Myra-Breckinridge-Gore-Vidal

My legs feel as if they had just been asleep and now,tingling, are coming to life again. I can wiggle my feet: thatis something, and my poor arms, though discolored, areintact and I suppose, in time, I shall be able to peel off thisplaster strait jacket... unless of course they keep suchcareful watch over me that any attempt at freeing myself willbe thwarted. For the moment, it is my intelligence uponwhich I must rely. I cannot recall the name of Lana Turner'sfirst film! Something has been done to my brain. I know thatI am Myra Breckinridge whom no man may possess, butwhat else? Film titles are lost to me. The past is a jumble. Imust not panic. What's the last thing I can recall before theycaptured me? This is difficult. Santa Monica. The mesa?No. Not mesa. A word like it. Canyon. The Santa MonicaCanyon. A winding road. Sun in my eyes as I drive. Alone?Yes, alone. No one is in the car. A dog? Yes, a wirehairedfox terrier puppy. Sitting on my lap. Sun in my eyes. Thatmeans it was late afternoon and I am coming fromHollywood to the sea--oh, the mind of Myra Breckinridgecan never be broken or too long deranged, even by theCIA! I park the car in front of a small house, green withwhite shutters, overlooking the ugly ocean. Fortress?Canal? Pilings? Palisades... that's it: Pacific Palisades arevisible. It's our house. Ours? Who else? No. I'm going toofast now and my head is throbbing. Sodium pentothalobviously. I park the car on the main road. I get out of thecar. I stand and wait for the dog to jump out. The dog does.He runs up the driveway. He stops at the door of the house.I start to follow then 39 Struck by a hit-and-run automobile, I