2nd May 1994

Our journey started on a clogged-up M25 at 7.00 in the morning. The flight to Chicago was reasonably comfortable. The three and a half hour wait in Chicago was the most traumatic part and made us edgy and fractious, waiting in the bleak seating area in the impersonal high-vaulted concourse. We had searched in vain for a smoking area. A sugary voice announced over the tannoy at regular intervals that the entire airport was a non-smoking area. Ralph fumed at the things they DO allow in America: guns, deprivation and white supremacy to name but three.

Queuing up at immigration made us paranoiac, standing behind the red line in rows to be summoned and scrutinized - though the passport officer was pleasant, reminding us to re-apply for our visas. "You should get a visa - otherwise you forfeit your rights!" - more paranoia!

As we passed our baggage through the security area, the burly guards were amused by the assortment of objects in Ralph's black leather bag: trumpet, ukulele, tape machines, cameras, etc. As one of them rummaged, Ralph identified each object: trumpet, ukulele, etc. As he lifted out his trumpet mute, Ralph said: "I've got a silencer."

The guard stiffened until Ralph held it up -: "Sorry, I mean it's a mute!" The guard relaxed.

We arrived off our second flight to Kansas City at about 5 o'clock local time. Jose was there to meet us. He had recently returned from Mexico where his mother was ill. With him was his Mexican film-maker friend, Andrea, small and curly-haired and a shy smile. We climbed into a brown van to be driven to Lawrence.

The countryside was emerging into its spring greenery, feathery leaves, fields waiting for their new crops, the odd farmstead perched on a green hillock or nestling into shallow creases on the surrounding slopes.

Some of the farms were well tended with round silos and clapboard barns. Others had ramshackle outbuildings, the roofs collapsing and debris lying around. Here and there a barn stood alone on a grass-covered rise. When we came to our first sight of a bright red one standing like a beacon beyond the verge, Jose said, "That is the real Kansas."

Downtown Lawrence is a university town. It has an Edward Hopper feel to it, especially the wide and sleepy main street. Our hotel The Eldridge, had been re-built by William 'Billy' Hutson in the late 1920s and the brochure declares: The Eldridge tradition began with Col. Shalor Eldridge presiding over the meat carving to ensure that the hotel's guests were served only the finest in prime cuts of meat and elegantly prepared entrees.

We had a quick shower while Jose and Andrea waited in the delightfully smoky bar downstairs and then we drove for supper with William Burroughs. His house stands on a quiet green street. It is modest in size with a comfortably unkempt garden. All are forbidden to photograph the outside to keep nosey and unwanted fans from finding out where he lives. It has a wooden porch and inside the cinnamon coloured walls and wooden floors have the feel of a modest 18th century vicarage, though I believe it was built in the 1930s. The furnishings are modest. A large black cat sprawled on a sofa. By a small round table stood a wheel chair.

William came forward to meet us, shaking our hands in his gentle way. His faithful helper, Brad, emerged from the small turquoise kitchen with its frieze of vines around the walls. Brad cooks and cares for William like a careful housewife. He greeted us warmly, a sturdy frame in contrast to the spare figure of William whose near-bald head bent forward, like the head of a galactic being from an episode of Star Trek. He has a pointed nose and small blue eyes which are both severe and ironic when he talks. The voice impressed me - odd to hear it when I have only heard him reading his poetry on the tapes recorded by our friend Hal Willner. Strange to be sitting in the same room as this voice - much quieter than the amplified version on the CDs.

Most of the evening William sat in his wheel chair at the round table with its lamp and candles, talking to Ralph about guns, shooting, the abuse of drugs and the proper respect for addictive substances.

When he moved about, his feet slid tentatively across the floor, like a skater surfing towards the middle of an ice rink, testing the ground. His bony ankles emerged from his jeans making his feet seem large in comparison.

Ralph, Jose and William ate at the table. Andrea, Brad and I ate on our laps on the sofa - thin strips of beef, hash browns, sauerkraut and salad - great to eat a home-cooked meal after the airplane junk food.

The talk went on, William's hands moving, to brush across his head, his nose, his ears, squirming in his wheel chair like a restless child on a long train journey, gesturing with his hands stiffened by arthritis, talking with both hands and voice.

We left at about 9.30 - a good sign, apparently, since William usually goes to bed at 8.30.

We fell exhausted into bed and fell asleep with the TV on. I slept and then woke suddenly at 4.30, feeling really wide awake. So while Ralph sleeps and doses I have decided to write while the town sleeps.

A light is shining a blue dawn through the gap in the curtains and I can hear the distant rumble of trucks on the highway that snakes around the town and now the muffled sound of a foghorn, though it can't be - a train maybe.

Ralph is stirring, tired and not tired, he mumbles from the dark alcove of the bedroom.

3rd May - 7.30 pm

We spent the afternoon sleeping off our jet lag which had really hit us by 2 o'clock. I still felt sleepy but not so sickly or fatigued. It had been arranged for us to go shooting with William but at the last minute he said it was too cold for him to go out. We were relieved because we were so tired.

This morning we met Jose and Andrea for breakfast at the Paradise Cafe down the street. It was a bright and sunny, the early mist quickly evaporating. We did some shopping and bought a pair of boots each. Last night there had been talk of snakes in the grass at the shooting range, so I am now the possessor of a pair of suede booties and Ralph bought a comfortable pair of loafers.

We drove to the offices of William Burroughs Communications, a modest wooden house on a grassy verge. Here we met Jim and Henry who work there. Next door is another small house where Jose stays and where the art is stored. It has the air of a student pad, sparsely furnished, but neat and tidy for all that with its neat windows with their insect screens and Venetian blinds.

Jim has a weather-beaten face and stooping frame while Henry is tall and somewhat gangly, like a teenager whose arms and legs have grown out of proportion to the rest of him. He has a precise, clipped way of talking.

We took the prints out of the tube so that Jose could see them all and then went on a fruitless search for Ralph's new DAT tape recorder. We had a tasty lunch at a Mexican restaurant, so good that we sent our compliments to the owner, a dapper man in his fifties with a moustache and sleek, brilliantined hair.

We fell asleep at the Eldridge watching the TV coverage of the O.J. Simpson trial - the last thing I remember before drifting off was the forensic evidence involving blood traces under Nicole Simpson's nails.

We woke not knowing whether we had slept well or not, but went out to eat at Teller's Restaurant, which was once a bank, very imposing with tall windows, iron staircases and wide wood polished floors. The food was Italian - and agreeably light for our shattered bodies to cope with.

We had just gone to bed when Joe Petro arrived from Lexington his car full of prints. We talked for half an hour and had just stumbled into bed again when Joe knocked on the door, pulling a trolley laden with prints for Ralph to sign, bell boy in tow, who helped do the heavy lifting. The prints are: The Sheriff (results of Hunter's shoot art last summer and the small Hunter one only recently finished).

Wednesday 4th May
5 o'clock pm

Sitting in the kitchen of the William Burroughs Annex, listening to the conversation in the open plan sitting room beyond which Ralph is showing William his prints. William is in good form. On seeing the Mark Twain portrait he says: "He was an old fraud!" Of the drawing of City of the Red Night: "That's fantastic!" He loves 20th Century Man from The Big I Am. He says everyone should be able to float about like that. Of Francis Bacon: "He was very sweet but also in pain physically."

Now they are sitting down - William has tired of standing. Jose has given him his drink of vodka and coke. His voice is stronger than the other night.

"I tried to skate, skating in Chicago for a film. I couldn't do it...horse riding...would often ride bareback, too much trouble with the saddle...Horses hate people, hate being driven. ..There are horse that love people, but generic factors, but going into Grand Canyon they use mules. Horses are too hysterical."

Ralph tells William the story of how we flew to Ayers Rock and the pilot constantly checked places in case he had to make an emergency landing.

We had lunch at The Brewery across the street. It is a lively place with its own micro-brewery in the back. Through the glass partition behind the bar we could see the silvery stills and pipes. I had what I had been wanting since we arrived - a hamburger - with wheat beer made on the premises.

In the morning Joe and Ralph sorted out the prints and Ralph signed them. Jose was impressed by The Sheriff but was worried by the small Hunter ones - Vintage Dr. Gonzo edition of 500. We need to persuade Hunter to sign them as well as Ralph.

To get back to our afternoon with William, the talking went on. At one point, William got up to leave but sat down again and launched into more conversation. When Brad arrived shortly after, William seemed to ignore him. It didn't bother Brad: "I don't care. I really don't care." - not to mean that he didn't care but that he didn't mind.

I showed him my photos of Old Loose Court and also my little sculptures. "These are great," he kept saying and gave me a spontaneous hug. A sweet man. As well as working for William, he works for a candle company in Lawrence.

William signed a limited edition of his poem, Call Pantapon Rose, and read it aloud for us:

Call Pantapon Rose

For a tingling doze

For a warm blanket of snows

For an end to your woes

For an up from your lows

Make friends of your foes

Calling Pantapon Rose.

At one point William said, "I believe everyone should take responsibility for themselves." I smiled to myself - since he has nine people looking after him. But I understand what he means. He is, though, a paradox, with his conservative views about various issues, guns, for example, - he always carries one when he goes out plus a cane with a sword in it.

At one point Joe asked if he could have his photograph taken sitting between William and Ralph. And then I was summoned. I sat next to William. He very gently put his hand on mine, saying: "Is this alright?" He's a real gentleman.

On the wall opposite us there is a larger than life plastic model of a Mugwump, a horrible skeletal figure with an oval head and two antennae protruding from its head. These antennae were for sucking out some mind-warping drug in The Naked Lunch. It was used in the film and now sits with leather and chain shackles and muzzle on a director's chair with William's name on the blue backrest. In a sense, I suppose, it is an alter ego of William himself, so it was weird to see it sitting opposite its creator. At first, I felt reluctant to take a photograph of this strange reincarnation, but I eventually did out of a perverse compulsion.

We ate at the hotel that night. The food was pretty awful but it was good to know we hadn't far to get to bed.

Thursday, 4th May

Waiting for Hal Willner in the van with William in the front seat outside the Eldridge Hotel. But Hal is not here. So we are going shooting without him.

The site of the shooting party was Steve's house, a creamy yellow wooden house with a barn behind full of old cars, including a rusty old Morris Minor. Beyond the house the land dipped into a sheltered hollow of green grass and tall trees. At the perimeter was a simple wooden structure of crossbars weighted down with breeze blocks for attaching the targets.

We had driven in convoy and there were ten of us, Steve and his wife Laura, Mark (in his twenties and one of the WB clan), Jim the Poet, Joe, Jose, Andrea, William and us.

As we walked down the slope, a white plastic table and chairs were carried out, ammunition and guns fished out of bags and boxes, glasses laid on the table and the scene had the air of a well organised picnic outing. William was like a little boy with his favourite toys, rummaging in his bag for his guns, ammunition and ear mufflers.

The Shakespeare print was the first target to be put up and William was the first to shoot at it with the eagerness of a jockey at the starting post. The shots made loud cracks and ricocheted into the earthy bank behind the target, making the soil fly and quiver off the bank as if in slow motion.

William's enthusiasm spread around the group and he was most generous in giving everyone a turn with the assortment of weapons to hand. Having peppered Shakespeare with bullets, it was the turn of the Sherrif print and then Vintage Gonzo. The latter were fastened in a thick wadge and then we each had one to keep which we all signed. Jose put on his leather scorpion mask to shoot and then a dark balaclava. Everyone started calling him Marcos and it certainly disguised the Jose we thought we knew . He insisted that I had a go, too, so I used a .22 rifle, very smooth and beautiful to look at. I couldn't see through the sight properly so I was shooting blind, but even so I did OK.

It was a pleasant afternoon. The sun came out wetly giving us dapple under the trees and apart from the cracking of the guns there was a peaceful atmosphere. It was great just to be outdoors and in the fresh air, though to watch William loading and cocking his pistols and rifles was pretty un-nerving, since I couldn't tell when they were loaded or not. Most of the time he sat sipping his vodka and coke , sitting cross-legged on a white plastic chair.

Ralph took a set of paranoids of him and took black and white photos, circling round William's chair as he did so. Of all of us, I think Joe enjoyed it most - especially when he posed with William and his gun. That photo will have pride of place on Joe's mantelpiece!

When we got back to the hotel, there was dear Old Hal. He had just driven in from Kansas City where he is working on Robert Altman's film, Kansas City, based on jazz in the 1930s. He looked tired but we had a jolly drink before going out to supper at William's friends - and then Vicky came in - a delightful surprise for us.

I spoke for quite a long time to James Grauerholz, William's longtime companion, less involved in William Burroughs Communications than before since he is pursuing his musical career with his band. I also talked to a sculptor called Wayne who wore a woolly hat and had the face of one of the seven dwarfs. William talked to Ralph most of the evening - like real buddies!

Joe left to collect Jessie from the airport. William left at about 10 o'clock and we followed on soon after. Too tired to pack we decided to get up early in the morning to prepare for our flights to Denver and Aspen in the morning.

Friday, 5th May

We woke up at 6.30, packed, breakfasted with Joe and set off with Hal and Vicky to Kansas City Airport. It was peaceful chatting in a desultory fashion, watching the Kansas barns and homesteads sail by.

Our flight to Denver was uneventful. We had three hours to wait in the new airport with its high curved glass ceilings and state of the art information technology. The architecture succeeded in making us mere passengers feel very small, but maybe that is the intention. The half-hour flight to Aspen was bumpy, especially the approach when the plane dipped down between the mountains along the valley that includes both the airport and the town of Aspen, There was little to see, thank God, in the thick mists and rain that enveloped us.

Hunter was sitting in the airport cafe talking to a couple, the lady platinum blonde with a razor sharp jacket and the man grey haired with a paunch and faded blue jeans. First stop was a cafe called Friedl's Restaurant, a raunchy sort of place and partly chic - the chic being the non-smoking section of cloth covered tables and the raunchy bit being the bar area with the locals playing pool and eating burgers and chile and guacamole. Deborah arrived and we all had something to eat. Then we drove in convoy to Gerry Goldstein's house down the path behind the Art Gallery on the edge of town. They had kindly offered their home to us while they were away. Hunter had concocted a story that we were about to stay in a flea-bitten cabin with three dogs that we had to take on long walks.

Hunter immediately made himself at home, putting the contents of the fridge on the counter and making himself a drink while Deborah and I went to the supermarket and I bought our provisions for breakfast. All I was capable of - I was exhausted. On our return Hunter had made weird sandwiches of mustard and ketchup and plans for the evening were afoot: going up to Owl Farm to wait for Joe and Jessie (they were driving from Lawrence to Aspen - a long trip).

At first all I wanted to do was to rest but realised that I should be there to support Ralph ( who was also tired). So we followed Deborah along the road to the airport and turned up to Woody Creek, past the enclave of trailer homes and the Tavern, along the winding road to the brooding tin birds that guarded the entrance to Owl Farm. Hunter, who had gone on ahead, was sitting in his usual chair at the breakfast counter with a basket ball game on TV.

The kitchen had been redecorated with shiny blue and red tiles and fresh paint on the ceiling though the pine walls remain the same as ever, covered in all sorts of notes, letters, memos, articles, pictures and artifacts. I lay on the sofa, letting the rambling discourse drift over me. The answer-phone kept taking surreal messages, including a female voice with a pleading tone: "Hunter, this is real important. I need Gerry's phone number. I've got a real problem with my family. We're not talking to one another. My mother won't talk to me. Phone soon, Hunter." All these messages meant that Joe wouldn't be able to get through to us - anyway, a message eventually came through. They were at the Woody Creek Tavern. it was 11.30 by now.

So there we went. The Tavern was closed for business but there they were, sitting in a corner with a couple of beers wondering if they would have a bed to sleep in.

The Tavern staff were in a party mood. There was a loud voiced guitarist shouting out country and western ballads and the waitresses were dancing around the tables.

When Hunter came in there was more activity, the setting up of his video camera, the cracking of a whip on the ceiling to smash the coloured light bulbs, the thrashing of people's legs with giant egg whisks. It all sounds a bit bizarre. And then one of the little waitresses, big busted and wide hipped, said to me: "Annie, wanna party?" and "Will you dance?" and "Do you want a drink, Annie." And to Jessie: "Do you have somewhere to sleep? You can sleep in my trailer if you like."

Eventually, we left, Ralph and I in Hunter's red chevy, a monster of a car, more monstrous than the gold cadillac we drove last year.

The trouble was that Hunter hadn't explained the mechanics of the car and we couldn't find the way to put on the headlights and could hardly see the road ahead (Joe and Jessie were following us in their car). We got on the main road and inched our way along, trying to keep in the right lane and once or twice finding ourselves in the lane that said: Right Turn Only when we needed to go straight ahead. Suddenly we saw flashing lights behind us and heard a siren. Uh! Uh! The cops. So we slid to a stop on the side of the road and waited for the inevitable moment when a policeman would bend his head towards the driver's window. "Did you know you were driving erratically, sir? Have you had a drink tonight?"

In retrospect I am surprised the policeman believed us, even though it was true that we were driving a friend's car and that he hadn't shown us how to switch on the lights. When he asked where we were going, we knew where it was but not the address I knew it was behind the Art Museum. Anyway, he actually showed us where to put on the lights - by the pedals at Ralph's feet! - who would have guessed?

Anyway, he let us go and followed us through town until we turned off at the Jerome Hotel. During this episode I suddenly experienced shooting pains up my back - pure terror! When we recounted the experience to Joe and Jessie, they said that the police in Aspen get bored sometimes because there's not much crime so they stop motorists for something to do. I was very pleased to get to bed that night!

Saturday, 6th May

We slept till nearly 9 o'clock feeling much refreshed and not quite so breathless as yesterday. It was chilly outside, but sunny and the mountains facing the house gleamed on the patches of snow lying between tall pines in bristling groups on the slopes.

After a breakfast of bacon, eggs and tomato, Ralph was raring to go into town with his shopping list, to the opticians, to buy a microphone for his new DAT machine, to the photographic shop. I had promised myself a lazy morning in my dressing gown, sorting out the luggage and generally taking it easy. And so I did.

Before lunch Jessie and I went shopping for provisions at the supermarket and we lunched on frankfurters and salad.

By this time it was 2.30 so we had to make a mad dash to Owl Farm to watch the Kentucky Derby, the day having been designated as the 25th Anniversary of Ralph and Hunter meeting for the first time at the Kentucky Derby. We arrived just in time to see Thunder Gulch win the race. It was the horse that Ralph had chosen, though he hadn't actually placed a bet - a pity since the odds were 20 - 1.

Joe was hoping to get the Sherrif and Vintage Gonzo prints signed by Hunter to mark the auspiciousness of the occasion. He looked chipper enough at his breakfast counter, and was already dressed.

Ralph and Joe launched into lengthy explanations about the signing of the prints. I slipped outside with my diary (I had a lot to make up) sitting on the steps of the wooden deck, gazing at the scenery as much as writing. It was a beautiful view. The steep ridges were a deep dun colour and the rows of Aspen trees were bare of leaves, their branches pale and feathery against the dark slopes. Above the ridge the mountains glistened with snow. The minutes and hours went by and I stayed outside, sporadically joined by Jessie and Joe, until Hunter emerged for a shooting session, to shoot some of the out-of-edition prints. The first target was the red sculpture that Joe had given Hunter which ended up being peppered and scarred by Hunter's shooting it with a large rifle. He sat at the wooden table, and shot leaning on it. By this time the table was littered with guns, ammunition, camera equipment, glasses and bottles.

At this point a couple arrived, Missy and her husband (we had met her in Aspen at the Design Conference years ago). She is a sculptor and I remember going to see her studio. She worked in metal then (maybe she still does, I didn't ask). Her studio was full of welding equipment - a tough job for a slim lady.

The shooting continued and I was happy to stay sitting on the steps in the sunshine with a glass of mint julep and the two peacocks scratching for seeds nearby, completely undeterred by the bangs and cracks of bullets.

Before I knew it, Joe had stacked the sherriff prints on the boot of the gold cadillac parked by the front door and Hunter signed them to the clicking and whirring of our cameras.

The day wore on until dusk turned to evening and I wondered, purely out of academic interest, what time we'd get away. Maggie (she types for Hunter) lit a fire in the sitting room. Deborah had prepared salads, rice, prawns and laid it out on the round table by the fire. Jessie, I could tell, was getting fazed out by all these happenings. I know exactly how she felt - the peaks and troughs of being at Owl Farm.

The evening continued in an incoherent way - Ralph trying to give a reading of Hunter's poems (at Hunter's request) but had become pretty incoherent and nobody took an awful lot of notice , except for Hunter who tried in vain to restrain Ralph's frequent degeneration into a W.C. Fields accent.

The crowning event was the BOMB, as Hunter called it. He drove his John Deere tractor with its lights blazing to the field at the back of the house. Then a cylinder of propane gas was installed on the grass (not more than ten yards away) and an explosive target was attached to it. When Hunter shot at it, it blew up with a loud woofing sound, releasing a ball of flame that shot into the air in a cloud of smoke and landed on the other side of the field (I'm sure it could just as easily have landed on the house itself!). The last ritual of the evening was the cake produced by Deborah with 'Hunter and Ralph' written in chocolate on the top.

It was around midnight when we left but the excitement wasn't quite over. Joe drove Ralph in Deborah's daughter's car and I followed with Jessie driving Joe's car. She kept saying that he was driving too fast (there's a 25 miles an hour limit ). Sure enough, there were flashing lights behind us and yet another cop bending towards us through the window. I kept quiet and Jessie was magnificent, putting on her southern drawl and little-girl-lost act and explaining why she'd been flashing her lights at Joe's car in front - to get him to slow down. Anyway, we got away with it - yet again.

Sunday, 7th May

It was one o'clock before we got to bed but I still woke up before 7 feeling wide awake and zingy, so I wrote up the diary to catch up on the previous day's events and stuck in the photos that Ralph had got developed for me (at great cost!)

By ten o'clock when everyone surfaced I was feeling tired again. Joe, Jessie and Ralph decided to drive to Glenwood to look at some pretty scenery and shop in Walmart. I went back to bed and slept a little, but not as much as I would have liked. The others returned mid-afternoon with their purchases. Ralph had bought a cordless phone, a baseball cap for my pupil Sam and the microphone for his DAT machine.

It had been arranged that Hunter would come over for supper. I prepared a coq au vin and salad while Jessie prepared the baked potatoes and bacon. Feeling drained, I took a shower and changed into a skirt. It was good to get out of trousers and sweaters for once.

We decided not to wait for Hunter beyond nine, so we ate without him. It was comforting to have a home cooked meal. Deborah had phoned to say he'd be leaving at about 8 o'clock but he was obviously elsewhere. So we cleared up, dimmed the lights and chatted in a desultory way, Joe on tenterhooks wondering if Hunter would sign any of the Vintage Gonzo prints. Ralph fell asleep on the sofa.

All was quiet and then a car, its lights flashing and blazing made its noisy entrance, making us think that there must have been a huge entourage of drunken revelers intent on partying into the early hours. I crept about, switching the lights off, which was difficult as there were light switches everywhere in odd places. But when we heard a knocking at the door we knew we had to answer it. Luckily it was just Hunter and Maggie. So we switched on the lights, and fixed drinks for them and gave them some of the coq au vin.

And miracle of miracles, Hunter signed all 500 of the prints with remarkable efficacy. It was all finished by one o'clock. Ralph slept through most of it, only waking noisily towards the end. Joe was over the moon to have them all signed ready to take back to Kentucky in the morning. Jessie was great, stacking the prints as each one was signed and cajoling Hunter in her Kentucky drawl.

And so to bed.

Monday, 8th May

We all felt grungy and tired and Joe and Jessie eventually left for Kentucky at 10 o'clock. It had been snowing all night and the enclave of houses had been transformed into a winter wonderland. It felt odd to be thrust back into winter again but Ralph and I walked into town and very refreshing it was with the snow in our faces and the steep slopes rising above the town like huge white scarred whales.

We had spaghetti and salad back at the house and a few hours sleep, though neither of u s felt much better . Deborah collected us at about 7 o'clock and I took the rest of the coq au vin which we ate with salad and bread. Hunter was on his perch in his dressing gown when we arrived and Maggie was drifting about look like death. Shortly after she disappeared to sleep. They hadn't got to bed till nine that morning!

This was supposed to be the time for getting down to working on the Rolling Stone Polo piece but there was a ball game on TV which absorbed all of Hunter's attention. He had bet that LA would score 90 points against San Antonio (a big bet, he said) and they did. Then he put on the video of the BOMB of the other night. It was quite horrible to see it again, especially in slow motion. It looked like a mini atom bomb, a mushroom shaped ball of white fire that flew up into the air with red tongues of flame deepening at its edges as it described a circular trajectory across the field. You could even see the blast from Hunter's shot gun as he fired.

We left at 9.30, thank God, and sank gratefully into bed.

Tuesday, 9th May

We felt a little better this morning. In fact, I felt a lot better and did some washing and ironing in the basement utility room.

Ralph drove me in Deborah's daughter's car to Glenwood, with the white peaks of Snowmass behind us and the red ridges in front. We passed towns with names like Basalt, Redstone, and Carbondale, testament to the mining industries that thrived in the last century.

Deborah had told us last night that Aspen was first settled as a silver mining community and the pines that grew thickly on the slopes were cut down for making the props for the mines and the log cabins of the miners. The Aspen trees which are such a feature of the landscape were introduced and are secondary growth. When the government decided not to use silver for their currency, the area declined. During the second world war mountain battalions of soldiers were trained in readiness for combat in the mountainous regions of the world. After the war, some came back and decided to develop Aspen as a ski resort.

Glenwood's piece de resistance is its sulphur springs. A huge, red Bavarian style castle was built (judging by its architectural style) in the 1920s and 1930s. It overlooked a vast sulphur swimming pool where quite a few people were swimming. We drove on to a shopping complex with a huge Walmart and Ralph returned the cordless telephone since it had the wrong voltage for England. Then we had a Mexican meal.

Back at the house Ralph watched a video of Palm Springs Polo for research purposes, taking Polaroids from the screen of elegantly rearing horses which, in combination with their riders formed a balletic movement of grace and agility.

Once again we were summoned to Owl Farm and drove before dark the country way to Woody Creek to avoid the police radars. It was a pretty ride in spite of the gloomy overcast weather.

At Owl Farm Hunter was in his dressing gown in his usual place. I had cooked my Chinese chicken dish and bought rice and spinach to go with it. We all ate it, except for Hunter. There was another ball game (Houston V. Phoenix) - we all placed bets. Ralph and I lost $30 between us. We had backed Houston who weren't expected to win in any case and what made matters worse was that Houston's best player was sent off for threatening the referee.

Hunter asked Ralph to read some poems by a 15 year old girl whose mother is involved in some weird magic supernatural cult. The images were dark and troubling, disturbing image's for such a young girl. There was a photo of her on Hunter's board in the kitchen, white face, darkly made up eyes and straggly black hair - reminded me of Winona Rider in Beetlejuice.

Eventually Hunter began to write with Ralph sitting on the stool near him at the end of the breakfast counter. It was like squeezing a slightly moist sponge for drops of water. but he did write three pages - all about Ralph as necrophiliac and worse. In between whiles, he took several calls, including one to his editor, Jack Rosenthal, at Random House demanding money from him and talking about the book he wants to do after 'Polo is my Life' - on the white supremacist militia, of all things, with Ralph in tow. Horrible thought.

We got a cab back at about 2 o 'clock in the morning. A very charming driver. So we booked him to take us to the airport on Thursday.

Wednesday, 10th May

We woke at nine, glory be, and felt at last as if we'd had a good night's sleep. Added to this feeling of euphoria the sky was blue and the sun was warm. So, at Ralph's suggestion, and eagerly seconded by me, we took the path across the creek, carrying a very basic picnic of cheese, tomatoes, bread and water, our watercolours and cameras.

The peaks loomed, the water tumbled across the grey rocks, the Aspen trees extended their tracery against the forested slopes - a more perfect picnic place you couldn't hope to find. For company we had butterflies, birds skimming the water or perching on the smooth rocks and dipping their heads in the water and a charming chipmunk with a pert tail and  delicate stripes on its back. It partook of the crumbs we threw to it after looking this way and that nervously before venturing from the safety of the foliage.

We wandered home via the Aspen Art Museum by the river. There was an exhibition of art from the local community schools. The junior section was wonderfully vibrant and inventive. But what had happened to the older children? Their work, apart from two notable exceptions, was derivative and mannered. But there you go!

Deborah had put us in touch with Barney Wyckoff who has a gallery in Aspen. He came round to see us and said he'd love to have a show of Ralph's in March which is the height of the season when the rich and famous arrive en masse in their private jets. He's tall and lean with dark hair and reminds me of an actor whose name I can't remember - he was McCloud in the TV series about a cowboy cop transferred to the New York Police Department.

Deborah arrived and we ate together - and then came Hunter and Maggie (much against my better judgment ˜ as I had been insisting all week that we have an early night before our departure for Denver). It looked set to be one of those nights, but the discussion seemed relatively focused on the Polo story with Hunter looking at Ralph's transparencies for the unpublished second Polo piece for Rolling Stone. Deborah left at midnight and I went to bed shortly after. God knows what time Ralph got to bed.

We must get up early tomorrow for our flight to Denver where Ralph has an exhibition at Gallery 1/1. Then we fly on to Toronto for a short publicity tour and then to New York for a stopover at Hal Willner's for a few days

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