6/4/23

Truman Peyote

 






My story Mexico has been well received, people are reading it. 


I'm going to write about the lionized American author Truman Capote. 


A few nights ago I dreamt I met Truman while boarding a plane at La Guardia airport. He was wearing a trench coat, taking it off he autographs the coat with a felt tip pen.


My first thought was, 


can I sell the autographed coat on eBay? 


I nudge Truman with my shoulder and say, 


In Cold Blood is a masterpiece. He brushes it off.


Truman Garcia Capote, born Truman Streckfus Persons, what a fucking name, Streakfus, was born on September 30, 1924. 


Capote rose above a childhood troubled by divorce, a long absence from his mother, and multiple migrations, discovering his calling as a writer at 8. 

He was born in New Orleans to Lillie Mae Faulk and salesman Archulus Persons. 

Truman’s parents divorced when he was 2 and he was sent to Monroeville, Alabama to be raised by Nanny Faulk, a distant relative he called Sook. Later in life, he says, 

her face was remarkable— not unlike Lincoln’s, craggy like that, tinted and by the sun and the wind. 

During high school in Monroeville, he was friends with Harper Lee, who would go on to become an acclaimed author and a lifelong friend. Lee wrote To Kill a Mockingbird— it’s intriguing how great-attract-great. 

In 1932 he moved to New York City to live with his mother and her second husband José García Capote, a former colonel in the Cuban army during Batista’s reign. 

In his early days, Truman says, 

I was writing really sort of serious when I was about 11. I say seriously in the sense that like other kids go home and practice the violin or the piano or whatever, I used to go home from school every day, and I would write for about three hours. I was obsessed by it. 

At the age of 21 Capote worked as a copyboy in the art department of The New Yorker. He worked there 2 years and was fired for angering the poet Robert Frost, how odd. 


During World war II, he was called for induction but turned down because army shrinks diagnosed him as neurotic, today I would be called 


During 1946 Truman wrote a string of short fiction, including, Miriam, My Side of the Matter, and Shut the Final Door, winning an  O. Henry Award for it. 


During an interview in The Paris Review years later, he spoke of his short story style saying,


obviously one can't generalize about them on a two-times-two-equals-four basis. Finding the right form for your story is simply to realize the most natural way of telling the story. The test of whether or not a writer has divined the natural shape of his story is just this: after reading it, can you imagine it differently, or does it silence your imagination and seem to you absolute and final?

In the 60s  a Harold Halma photograph was used to promote Truman’s book Other Voice and the photo was considered vexing because it showed Capote reclining exotically with a flower in his mouth gazing fiercely into the camera.

When Andy Warhol moved to New York he went bat shit crazy trying to meet Capote. Andy’s passion for Truman led to his first one man show, 15 Drawings Based on the Writings of Truman Capote at the Hugo Gallery. 

During the same period, he wrote an autobiographic essay for Holiday Magazine, Brooklyn Heights— A Personal Memoir.  

Then going on to write Breakfast at Tiffanys a novella brought together by three shorter tales— House of Flowers, A Diamond Guitar, and A Christmas Memory, which was first published in Harper’s Bazaar.

Oddly at the time in the late 50s the language and subject matter of the novella was deemed not suitable because of a concern by an advertiser, Pond’s Cold Cream. 

In 1965 Radom House published Capotes book In Cold blood— A True Account of a Multiple Murder and its Consequences. The story described the unexplained murder of the Clutter family in rural Holcomb, Kansas— quoting the the local sheriff as saying, 

this is apparently the case of a psychopathic killer. 

Fascinated by this brief news item, Capote traveled with Harper Lee to Holcomb and visited the scene of the massacre. 

Over the course of the next few years, he became acquainted with everyone involved in the investigation and most of the residents of the small town and the area. 

Rather than taking notes during interviews, Capote committed conversations to memory and immediately wrote quotes as soon as an interview ended. He claimed his memory retention for verbatim. 

Truman recalled his years in Kansas when he spoke at the San Francisco Film Festival in 1974,

I spent four years on and off in that part of Western Kansas there during the research for that book and then the film. What was it like? It was very lonely. And difficult. Although I made a lot of friends there. I had to, otherwise I never could have researched the book properly. The reason was I wanted to make an experiment in journalistic writing, and I was looking for a subject that would have sufficient proportions. I'd already done a great deal of narrative journalistic writing in this experimental vein. 

So I went out there, and I arrived just two days after the Clutters' funeral. The whole thing was a complete mystery and was for two and a half months. Nothing happened. I stayed there and kept researching it and researching it and got very friendly with the various authorities and the detectives on the case. But I never knew whether it was going to be interesting or not. You know, I mean anything could have happened. 

When the killers were arrested I made very close contact with these two boys and saw them very often over the next four years until they were executed. But I never knew ... when I was even halfway through the book, when I had been working on it for a year and a half, I didn't honestly know whether I would go on with it or not, whether it would finally evolve itself into something that would be worth all that effort. Because it was a tremendous effort.

In Cold Blood brought Capote much praise from the literary community, but there were some who questioned certain events as reported in the book. Writing in Esquire in 1966, Phillip K. Tompkins noted factual discrepancies after he traveled to Kansas and spoke to some of the same people interviewed by Capote. 

Truman was openly gay. One of his first serious lovers was Smith College literature professor Newton Arvin, who wrote a Herman Melville biography in 1951 and to whom Capote dedicated Other Voices. 

Ambitious university professors wrote books to maintain their tenure. 

Capote spent most of his life until his death with Jack Dunphy, a fellow writer. In his book, Dear Genius—A Memoir of My Life with Truman Capote, he explains the Capote he knew as, 

success driven, and eventually drug and alcohol addicted who existed in a world outside of their relationship. 

Capote was well known for his distinctive, high-pitched voice and odd vocal mannerisms, his offbeat manner of dress, and his fabrications. He often claimed to know intimately people whom he had in fact never met, such as Greta Garbo. 

He professed to have had numerous liaisons with heterosexual men including, Errol Flynn claiming they snorted and rub cocaine on their penises, surely a bogus tale. 

He traveled in an eclectic array of social circles, hobnobbing with authors, critics, business tycoons, Hollywood and theatrical celebrities, royalty, and members of high society, both in the U.S. and abroad. 

As for Hollywood Truman Claimed, 

I lost an IQ point for every year I spent on the West Coast. 

Capote never finished another novel after In Cold Blood. 

Blasted on LSD, he accompanied The Rolling Stones on their 1969 tour doing a bit for Rolling Stone Magazine 

In the late 1970s, Capote was in and out of drug rehabilitation clinics, and had a number of nervous breakdowns. 

He realized the only way he was going to get off the shit was to kill himself. 

After a hallucination-based seizure in 1980 that required hospitalization, Capote became a recluse. 

Capote died in the Bel Air Los Angeles home of Joanne Carson, wife of late night TV host Johnny Carson. 

Through out his life there was an ongoing freud between Truman and Gore Vidal, who said of Capotes death, 

a wise career move.

6/2/23

Mexico (re-potted )

 




In the early 70s, I flew from Milwaukee’s Mitchell International Airport to Mexico City’s Felipe Angeles International. 


Landing in Mexico City is like falling into the depths of Dante's Inferno, fires are burning in the hills outside the city. 


As I walk down the aircraft stairway I see the pilot, a gringo, opens the cockpit window and pokes his head out, he's drunk and red-faced. 


As I go through customs, I smell the tropics, I love the tropics.

At departures, I catch a taxi, a VW Bug. 


Volkswagons were introduced in Mexico during the early 50s, a time when most of the cars were American models— Fords and Chevys. Mexico produced 20 million VWs from the 50s through the 80s. I tell the driver 


Zona Roza Central, 


Mexico City is sexy, the women wear black.


At an alley I see a flashing neon sign, it's the Hotel Salida, exit in Spanish.


On the first floor, there's a cashier inside a bulletproof cage.

I pay for a month upfront, and the cashier says,  


La Salada is a mecca for whores, they bring their tricks here. I tell her, 


I’m okay with putas, they satisfy a need and scratch n itch, it’s the world's oldest profession.

Henry and the desk clerk laugh, she hands him a a key chain, 

3500 pesos a month in advance, and 1000 deposit,  


I handover the pesos.


Later at el Materno Cafe Bar Rio de la Plata, a regular place with booths, a large bar, and a kitchen in the back. 


At the bar, I drink a shot of tequila and 3 bottles of Pacifico beer,  the Mexican Cambia music on the radio is real Mexico


Loaded I make my way to Moderno Street, drinking water to sober up, I sit outdoors at a cafe, watching the hot Mexican women walk by. 

My waiter's queer, I order,  

2 shredded pork tortillas and a plate of refried beans. 


Eating at an outdoor restaurant in Mexico is called Al Fresco, which is Italian for eating in the fresh air. 


The polluted air makes me nauseous, my nose burns. I take a taxi to the Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera Studio Museum.  

At first sight, I love the avant-garde houses both homes and studios, 2 separate buildings connected by a footbridge. 1 painted blue and the other terracotta. Deigo and Frida had their own rooms to hide in when Deigo was there.  


Each building has a floor-to-ceiling window because painters need ample light. The side-by-side buildings are surrounded by a cactus fence. 


Sitting outside at the San Angel Cafe, across the road from the Kahla, Rivera I smoke ganja in the open, nobody cares. I'm loaded without the stability to walk up and down the spiral staircase at the Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera Studio Museum. 


The museum is 10 blocks from Mercado Mercado San Juan so I walk it. I buy a styrofoam cooler and fill it with ice and bottles of water.


I have to get a taxi, I'm lost and my legs hurt.


At Hotel Salida, I walk wavy-like up 4 floors, drunk, stoned, and jet lagged. I pass out in my bed, sleeping for 18 hours.

When I wake in the evening there's no hot water. Taking a cold shower is awful. There's a knock on the door, ama puede! My neighbor, I invite her in, we lay on top of each other on my bed, going through the motions. I can't get a hard-on, I'm impotent so she tells me her story, 


I'm Angelina Mister Henry, I’m from Acapulco, I grew up in the Green Mountain slums in the hills above the city. People are scared, the street people are drunk. I had beautiful titas at 16 so I started poll dancer.

I give Angelina, 900 pesos, I deep-kiss her for good luck.


The working girl's story of Acapulco arouses me. I pack and catch a taxi to Central Terminal, buying an economy ticket to Acapulco, there a very few gringos anywhere. The bus station's crowded with everyday Mexicans. I sit on a bench drinking water, and eating peanuts.

Boarding at 8PM, the bus fills up.


I take a seat next to a fat Mexican woman, it's the only seat left, she's oblivious.  


It's a long ride out of the city, in the mountain the bus climbs up a 3-lane highway, south to Acapulco. 

Without asking, I lay horizontally with my head on the fat lady’s crotch, she's got black stretch pants on, she's sweating, she smells pungent, we're turned on, we are like short-time husband and wife.


At 5AM, the bus stops at a checkpoint, the Federal Police or FD assaults the bus, checking everyone out. One of them hits me up, 


gringo, give us money for fresca, 


He has a waxed mustache and is sweating so I give him 500 pesos, they shakedown the gringos. 


The bus arrives at Acapulco de Juarez Central Bus Station, 


Following the sea I'm stoked to find La Los Hamagas Hotel where I stayed with my parents in the 60s. 


I pay cash for 5 days, 280 dollars, I'll move up the hill to cheaper locations near Playa San Miguel in a few days. 


My room opens to the pool, the grounds are lush. I clean up and walk to Sanborn's Drugstore, sitting at the luncheonette on a swivel stool, ordering a stack of pancakes with an egg on top and brewed coffee. Mexican coffee is exotic.


In liquor, I grab 2 pint of mescal with a chunk of larvae in the bottom.


Back in my room, I shut the curtain and turn on the air, watching MTV videos. 


Half in the bag on mescal which is like acid, the room spins and I see colors. I break down when the Sheryl Crow video Do You Really Want to Be My Man plays. 


In the afternoon the weather is pleasant, in the mid-70s, I take the alley to a dirt road leading up to Green Mountain, a fractured city on decline. 


Inside a nameless bar, they're whores with beer bellies in their bras and panties sitting drinking beer and smoking, looking out the door. 


It's a  sad scene, I drink a soda and leave. 


Hiking further up Green Mountain, there are a number of cinder block houses. In someone's yard, I  pet a chained-up dog, he bites me, bleeding, I need stitches. 


An old Mexican woman comes to me my aid, squeezing fresh lime on the gash. 


I walk down the hill, past the drunks, meth turns them into zombies. 


Back at the hotel I douse the gash with beer and wrap it in a bathroom towel, laying on my back and elevating my leg on 2 pillows.


By 5 I'm in a clinic examination room, there's blood and bits of hair on the floor, not mine. The Mexican doctor pours saline solution on my wound which goes fuzzy and white, he says to me in English, 


you smell like tequila, you're a boozer, you need to cut down on the drinking. You are going to need a series of 12 rabbi shots in the stomach.


I'm allergic to the vaccine, do you have cocaine, he says, 


this is Mexico amigo, sure I do.   


I buy half a bottle of pharmaceutical-grade coke, snorting some with a coke spoon, it makes me feel like I can do anything in the world, but I can't. 


I get 12 stitches, the bill is 500 pesos, only 30 dollars. 


My leg hurts, so I take a taxi to Playa San Miguel, it’s a raw area, gringos are scarce. 


Rosewood Hotel is rusty red and wrapped tightly around a swimming pool, across from the sea.


I look at a room, it's the size of a walk-in closet, with just enough space for a single bed and bathroom, like a cell. 


I take it, negotiating a monthly rate of 4000 pesos.


The clerk says in Spanglish,


keep a low profile amigo, Mexicanos don’t like gringos, 


I figured that.


In boxer shorts, I walk to the beach. There's no lifeguard and the waves are shallow. I swim out far enough to tread water, looking ashore at ladies in thongs. 


After the swim near Rosewood a queer approaches, selling sex and ganja.


I have Acapulco Gold? 


We walk to my room at Rosewood and do the transaction, I ask him to roll a few joints. 


We light up and he asks me if I want a blow job. I tell him to leave.


High and messing around at the hotel pool, I throw pebbles into it which turn into large bubbles, that float into the sky. 


In the evening I hear Mariachi music down the road.


I walk to the music, there's a straw shack, it's a bar with no name. Inside I ask, 


how bout a beer, friend?


Get out gringo, or someone will cut your cojones off with a machete.


I go to Seven-Eleven and buy a pint of mescal, soda, water, and ice. I feel drained, a couple of drinks help.


The following day for lunch I go to the famous El Paradiso, a round bar down the road from Las Hamaca that overlooks the sea, eating fish and drinking a coco loco.


Hey Macarena blares, partyers do the arm movements folding and crossing them, I try to follow, sick of it I split, taking a 

an International Bus up the hill. 


At Rosewood, I invite the late-duty maid in for a drink.


It's humid so we go to the beach. I point out the Big Dipper attached to The Gladiator, one on top of the other, we look up.  


She sits on a picnic bench at the tree line. I run and dive into the rolling sea of the East Pacific Rise in my underwear, swimming far out, I’m a strong swimmer but worry about Tiger and Hammer sharks. 


Feeling full of life, I do the butterfly stroke ashore. 


The night maid and I sleep arm and arm, wrapped around each other like snakes. 


I dream I'm running in tall grass, ripped up by thistles and grass slashing my arms and legs. I wake up sweating and stabilize. 


In the morning I buy a one-way ticket with a credit card, Acapulco to Milwaukee.


Going back to my job at the Old Harley Davidson museum as night watchman was a chinch. I had the place to myself and could invite to party at night.


I have been in Mexico for a month without getting busted or in a fight, keeping my cool. 


The Great Shark Hunt's number in the Library of Congress is RN 5647292