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Speed Message from the Stanyan Park Hotel

By Peter Quinnell


july 25...dawn.
ah...still alive, still kicking...awoke at dawn today convinced that house plants are recording our every move. decided to make a hat out of tin foil to keep out the harmful radio waves that keep telling me insane things...such as that KURV is the home of AM gold and your source for oldies in the bay area. truly absurd.

july 27...dusk
apologies to all for not writing anything in my journal yesterday. I went downstairs to buy cigarettes and was abducted by a vicious gang of girl scouts. I was held for questioning by someone named Marcia X, who preaches a hard line in fascist rhetoric. they also sell coconut cookies. clearly a major threat to the freedoms our people hold dear.

july 31....about tea time.
just finished a fascinating novel about how fascinating it is to read novels. I remain unconvinced. as I type this, looking at the intersection of Waller and Stanyan, there is a homeless guy wearing a ladies purple coat with a belgian heliowatt microphone and a reel to reel deck creeping around. at a distance of 400 meters, that microphone could pick up the sound of a breeze moving a sugar packet one fifth of a milimeter. I respond with side two of Siren by Roxy Music. the introductory piano figure made him drop to his knees. Paul Thompson's snare drum entrance jerked him around like a marionnette, sending him sprawling into a tangle of trash bins.

july 32...telly time
starting to have doubts about this calendar. anyway, it seems clear that everyone in the hotel is plotting against me. it was subtle at first...you know, the odd glance over tea in the breakfast room, the odd palette of bricks whistling by my head as I went off to fetch the papers...today however, it is clear that i'm persona non grata (as they say in Ohio). there was a note. nailed to the door, if you please.

it ran thus -

"dear mr quinnell....
please piss off out of our hotel.
the night manager"

gee. you host one little rave party with a tank in your room, and suddenly your adolf hitler or something. i thought haight ashbury was all like, tuned in and turned on, or whatever.

july 33
decide to throw away calendar.

c 2005 Peter Quinnell  All rights reserved.