Diary of a Young Artist
Avatar 8, p. 4
Mirror: Late fall, 1961, North Carolina.

Late fall, 1961, North Carolina

You know, I've been sitting here tearing off frantic exhilarating letters to people and finally wore myself out and sang all the good Woody songs and got sad and sadder and now I really feel bad.

I hardly ever let myself think of Woody anymore and never play his records and seldom sing his songs or look at his book and this is really the wrong approach but dammit I can't hardly stand thinking about him dying a helpless twitching pile of nerves in a locked room in some sanitarium in New York. I would take his hand and say, "Woody, I love you" and put him on a freight train and sing to him and cry for him and get him drunk and see him die in HIS world and bury him in a little dust pile in Oklahoma.

I can't ever forget the time he struggled up from his chair and said he was going to hop a freight train and go to the west coast again and I knew he'd never again see the west coast and he said that Sonny was old and blind and HE still got around good so why couldn't he go too. I still dream over and over that Woody is well again and raising hell and it's just too damn sad. I don't even want to write anymore about it. I feel so damn helpless.