May 27, 1974

Sometimes you really have to bend over backwards to see the sky. One of those rare blue skies, with white clouds that look like they're fresh from a Chinese laundry. Do you ever feel like you're living underground? It's like...the whole city is a subway, and we're living underground, like ants. My apartment is a tiny cave, under several layers of earth, deep down in the anthill. I've been bothered by a strong sense of our anthood, our insect status. If we could step outside our human set, outside our humanity, and see ourselves the way an alien would see us, we would see...insects! Did you see The Hellstrom Chronicle? Did you see that army of ants? They breed in such astounding numbers, and they have such a short life, nature treats them so abominably, they are machines made to eat, but they starve and die. Like us. We breed and die like insects, by the billions. Did you ever look down at people from the top of a building? Once I stuck my head out of a penthouse window of the Hilton Hotel, it was the rush hour, I was right on top of them, and I swear, they were ants, some kind of insect, it was an army, marching in orderly ranks down the sidewalks. We feel free inside, unique and like no other. Within ourselves, we are the one and only, but seen from the outside, seen from the top of the Empire State, we're all the same, like that army of ants in The Hellstrom Chronicle. Like those flies I once saw in the sunset, so small they could only fly when the air was absolutely still, so small you could only see them in a shaft of sunlight, they made a house fly seem gigantic, and they lived only a day, born with the sunrise, and destroyed by the cold night air, thousands of bright points spinning crazily in the air, that's the way nature sees us, how we come out of our own bodies, and eat other animals, and die, this is how nature has always seen us, billions of bright points that vanish with the sun, and this is the way nature treats us, with the same impartial hand as she has always treated insects. Sometimes I get a glimpse...the generations and generations, it's beyond belief, I can only see this for a brief second, but life is cheap, just look at the headlines, airline crash, no survivors, tidal wave, 50,000 dead, the individual human being, to nature, is no more than a fly or an ant, an anonymous blob, a moving mass of biodegradable meat, no more than...me.

June 29, 1974

Stanley's in Brooklyn, and I'm in Manhattan, it's 5:45 on Sat, and Stanley's on Pacific St in Brooklyn, and I'm on East 28th St in Manhattan, and at 6:30, we're going to be sitting together in a booth at Phoebe's. But now, it's 5:45 and there are buildings, streets, bridges between us, tons of cement, steel, but the New York Transit Authority will bring Stanley's body through this maze of steel and concrete, under the East River, and under the Wall St buildings, to me, to Phoebe's, in 15 mins, Stanley will walk to the subway, to the Hoyt-Schermerhorn station, and drop his token in the turnstile, and wait for the A Train, and about the same time as this is happening, I'll be leaving 223 East 28th St and walking down 2nd Ave to the East Village, and at 6:30, Stanley will order a hamburger and Coke, and I'll be drinking a mug of beer, but none of this has happened yet, Stanley's still in Brooklyn, maybe getting ready to leave, he's on Pacific St and I'm here typing, by the window, looking at my branch, the little green branch that reaches over from my neighbor's tree, and the TV's going, and I can hear bursts of machine gun fire, screams, and music, over all this screaming and dying, music! And I think Stanley's leaving now, he must be, coming all the way from Brooklyn...

Jan 21, 1976

I'm looking at the snow falling outside my window gates, Peter, and I'm thinking of you, there was ice on the sidewalk this morning, yesterday's slush had frozen in the shape of footprints, I was throwing handfuls of bird seed on a patch of ice, and suddenly a great swarm of pigeons was wheeling around my head, it was my flock, I love to watch them pecking at the seeds at my feet, but a dog came running and they broke into flight, an explosion of grey wings, what are you doing this morning, Peter, are you still living with Angela in Montreal, you're 31 now (I always arrive at that figure by subtracting 5 years from my own age), the snowflakes are like tiny bits of paper twisting in the air, this is Winnipeg weather, Peter, and we both know what a winter in Winnipeg is like, for me, the New York winters were balmy, New York in January was like Florida, but now it's 7 years later and I can feel the chill, now 20 above feels cold to me, you remember, Peter, 20 above was mild in Winnipeg, it was warm, we went outside without earmuffs, without gloves when it was 20 above, but I'm getting soft, Peter, the tropical winters of New York have made me soft, now 20 above is like 20 below, I'm a pleasure loving decadent now, Peter, this is the very definition of decadence, when 20 above feels like 20 below, it's snowing outside, and I'm thinking of summer, I'm thinking about the night we went paddling around the Windago island in your canoe, Peter, my old friend, I'm thinking of you, if you heard that I'm still writing, say, from Pat Hunt, you'd be surprised, what?! you'd say, is he still writing?! Doesn't he know when to quit? but you haven't heard about me for years, I know you've forgotten me by now, and I hope that someday you'll be browsing in a bookstore in Montreal and you'll find one of my books there, among the others, you always did love books, Peter, your eyes will be scanning the shelf, and suddenly they'll stop on the name Guy Gauthier, you'll wonder if it's the same Guy Gauthier you used to know, and you'll look at the picture on the back cover, and think, it certainly looks like him, it must be him! it's got to be! wow, I didn't know he was still writing, the book is called Water & Earth, and on the dust jacket, it says “...an amazing personal record...,” and as you flip through the pages, skimming over the years 1974, 75, 76, your eye catches the name Peter, you stop, Peter, that's me, and you're reading this now, Peter, I love you, you're my friend, and I love you, and that was my dream...this morning, as I sat watching the snow twisting in the wind over 29th Street, I was dreaming of you and the book you're reading, now