The only thing I miss about Los Angeles

    is the Hollywood Freeway at midnight， windows down and

    radio blaring

    bearing right into the center of the city， the Capitol Tower

    on the right， and beyond it， Hollywood Boulevard

    blazing

    ——pimps， surplus stores， footprints of the stars

    ——descending through the city

    fast as the law would allow

    through the lights， then rising to the stack

    out of the city

    to the stack where lanes are stacked six deep

    and you on top； the air

    now clean， for a moment weightless

    without memories， or

    need for a past.

    The need for the past

    is so much at the center of my life

    I write this poem to record my discovery of it，

    my reconciliation.

    It was in Bishop， the room was done

    in California plush： we had gone into the coffee shop， were told

    you could only get a steak in the bar：

    I hesitated，

    not wanting to be an occasion of temptation for my father

    but he wanted to， so we entered

    a dark room， with amber water glasses， walnut

    tables， captain's chairs，

    plastic doilies， papier-m？ché bas-relief wall ballerinas，

    German memorial plates "bought on a trip to Europe，"

    Puritan crosshatch green-yellow wallpaper，

    frilly shades， cowhide

    booths——

    I thought of Cambridge：

    the lovely congruent elegance

    of Revolutionary architecture， even of

    ersatz thirties Georgian

    seemed alien， a threat， sign

    of all I was not——

    to bode order and lucidity

    as an ideal， if not reality——

    not this California plush， which

    also

    I was not.

    And so I made myself an Easterner，

    finding it， after all， more like me

    than I had let myself hope.

    And now， staring into the embittered face of

    my father，

    again， for two weeks， as twice a year，

    I was back.

    The waitress asked us if we wanted a drink.

    Grimly， I waited until he said no……

    Before the tribunal of the world I submit the following

    document：

    Nancy showed it to us，

    in her apartment at the model，

    as she waited month by month

    for the property settlement， her children grown

    and working for their father，

    at fifty-three now alone，

    a drink in her hand：

    as my father said，

    "They keep a drink in her hand"：

    Name   Wallace du Bois

    Box No  128     Chino， Calif.

    Date   July  25   ，19 54

    Mr Howard Arturian

    I am writing a letter to you this afternoon while I'm in the

    mood of writing. How is everything getting along with you these

    fine days， as for me everything is just fine and I feel great except for

    the heat I think its lot warmer then it is up there but I don't mind

    it so much. I work at the dairy half day and I go to trade school the

    other half day Body & Fender， now I am learning how to spray

    paint cars I've already painted one and now I got another car to

    paint. So now I think I've learned all I want after I have learned all

    this. I know how to straighten metals and all that. I forgot to say

    "Hello" to you. The reason why I am writing to you is about a job，

    my Parole Officer told me that he got letter from and that you want

    me to go to work for you. So I wanted to know if its truth. When

    I go to the Board in Feb. I'll tell them what I want to do and where

    I would like to go， so if you want me to work for you I'd rather have

    you sent me to your brother John in Tonapah and place to stay for

    my family. The Old Lady says the same thing in her last letter that

    she would be some place else then in Bishop， thats the way I feel

    too.and another thing is my drinking problem. I made up my mind

    to quit my drinking， after all what it did to me and what happen.

    This is one thing I'll never forget as longs as I live I never want

    to go through all this mess again. This sure did teach me lot of things

    that I never knew before. So Howard you can let me know soon

    as possible. I sure would appreciate it.

    P.S                                    From Your Friend

    I hope you can read my                 Wally Du Bois

    writing. I am a little nervous yet

    ——He and his wife had given a party， and

    one of the guests was walking away

    just as Wallace started backing up his car.

    He hit him， so put the body in the back seat

    and drove to a deserted road.

    There he put it before the tires， and

    ran back and forth over it several times.

    When he got out of Chino， he did，

    indeed， never do that again：

    but one child was dead， his only son，

    found with the rest of the family

    immobile in their beds with typhoid，

    next to the mother， the child having been

    dead two days：

    he continued to drink， and as if it were the Old West

    shot up the town a couple of Saturday nights.

    "So now I think I've learned all I want

    after I have learned all this： this sure did teach me a lot of things

    that I never knew before.

    I am a little nervous yet."

    It seems to me

    an emblem of Bishop——

    For watching the room， as the waitresses in their

    back-combed， Parisian， peroxided， bouffant hairdos，

    and plastic belts，

    moved back and forth

    I thought of Wallace， and

    the room suddenly seemed to me

    not uninteresting at all：

    they were the same. Every plate and chair

    had its congruence with

    all the choices creating

    these people， created

    by them——by me，

    for this is my father's chosen country， my origin.

    Before， I had merely been anxious， bored； now，

    I began to ask a thousand questions……

    He was， of course， mistrustful， knowing I was bored，

    knowing he had dragged me up here from Bakersfield

    after five years

    of almost managing to forget Bishop existed.

    But he soon became loquacious， ordered a drink，

    and settled down for

    an afternoon of talk……

    He liked Bishop： somehow， it was to his taste， this

    hard-drinking， loud， visited-by-movie-stars town.

    "Better to be a big fish in a little pond."

    And he was： when they came to shoot a film，

    he entertained them； Miss A——， who wore

    nothing at all under her mink coat； Mr. M——，

    good horseman， good shot.

    "But when your mother

    let me down" （for alcoholism and

    infidelity， she divorced him）

    "and Los Angeles wouldn't give us water any more，

    I had to leave.

    We were the first people to grow potatoes in this valley."

    When he began to tell me

    that he lost control of the business

    because of the settlement he gave my mother，

    because I had heard it

    many times，

    in revenge， I asked why people up here drank so much.

    He hesitated. "Bored， I guess.

    ——Not much to do."

    And why had Nancy's husband left her？

    In bitterness， all he said was：

    "People up here drink too damn much."

    And that was how experience

    had informed his life.

    "So now I think I've learned all I want

    after I have learned all this： this sure did teach me a lot of things

    that I never knew before.

    I am a little nervous yet."

    Yet， as my mother said，

    returning， as always， to the past，

    "I wouldn't change any of it.

    It taught me so much. Gladys

    is such an innocent creature： you look into her face

    and somehow it's empty， all she worries about

    are sales and the baby.

    her husband's too good！"

    It's quite pointless to call this rationalization：

    my mother， for uncertain reasons， has had her

    bout with insanity， but she's right：

    the past in maiming us，

    makes us，

    fruition

    is also

    destruction：

    I think of Proust， dying

    in a cork-linked room， because he refuses to eat

    because he thinks that he cannot write if he eats

    because he wills to write， to finish his novel

    ——his novel which recaptures the past， and

    with a kind of joy， because

    in the debris

    of the past， he has found the sources of the necessities

    which have led him to this room， writing

    ——in this strange harmony， does he will

    for it to have been different？

    And I can't not think of the remorse of Oedipus，

    who tries to escape， to expiate the past

    by blinding himself， and

    then， when he is dying， sees that he has become a Daimon

    ——does he， discovering， at last， this cruel

    coherence created by

    "the order of the universe"

    ——does he will

    anything reversed？

    I look at my father：

    as he drinks his way into garrulous， shaky

    defensiveness， the debris of the past

    is just debris——； whatever I reason， it is a desolation

    to watch……

    must I watch？

    He will not change； he does not want to change；

    every defeated gesture implies

    the past is useless， irretrievable……

    ——I want to change： I want to stop fear's subtle

    guidance of my life——； but， how can I do that

    if I am still

    afraid of its source？