how I was feeling. He said it was so like his first few months of sobriety and how he was convinced that he would never have sex again but it all is a period of transition and better things are in store. He suggested I try 9th Avenue-- a gay meeting I haven't been to yet-- and that I make a conscious effort to make gay friends at the meetings. Now I am tired and ready for bed and glad I'm not in some strange trick's bed trying to pretend that they're ok for the night.

2 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

April 22nd, 1981

Went to a meeting tonight at Cabrini hospital. Marty was there-- and Bill, familiar, friendly faces. A small, intimate group. I still find it impossible to share my feelings with the group. An absurd fear that I hope will pass soon. I know that this process of verbalizing your feelings and articulating your problems is essential to the healing. Tonight I wanted to tell about going to Macy's today with Ellen from the office and waiting for her while she tried on pants. Standing in the Junior Sportswear department listening to blaring disco music and reliving good times and memories of nights out drinking and dancing. Nights out with Allan in Washington-- the vacation to Provincetown with Robert. I felt sad, that none of these happy drinking days could be recaptured or repeated. Those innocent drinking years are gone. I just stood there wondering if I'll ever have fun again. Sobriety seemed like such a joyless bleak boring future.

And, I'm feeling lonely tonight. Horny might be a better word. I just can't imagine how I'm ever going to get laid again. Allan has gone out for a few beers-- I thought about going, but bars seem like such a futile effort. I absolutely do not want to pick up someone who is drinking. Or who drinks, for that matter. I want to meet a non-drinker. God, did I ever expect that I'd one day want a non-drinker.

But-- again we come to the third step. Turning your life over to a higher power. I must believe that I have a power greater than myself that loves me personally and who will guide me, care for me and provide for me.

I must remember that I am no the scriptwriter here. If I were writing this scene, I would have had the star (me) meet a tall, dark and handsome man at the meeting tonight. Our eyes meet and it is love at first sight. We talk at the break and go for coffee after the meeting. In my scene, I would at this very moment be wrapped in some marvelous hairy arms getting fucked senseless. But, the script handed to me tonight has me sitting in my underwear at 11:00 at night feeling tired and bored. In this scene, the star jacks off and gets a good nights sleep. And the lights fade.

3 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

April 22nd, 1981

One month sober.

Thinking about this concept of surrender to a higher power. It means letting go of the controls, the plotting, the feverish manipulation of life and cooperating with the flow of your life as it is presented to you by the Spirit. I am not the play write-- I am the actor.

2 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 45 years

Photo

September 24th, 1979

Hi,

Having a great time. We are leaving here today. Heading for Ottawa for a few days. See you when I get back.

Joe

#thelasthundredmiles #postcard #vintage postcard #vintage picture #retro #vintage #montreal #quebec #notre dame cathedral #notre dame #notre dame church #1969 #1960s #1970s #1970 #seventies #1970s aesthetic #70s style

20 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

January 20th, 1981

Second day of Scarsdale, sobriety, and getting my life in order. Reagan was inaugurated today. The hostages were released from Iran. I eat my brussel sprouts and cry through the news. I ignore the homesickness for Washington that has nagged me for the past few days and wait for my life to take hold here. I spec’d type for the Garfinckel’s Spring catalogue tonight. My first project with the new job. Oh, please god, please let me just love and adore this job. I need to so badly. I will. My determination to lose weight and get my life back in an upswing is enormous. I’m hyper with sobriety. After finishing the work, I straightened the apartment and took a shower and dressed. Andy called and we talked for awhile. I feel ambivalent about going out. I still talked for awhile. I feel ambivalent about going out. I still have the remains of fever blisters on my lips and I just don’t feel like I look good. I paint, which is a practice I’ve nearly stopped. I iron a shirt and dress three times. Fussing in the mirror. Staring at my middle and wondering if I’ve lost any weight yet. I need to go out. I need to be in a bar and have disco music and people around me. I go to Ty’s. Jack, a trick from years ago is there. I love running into Washingtonians and playing the par of New Yorker. I stand at the bar and drink club soda and lime. This bar is not hot tonight. The men are not good looking and they do not look like Villagers. I leave and walk to Boots, amazed at home different bar hopping feels with a clear head. Boots is at least crowded and there are several pretty men. I stand at the bar and half-assed cruise a couple of men. Tricking feels remote. I’m glad just to be out. There is no sexual or emotional urgency. I went to the bathroom and while I was waiting in line, out of nowhere, a fat man in a tie and overcoat plunged headlong across the floor and fell, hard, face down in the men’s room. It was an awful picture, lying face down in the piss covered floor, with one hand in the repulsive toilet which he grabbed as he fell. He just laid there. He did not move. I was closest to him and I just watched. Someone from behind me went in and tried to help the man, who still continued to just lay there on the foul floor. Is he drunk? Is he hurt? Why doesn’t he get up? Finally, two men managed to get him on his feet. His nose and mouth were bleeding. He stood impassively and made no effort to wipe the blood from his face. Kendall, the bartender, came rushing back with a wad of napkins from the bar and with great tenderness put his arm around the guy’s shoulders and wiped his face. Kendall spoke to him as if he were a child. The man just stood there and allowed Kendall to minister to him, he made no effort to help himself. He just stood there dumbly. When I left a few minutes earlier, I saw Kendall walking the man down the street toward the subway. Still with his arm around his shoulder. Big, brawny bear Kendall. I am moved by this show of compassion. You are a good man, Kendall.

On my way back to the apartment, I had run out of money, I passed and was cruised by this most gorgeous number on the corner from my apartment. Oh, doesn’t this always happen. My ambivalence is complete and I can’t decide if I should calmly call it a night or get more money and return to the bar. I got more money. The gorgeous number from the street has vanished (I thought maybe he was headed for Boots). I take my place back at the bar and sip my club soda. A guy moves next to me to order a drink from the bar. We smile. He reached over and fixed my shirt collar, which was askew. He is friendly and starts talking. Bar talk, but I know he is interested in me. I am friendly but aloof and continue to cruise the bar as we talk. Suddenly, I realize that he is attractive to me. He is totally masculine. He talks about skiing and his motorcycle and there is something utterly unaffected and completely male about this guy. He feels like a straight guy. This excites me (oh, Aunt Doris, you know how I love my straight men). We talk for a long time. He is not pretty-- his face is strong though, and unselfconscious. I think I may like him. But I don’t know. “If you don’t know for sure, then you don’t,” I tell myself. Still, I can’t make up my mind. Finally, I tell him I have a very early day tomorrow and really have to go. “That’s too bad,” he says. “You look like you’d be a fun guy.” “I hope I see you again,” I said. “Maybe I’ll see you out.” “If you give me your phone number, I’ll give you a call.“ Touche. The aggressor. I get a piece of paper from the bartender and give him my telephone number. Now I am interested. He has a high school jock quality about him. A rare delicacy in the world of Christopher Street. He said he would call and I left feeling mildly let-down. On the street I wonder if I should go in and ask him over. No, home beckons. At home I stare at myself in the mirror. The fever blisters that were not visible in the dark bar look horrible to me in the bright light and I am glad I didn’t bring him home. From now on, honey, you’ve got to feel good about yourself.

2 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

January 11th, 1981

Winter twilight. This winter feels like one long twilight. I’m glad for work tomorrow. A week off in the apartment and I’m starting to get stir crazy. I’ve spent the day cleaning, finally. The apartment was a wreck. I’ve managed to get it put together with the exception of the hallway, where I have been piling debris from all the other rooms as I clean. I’ll do it next. I seem to resist getting the place put together and keeping it that way. It’s sort of like not losing weight. By staying fat I have an excuse for not being loved. By keeping the apartment a wreck I preclude the possibility of bringing anyone home. Enough of this. Tuesday I start Scarsdale again and look forward to the self confidence that sobriety always brings.

Tom called late yesterday and asked me to meet him for a drink at Ty’s. Allan was on his way over so I had him meet us there. We go to Boots and Saddles and wonder what to do next. It’s early but none of us feel like being in. We go to Trilogy. We went to Tom’s apartment and listened to Evita and drank beer and I took a hit of that marvelous mescaline that Tom has. Tom shows us his “family album”-- pictures of him and George, his roommate and life long friend. I see a younger pretty man who barely resembles Tom. The pictures are not that old. He really looks haggard-- but it’s not that craggy “been around” look of a seasoned New Yorker. It’s a tiredness, a weariness. Our joke about marrying each other and settling in Westchester is more than a joke; I think Tom really wants to stop the boozing and brawling and do a domestic routine for awhile. And there are long afternoons like this when dusk settles like fog across the Village and I stare at my quiet ordered apartment and think I want the same.

Allan and I left Tom’s and came back to my place and watched Valley of the Dolls on television. By now, I was buzzing on the mescaline. I burn popcorn and we drink coffee and watch TV until nearly 2:30. I tell Allan we must hit the bars before they close. I am really off on the mescaline and I know that I need a few beers to quiet down. Ty’s is an old friend. Dennis, sexy Dennis, visits and buys me beers. God, I love that man. Ex-air force solid guy. I stare at him and remember the night with my fist up his ass. I want to have an affair with him desperately, but will not jeopardize this good relationship that has developed between between us as bartender and regular at the bar. Tom and his roommate George arrive and some pathetic little number is with them. I am not sure, but presume, that this is Tom’s trick for the night. God, I feel sorry for you, Tom. Let me love you and move to Westchester and you away from all this. Oh, but not tonight. He leaves abruptly with his “friend,” and my feelings are hurt, mildly. Indignant, really, that Tom should be with such a little twerp. Allan and I close Boots and Saddles which by now is into those last few desperate minutes when all the drunks are trying to pick each other up. The mescaline makes me godlike in my perceptions and I love watching. Allan and I wound up at Tiffany’s, drinking coffee and talking until God knows when and finally came home and crashed.

2 notes · View notes

thelasthundredmiles · 43 years

Text

February 19th, 1981

What is this need that wells up inside me and threatens to wash me gently away with the soft rain washing the city?

Wendy was in the city today. She came to the office and we came back to the Village and ate chicken salad and bagels and drank beer and hung pictures on my walls.

What is this need? It is holding the nail while Wendy straightens the photograph. It is sunburst days and Allan on city streets. It is Lyn laughing on the telephone.

It is a thirty year old man in search of a mate.

1 note · View note