In the Shadow of the American Dream by David Wojnarowicz Page B

in the pages of his novels, his obsession with the self, affirmation through others desiring him.
    Noticed the businessman who speaks good English and French—looks very American. Saw him last night. He sat next to me at the Cafe Flore and I felt him cruising me and tonight saw him there with what seemed like his wife and kin. He looked up and regarded me with interest, with my hair cut I’m looking more intense especially when wearing my blue corduroy shirt almost black.
    October 8, 1978
    Stare up at the lonesome night with its irregular stars and mirror of vast calm over upturned eyes. A blond young man in a bright white shirt and fine body pushing against his clothes was pursued by most of the characters in the garden. He cruised me but I turned away and ignored him walking into the circular mound of earth and grass and lay on my back checking out the solar system ’cause I didn’t wanna feed his ego as he was stunning—desperate characters crashed into trees and bushes pursuing him. Later as I walked around he was still cruising me and finally I made it with him. It was très gentle and at the same time frantically passionate and we did it under the cover of an area where there were no men—orgasm so explosive I almost fell to my knees. Before parting I traced an X over his heart in a kind of quiet gratitude for the fast sexual act and the intensity of his senses so apparent in the encounter and to take the place of my inability to communicate the desire for an encounter away from the park and in the warmth of a home and bed, the communication that isn’t quite there in outlaw sexual encounters no matter how much sense is transferred. He smiled and grasped my waist and arm in a quick hug and I trailed off across the cobbles into the taxiing night looking for transport.
    October 16, 1978
    [Copy of letter sent to Christian Bourgois Editeur]
    Dear Editor,
    I am twenty-four years old and have lived on and off in New York City for twelve years. In the last four years I’ve spent a great deal of time hitchhiking and freight-hopping across the highways and folds of America, and have spent a good deal of that time living around the back streets of various cities. From this period I’ve collected a series of monologues—sections of conversations from junkies, prostitutes, male hustlers, truck drivers, hobos, young outlaws, runaway kids, criminal types, and perpetual drifters. These monologues were not written down with the aid of any tape-recording device but were the bare sections of one-way conversations that I retained in memory till minutes, days, or weeks later when I would write them down in journals and scraps of paper and in letters to friends around the U.S. They contain bits of road philosophies, accounts of street life & road life, anxieties of America’s young who live outside of society, and sections of word-flights from the lips of characters who needed to articulate for themselves and me what their lives have been composed of. I merely served as a filter for all of this. This collection is called Sounds in the Distance: Thirty-eight Monologues from the American Road . I recently erased my own borders and have come to live and write in France. I stay on and off in Paris and Normandy with family. I have a copy of this manuscript with me and am interested in submitting it for your consideration. Charles Plymell (editor of Cherry Valley Editions) should be sending me the name or names of persons who might be interested in translating the book. In the meantime I would like to know if you are interested in looking at the copy I have and if not would you have an idea of a publishing company I might send it to as an alternative?
    Thank you—

David composed many letters to his mother, Dolores, with whom, by this time in his life, he had very little direct contact. For the most part it is presumed that these letters were not posted. In fact, by the time David was featured in a