Like a lot of this prior to email and texting business…this one starts with a phone call from Woody Creek, Colorado into Burroughs Communications office in Lawrence, KS.
NOTES FROM WBC - Watching a Grown Man Cry… HST visits WSB. Gonzo Goat Fuck.
By Jim McCrary
Coulda been mid 1990’s. And it was either Hunter or his ‘assistant’ whose name might have been Laura. The question was, “Would it be a good time to visit Bill Burroughs?” That was not an unusual request at the office. Lots of folks wanted to visit WSB and some of them actually took time to call and ask questions. Most all of them were deflected with the reply that Mr. Burroughs was too busy at the moment to have visitors. Truth be told he had enough visitors whom he wanted to see to keep him occupied.
So………..HST…..wanted to come visit. He would have to drive over since he wanted to bring lots of guns and ammo to share. How long would the drive be? 10 hours maybe….all on I70 interstate. Get on….get off. Get a room at the Eldridge Hotel in Lawrence. I think he and William talked it over on the phone. William was fine with all that…..and since Dr. Thompson was asking only for some time together….it seemed to William that it would be a good thing. And, in the end it was. Indeed.
So the date was set and off they went. Down the hill from Owl Farm and into the flatland of western Kansas. We expected them to call in a couple of days when they got to town. Nothing happening for a while. Then finally a call: "We haven’t left yet. Had to clear some things up, maybe leave Friday." The call came on Friday. "We're gonna leave Monday." And they did.
And I think four days later…”We're here at the Eldridge. Car broke down somewhere west of Salina. Dry county. Garage didn’t have the part. Paid a fortune for grease monkey to go get the part. Luckily had enough booze and coke to survive. Awful place. Stopped in Salina to watch Final Four playoffs. More later.”
(The story later told and I cannot do justice…believe me…Hunter stops in Junction City to watch a ball game at sports bar after getting car repaired and replacing booze stash. He watches the game in usual style and interacts with off-duty army personnel from nearby base. Ready to head out, he reaches for the keys on the bar….not there. “Where the motherfuck are my keys, you redneck assholes???” says Dr. Thompson. Says the barkeep…”I have them, sir, and you are in no condition to drive. Sir.” Imagine that…..dear reader…..just for a moment imagine that. As is often said in such stories…cooler heads prevailed…things were ‘settled’ and off they went. Who drove? Don’t know.)
That evening I went to Eldridge Hotel to pick them up. As I approached the desk to ask the room number, the concierge looked up and pointed at the elevator and mumbled 402. He looked exhausted.
When the door opened to the room a blast of hot steam escaped into the hallway. The assistant had the shower running full blast with hot water to steam out the wrinkles of a dress. His Gonzoness had the basketball game on full blast and all surfaces in the room were covered with dishes of food, drink and papers scattered around. He had obviously wound up the staff of the hotel and spent the morning moving from one room to another and had finally settled down. For the moment.
We spoke about the schedule for next couple days. Tonight, dinner at a local restaurant and then a short visit with Bill. Tomorrow a full day at the range, shooting. Dinner at Williams house. Drive back to Colorado. What could go wrong with that?
It took a while to get them out of the hotel room. We walked a bit around downtown Lawrence. It was pretty quiet. Thompson asked me where his old buddy and fellow sportswriter George Kimball hung out when he lived in Lawrence. I pointed out some of the spots where he used to hang, including the bridge where Kimball threw bricks of marijuana into the river during a press conference when he (and HST in Colorado), was running for office.
We finally settled at a patio table at an Italian place near William's home. It didn’t take long for the servers to figure out who they were serving and a never-ending group of them grazed around the table asking if we needed anything. Thompson was most happy to suggest something new that was needed. In the midst of all that he somehow managed to let slip off his lap a Skoll tin half-full of exceptional cocaine onto the concrete floor. I immediately joined him under the table in a valiant attempt to help clean up the mess best we could using the doubled v credit card method. Quickly done and actually applauded by one of the co-ed servers. Food flying around and across the table, pitchers of margaritas floating past…the evening continued.
We left soon enough and managed the final few blocks to Williams’s house. And then something amazing happened. Dr. Thompson switched gears. The minute he walked into the house his demeanor, his energy, his self became as quiet and attentive as a student before the master. Hmmm.
Well, there was the smoke and drink of course. The ur and not ur. The this and that. The how are you and all that. Yes. All that. And there they were. Across the table from one another. Mumble this and mumble that. Quiet. Then done. William had announced that it was his bedtime…and that was accepted by the company. As was his habit, William stepped out onto his front porch and waved a goodbye.
I went home and I do believe that Dr. Thompson continued his evening over a fresh batch of coke at the offices of the local alt newspaper after leaving the Burroughs residence. Later reports from friends indicated that the Doctor held forth for quite a while in the office above the Bottleneck club. As he was.
The big day arrived. And it would be fuck all. Another goat fuck for sure. The entourage grew and grew. Usually it was William and his old buddy George Kaull, a fellow geezer libertarian and crack shot. The two of them…some pot, some vodka and coke, some ‘snacks’ and a sack full of guns and ammo. Go out shoot, have a drink and smoke to steady the hand, shoot some more. Eat some cheese and crackers or whatnot. Have a drink and smoke. Shoot some more.
However, this time with HST it was lots more action. A video camera was unloaded and Miss Thing was told by Hunter to set up halfway between the targets and the shooters. William stopped that at once. No way would the young lady film beyond the firing line…which, by the way, moved around as the day progressed.
And there were others with aims to make or shots to take…some friends and handlers and who knows by now. Hunter was wound up and after the first round of shots from William and George with their favorite pistols and someone shooting a shotgun…Hunter announced the big surprise he had talked about since his arrival…the gift he had brought for William.
He pulled out a large wooden box that had an American flag embossed on the walnut. Opened it up and there in purple velvet lay a Freedom Arms, one-of-a-kind, 454-caliber pistol with all the goodies. A marker on the box proclaimed this was one of a hundred, if memory serves. And by the way, a 454-caliber gun has a hole in the end of the barrel the size of your big toe. The gun was admired and passed around. Hunter dug into the back of his transport for the ammo and then dug some more and then some more and then starting howling and throwing shit on the ground.
“Motherfucker….mothergoddamfucker shit my ass!!!!!!!!! WHERE THE FUCK IS THE AMMO!!!” Well, it wasn’t there. Gonzo was fucked and sat slumped on the tailgate looking a lot like he was ready to break into tears.
And then a friend of Bill's who was a shooter and a hunter and a photographer and a local says: “Well shit, I'll just run over to Topeka and get some 454.”
“They won’t have any, you stupid fuck,” Hunter said.
“Oh,” the guy said, ” I do believe they will.” And off he went and in the time it takes to empty a handy 44 Colt or a 38 S&W snubbie or a vodka and coke….he was back and the fun began.
Hunter was happy and pleased with himself and loaded up the 454 and handed it to WSB who looked it over, walked a bit closer to the target, hoisted it up and pulled the trigger. Motherfuck indeed. It did back him up at least five feet and when the smoke cleared there was a rivulet of blood tricking down Williams thumb and wrist. “Son of a bitch bit me,” said William giggling. He loved it. And shot it again and passed it around. Hunter was happy. Again. He had brought the old man a gift and the old man thanked him. The afternoon wore on in the noise and smoke and crash of lead into wooden targets and Kansas dirt clods turned to atoms.
(Aside to Johnny Depp or anyone who might know or has Thompson’s archives and/or belongings. Somewhere there should be a video tape of this trip. I once asked HST biographer Doug Brinkley to poke around for it but he never had any luck. Too bad.)
And that is that. The day ended with drinks and food at William's but I don’t remember. Hunter did hire a couple guys to drive his car back to Woody Creek. He and the friend flew from Kansas City back home.
I don’t know if that was the only or the last time those two were together. It was good time spent. Both would agree. Well spent. Indeed.
That was then.
[Jim McCrary lives in Lawrence, KS and worked at William Burroughs Communications for a decade beginning early 1990s. Misses the old man to this day. Every day.]
John Waters is an American film director, screenwriter, author, visual artist, musicologist and comedian. His many credits include 19 films, nine books and a retrospective of his artwork at the New Museum in 2004. Once reviled for his transgressive and hilarious 1970s cult films--Pink Flamingos, Female Trouble and Desperate Living (the Trash Trilogy)--several of Waters' later films achieved significant mainstream success, with Hairspray (1988) and Cry Baby (1990) adapted to hit Broadway musicals.
Waters frequently socialized with William S. Burroughs during the Bunker years in the Seventies. Burroughs, "The Pope of Dope," dubbed Waters "The Pope of Trash," a moniker he wears with pride to this day. Waters is featured in the 2010 documentary, William S. Burroughs: A Man Within.
On February 20, 2014, Waters brought his one-man stage show, This Filthy World, to the Lawrence Arts Center (LAC), part of a series of events related to the exhibition William S. Burroughs.Creative Observer, opening January 17, 2014.
The interview was conducted on October 23, 2013 by Ben Ahlvers, LAC Exhibitions Director, and Tom King. Recorded by Marlo Angel.
John Waters: I'm no authority on William Burroughs but I can tell you what I know.
I grew up loving William Burroughs. The first thing I wanted to be was a beatnik so what's the first book you have to read? Junky, basically. I can't remember if I read Junky or Naked Lunch first. I was real young, in junior high. I liked William way more than Allen Ginsberg--I wasn't much of a hippie, I was more of a yippie.
I met Burroughs at his place in New York, in the Bunker. I loved going there, he had these great social events. William Burroughs always looked like he was 100 years old. He would serve warm vodka in washed-out peanut butter jars. No ice. I always snuck a look at his bedroom. I saw him also at the 930 Club where I played a lot. He took me to crazy parties in New York sometimes, parties with really strange people. He was always very nice to me and I think James Grauerholz had a lot to do with that.
He branded himself; he always had that look. He kept one look his whole life, which is very important to do. He was gay and a junkie and didn't look the parts. I never thought he was politically incorrect: he wasn't racist, he wasn't homophobic. He had that signature voice--he should have done animation voice in Hollywood. I also love the fact that he obsessively went for Scientology at first. And then turned against it.
LAC: Did Burroughs inform your work?
Waters: Wouldn't you say the singing asshole in Pink Flamingos has something to do with Naked Lunch? When I first read him I knew that he was in a secret world, a pervert that wasn't upset about it. He was a proud pervert. Very old school, way before gay liberation, even though he ways always out. He scared gay people because they were so square then and he was so cool. But everyone liked him in a weird way. I mean, did anyone ever give William Burroughs shit for being gay? I can hardly imagine him getting gay-bashed.
LAC: What are your thoughts on his artwork?
Waters: Well, its tough. As you know, the art world hates celebrities that do art. They are incredibly suspicious of it. I saw his artwork way later. I love the idea of drawing with guns, thats so William Burroughs. I'm surprised he didn't use needles. He was doing all the things that were in his novels but on canvases in an art gallery. It seemed like a logical extension of what he always did.
LAC: Where do you think Burroughs' work fits into the art world today?
Waters: I'm not sure. He certainly has a stronger place in literature than he does in the art world. I think a lot of people in the art world don't even know about Burroughs' art, to be honest. So I think its great you're doing this show. Maybe a lot of people that only know his books will discover his art. The centenary is the perfect time to bring out work that people don't know. The only time I ever saw his artwork was at the show in Los Angeles [Ports of Entry, 1996, LACMA] . It was a huge show. I don't remember the critical reaction but I always thought Burroughs was beyond criticism. Does he care? Actually, you care more as you get older but you get better at pretending you care less.
LAC: Why does Burroughs matter culturally, in the big picture?
Waters: He matters culturally because he lasted six or seven decades. He stayed true to himself--he started as a beatnik and he ended as a beatnik. An incredible, eccentric character who looked normal. He never changed for anybody, never answered his critics, and continued to be avant-garde--a word that most people feel is a dirty word today.
LAC: One of the things I learned from this project is that Burroughs was making visual art all along the way and not really talking about it or showing it.
Waters: So he always was and we just didn't know it? I'm trying to remember seeing his art when I was in the Bunker but I was usually just looking at him. I was just so excited to be there.
LAC: How old were you then?
Waters: In the 70s, and I was born in 1946. I wasn't a kid. But he was such a part of my life when I was a kid, when I was forming who I was going to be, that he was definitely a hero.
LAC: Did you find him prescient or prophetic about modern society?
Waters: I don't know if he'd like those descriptions. I think he was a salesman. He was the Exterminator. He was the one that came at you with a formed literary vision that no-one had ever seen before. And he did not suffer fools. He didn't answer his critics and he didn't give in to trying to be commercial. Naked Lunch is commercial in spite of itself.
LAC: Why do you think he became a counter-culture hero in the Seventies?
Waters: Because he was so original. Everybody read his books, especially when you're a young kid trying to rebel. I wasn't reading Salinger, I was reading Jean Genet and William Burroughs. As a young gay man, I thought, "Finally, a gay man who isn't square." That was very influential, to realize that there really was a Bohemia. Didn't matter if it was gay or straight, I just wanted to be in Bohemia because I lived in Lutherville, Maryland then. Burroughs was my imaginary friend.
LAC: You wrote a book about contemporary art...
Waters: I wrote one a while ago called Art: A Sex Book. And I just finished my new book, Carsick, because I hitch-hiked by myself across America last year. I got stuck in Bonner Springs [Kansas]. It was the very worst place of my entire trip, a nightmare. I waited 10 hours there without getting a ride. Finally, a nice guy who worked at the Lawrence Wal-Mart picked me up.
LAC: The talk we've got you scheduled for at LAC is on February 20th, 2014. It's being billed as This Filthy World but any Burroughs insights like these would be well-received.
Waters: I'll work it in. I look forward to coming to William Burroughs' place. Its like a pilgrimage.
William S. Burroughs in Lawrence, Kansas, 1981-1997
William S Burroughs, McCrary and S Clay Wilson on front porch 1927 Learnard Ave, Lawrence, Ks. This was taking when WSB was recovering from heart surgery...I cant remember the year. He was always glad to see Wilson who visited Lawrence when he came back to visit his parents in Nebraska. Photo McCrary
In mid-August 1997, on a hot summer night, William Burroughs lay dead in a open casket on the stage of Liberty Hall. The place was packed. The hipsters were out in full force for what would be a memorial service/wake. There were a few notables from NYC but most of the crowd was local. They knew William, or knew of William, or had seen William while he lived in Lawrence. They came to say goodbye.
The memorial was pretty awful. The after-party was a couple blocks south at a local college punk music bar and had more energy than the memorial. So it was that Lawrence said goodbye to Burroughs after his 15 years as resident famous old guy. And by the way, 15 years in one place was a very long time for Burroughs, longer than he lived in London, or Tangier, or Paris, or NYC or Mexico. His choice, believe me.
The next day William was loaded in a hearse and driven to St. Louis, Missouri where he is now buried in the family death plot. RIP. Truth be told, he was buried like all good Egyptian Kings with certain goodies necessary to make it in the afterlife…loaded ’38 revolver, couple joints, a silver dollar, a bindle of heroin and wearing a Moroccan vest given to him by his buddy Brion Gysin. Patti Smith leaned over the open grave and sang the ditty, if memory serves, ”Oh Dear, What Can the Matter Be?"
There were tears….some real, some crocodile. And then the gravediggers kind of shuffled forward, hoping the bunch of hippies would get the fuck out of the way. No-one moved. Apparently, few survivors in St. Louis stick around to see the newly-departed covered up in Mississippi riverbank funk. We did.
So that is what happened after William died. I cannot tell you what happened when he died, because I wasn’t there. Someone will tell you what happened because, based on what I have read and heard, there were as many as two dozen people in and out of the [hospital] room.
William came to Lawrence because he didn’t want to live in New York anymore. Too loud, too expensive, too much hassle. My opinion. James Grauerholz , William’s longtime friend, short-time lover, adopted son and caregiver--an all-around loving guy--also ‘influenced’ William's move to Kansas. That took a lot of moxie and Grauerholz deserves credit.
Lot of folks, especially in NYC, seemed peeved that William was ‘forced’ out of Manhattan. Their loss I guess. No one to hang on to anymore. Boo fucking hoo. But William might have gone to Santa Fe or Boulder. He didn’t. Didn’t go to San Francisco either, or Portland. Or St. Louis. Who knows why. Maybe because he knew fewer people in Lawrence. Fact is, I don’t think William knew more than two or three people in Lawrence when he moved here.
Of course, moving to Kansas didn’t stop people from searching William out. They did from day one until today, 16 years after his death…some still come. To look at whatever might be left.
Dead William is not (as is usually the case), as big a draw as William alive. After all, you can get a lot more from a living guy than from a dead one. Not many artists ‘collaborate’ with dead people, or not many musicians get dead guys to “perform” on their new CDs with dead guys pictured on the cover. It seemed to this observer that very few people--Allen Ginsberg, George Condo, Udo Breger and a couple others--came with the intent to be with William and spend time with William and not feel the need to leave with something from William, in one way or another. All the bad music and bad art created with William’s name attached didn’t make it any better, that’s for sure.
The women who came to Lawrence to see William did it because they wanted to. Several very well-respected scholars and biographers came. Writers like Kathy Acker and Patti Smith came. Lauren Hutton came. Anne Waldman came. And, of course, the uninvited and unwanted and unwashed came and knocked on the door and came in.
William was always gracious with the visitors. He listened to their tales of woe or whatever, and listened to the bad music or poetry. He took the time to look at the ugly, violent, half-assed art, and sent the visitors on their way. What I recall is that after visits by famous singers or sculptors or record producers or such…he never talked about it much.
He would tell me if he had a call from Tim Leary or Whitley Strieber. He would tell me if he had a card from Paul Bowles. The others…who knew? I mean, he went to KC one day to be in a film with U2. He had the limo and the entourage and all the rest. I didn’t go. He didn’t talk about it. Later, in a journal, he made a one-sentence comment about “the group called Me Two." He preferred to be left alone, and he was.
So, alone, and what to do? Well, cats do fill the time if you have six or eight (there never were “dozens of wild cats running in and out of house” as I read somewhere on line). I am the guy who held a sobbing William S. Burroughs in his arms as we left sweet, sweet Spooner at the vet’s office to be put to sleep. William loved his cats…all of 'em. From Calico Jane to Ginger to Fletch and all the rest.
He also loved the raccoons that came in through the cat door to look for food in the kitchen cabinets. He gave them his leftovers and took the time to borrow a Have A Heart trap from the Humane Society. I answered the phone one morning at the office--it was William:
“Jim, we got a huge raccoon in the trap. This thing is very, very dangerous. Come over now and we will take it to Mary’s Lake for release.”
And we did.
If you read the opening paragraph of Burroughs’ The Western Lands, there it is: the old writer living in a boxcar on the river bank. And then you see it in the empty field, out by the Wakarusa River, on the road to Lone Star Lake. The boxcar is there, sitting empty, sinking slowly into the river bank. Nothing is real. Everything is permitted.
William didn’t live in that box car but he did live in a Sears & Roebuck pre-fab bungalow that came on a train from Chicago. And he did have a cabin at Lone Star Lake, couple rooms with an outhouse. Full of mouse shit and pot smoke. A crumbly dock and a very small rowboat. A place to spend some time. Take a friend out in the rowboat.
“This is how you do it, Allen. Stand up like they do in Venice, look where you’re going.”
From the dock someone mentioned…”We could any moment see the last two members of the Beat Generation go overboard into the lake.“ And, of course, neither William nor Ginsberg were wearing life jackets….each with a huge smile though. I guess that counts.
William did three things to excess while he lived in Lawrence: drank a lot of vodka and Coke, smoked a lot of pot, and created a fuck-all amount of art.
William loved to paint and, for a while, he painted everything he could get his hands on. Most on paper, many on canvas, on plywood scraps from construction sites, and on doors (including a beautiful graffiti triptych from a mid-century, accordion-type garage door), and windows and cedar shingles and tin and metal and old signs and chairs and asphalt roofing shingles. He bought scrapbooks and blank books and 3x5 inch cards and painted them all, and he painted the boxes they came in (yes he did, and they are in the archives).
He painted all the file folders he could get from the office plus just plain paper. He made targets, drew or painted them…cops or sheriffs or men from outer space. My favorites were a Bounty Hunter that S. Clay Wilson drew as a target and a Buddha drawn by Ginsberg…both then filled with bullet holes, signed and dated by the ‘artists’ and filed away in the archives.
It is not my opinion that William painted so much because he was bored…he wasn’t. Was he obsessed? I think not. He was, as he wrote somewhere, “curious to see what emerged from the painting”. For instance, I arrive at his house once at 4pm with dinner groceries. Knock and go in.
He is in the spare bedroom/studio…the bed covered with paintings, one on an easel.
“Look, Jim, look at this!”
He is jabbing the picture, his nose an inch from the paper, a joint burning in the ashtray.
“Jim, do you see it? That is a dead-on image of Billy the Kid.”
And maybe it was indeed. Did he take it all that seriously? I don’t think so. How can you, when you paint on paper and file folders and windows (glass and frame), cutting up male porn mags and making collages with flying monkeys? No, not that seriously, I think. He said he could not draw: ”I cannot draw a table.” Sometimes folks showed up with their art and wanted William to “add something." Like I said, it didn’t make it any better whatever William did.
There were the trips to the methadone clinic with TP , going to Marty the barber , and to Sue and David’s for Thanksgiving Day potluck , or to Wayne and Carol’s  for the bardo burnings for Tim Leary and Allen Ginsberg. Or just to the store for cat food, the pawn shop for ammo and a chat, the surplus store for a new fatigue jacket or cap (dress like the locals and become “the invisible man”). The vet and the doctor too. Life is like that.
WSB (far left seated with cap on), unknown persons, WSB's good friend George Kaull (they were same age, Kaull was a Libertarian and local bad ass sculptor), McCrary far right. Others are member of a local band.....this was hottest summer day of year 106 degrees. We were out shooting in rural Leavenworth County. We were not well hydrated but somewhat baked. The shooting was good. We all survived. All rights reserved McCrary
And then the shooting trips. Usually the trips would begin with a phone call: “Let’s go shooting.” So it was arranged. William would call his close friend and peer, George Kaull. George was about William’s age, lived alone over across the Kansas River and always carried a loaded pistol in his pocket. George was a Libertarian and sculptor, a retired iron worker who helped build many of the bridges in Northeast Kansas, a retired honcho of the local ACLU and a beloved, elder trouble-maker in and around Lawrence.
George and William liked one another, and they loved to shoot. Targets. Not hunt; no, not hunt. So it was: William, George and a few others in a van with a sack of vodka and coke, bag of grass, backpack full of guns and ammo. Had we ever been stopped, who knows what? We all, I think, believed that a good cop would take a long look in the van and not want to get involved. Never did get stopped.
Maybe we went to Fred’s house or somewhere else. Shoot a while. Targets. Not from very far away.
“Most always it is very close….very close. Not like the western movies….one end of the block to the other,” William used to say. And didn’t he know from experience? He missed once in his life, missed badly down in old Mexico. I think he spent the rest of his life trying to improve his aim. And it don’t matter what others think about that whole deal. Period.
So we’re all out in some country place, shooting and then marking the targets…the date, the gun, the ammo. Go inside for a drink. Steady the hand. Little pot. Cheese and crackers, maybe a little caviar. Then back out to shoot some more, wearing ear protection and keeping an eye on each other. One day, someone scared up a snake and yelled out, “Here comes a snake!”
William put down the gun and tottered towards the kid shouting, “For Christ’s sake, don’t hurt it! Don’t hurt it!”
So it was. Good times spent.
But most of the time William was home. He did travel but not often. He went to Wichita and Kansas City. He went to NYC when Paul Bowles came to have an operation late in each of their lives. I was a fly on that wall; honored for that to have happened. William made it clear he wanted to see Paul when he heard he was coming to the States. We went.
William stayed at the Bunker on Bowery, Giorno the host. Went uptown to the hotel Bowles was in. When the two of them sat down and talked, everyone leaning forward to listen, well…..fuck sake, it was two old, old men who had been friends forever talking like……not two famous writers….but two old, old men who had been friends for a long time. Illness, death, memories, places and those they knew in common. What the fuck else is there? I think they both knew what the future held. They asked each other how they were and what they felt. One asked the other about some long lost Arab friend. Some hotel in Spain. It was a beautiful thing to see.
Photo of me (sitting on arm of chair) and William S Burroughs and Paul Bowles in NYC hotel room I think 1990. WSB and I travelled from Kansas and Bowles was in NY to hear some of his music performed at Lincoln Center and also to have a hip operation. It was one of the high points in my life to be with those two guys. Photo probably by fellow named Brad Kahler who also came from Kansas. He worked helping out with William for a while.
So…..home alone to paint and feed the cats and clean the guns and look out the window. To write a journal. A letter or two. Read the paper, the magazines--Scientific American, Cat Journal, Crop Circles of South America Illustrated--and read the pulp novels. He liked “bad nurse novels,” he called them…the RN that killed all his patients etc. Conrad, too, and the Weekly World News and anything about weird, deadly sea creatures (the blue octopus), and anything about lemurs. Maybe the history of Lawrence and William Quantrill . Picture books of tornados.
There were always books, magazines, articles cut out and filed away…underlined and commented on. Who knew why or what for? He did maybe but he wasn’t talking. People took a lot of pictures and movies and videos of all this and there are hours and hours and hours of William doing, well, nothing. Funny how that looks. He could be writing the best novel ever in his head and look like he was doing nothing more than picking hairs off his bedspread. It is all recorded: an old man, alone with a favorite cat and a friend to keep him company, another friend to fix his supper, talk about the latest nonsense. The occasional interview from some East Coast journalist:
“What do you think about cloning, Mr. Burroughs?”
“Anything that pisses off the Christians is okay with me," William responded. "Why not cloning? Can’t make homosap any worse than he already is!”
He left his last thoughts in his journals and we can read that in his last published book . He left his paintings and we can see them occasionally. He left his books and objects collected by him and others from around the globe. He left films and videos and photographs…some he made, and some by others. He left quite a few friends in Lawrence, Kansas. What he found in Lawrence was a comfortable place where he was allowed to be himself, to live quietly and gracefully.
And he did.
Jim McCrary first came to Lawrence in 1965 to attend the University of Kansas. He left Kansas and lived New York City, San Francisco and northern California, returning to Lawrence in 1990. He worked as the office manager for William Burroughs Communications from 1990 to 2001. During that time he saw Burroughs just about every day for one reason or another. McCrary has published a dozen books of poetry and his poems have been featured in print magazines, online publications, 'zines and broadsides. You could look him up.
-  Liberty Hall, 642 Massachusetts Street, was built as an opera house in 1907 and is now used as a movie and music venue in downtown Lawrence.
-  Tom Peschio, notable Lawrence musician and longtime William Burroughs Communications staffer, was Burroughs' caretaker, collaborator and close friend.
-  Marty Olson is a well-known Lawrence artist and proprietor of Do's Deluxe salon. "I met William just before he moved here. James brought him in. I cut his hair every couple of months and we always had great chats. I cooked dinners for him too."
-  Burroughs often joined Sue Brousseau and David Ohle for holiday celebrations.
-  Wayne Propst and Carol Schmitt live on a small farm north of Lawrence where they host bardo burns for departed friends.
-  "William Clarke Quantrill (July 31, 1837 – June 6, 1865) was a Confederate guerrilla leader during the American Civil War. After leading a Confederate bushwhacker unit along the Missouri-Kansas border in the early 1860s, which included the infamous raid and sacking of Lawrence, Kansas in 1863." - Wikipedia
-  Last Words: The Final Journals of William S. Burroughs, 2000.
Annotated by Tom King.
All articles, interviews and stories are featured with permission from respective authors.
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