| OCR Text |
Show 126 She put down the magnifying glass and sheets and went back into the dark room, making some noise. "You know if your parents have money your not supposed to use these facilities," she yelled out. "I live on Twenty-fourth Street. My Dad sells toilet paper. You gxi guys need toilet paper?" She came out of the darkroom and put on glasses, wire rims. She was shorter than me by several inches. She wore painter's over-alls over a t-shirt. "Free?" she said. "No." "Well," she said, lifting herself onto the table next to my proof sheets, looking at them again. "We pick it up here^d" there. Public Rooms." She shrugged. "You don't sell drugs?" "What kind of music is this?" I didn't want to tell her anything about myself. I didn't want to tell anybody anything about myself. Something told me that information was evil, a mistake, something that could destroy me. "It's a Kerouac reading. You heard of him?" "No." "Listen," she said. "Come back tomorrow and we'll print some of these up, then I'll teach you xi a little something about KBxxxxiixx composition." So I came back the next day and she wanted to know what I knew about geometry, which was nothin, even though I did fine in geometry in school because The Dialecticians handled all that kind of stuff for me. But I was definitely motivated to learn xxaxa whatever she wanted to teach me for the obvious reason that I wanted old Kara Ruzci, which was her name, Kara Ruzci, to be clearly won over to my receptivity and genius, besides, this was the first time I ever really knew anything, that is knew something which other human beings out in the v/orld would consider as normal, basic, self-advancement, Rxxaxxxxxgrx operational civilized person stuff. No school, so I came in the morning and stayed till evening. Sometimes some black kids came by and she loaned them cameras or I had to share the darkroom, but mostly I got i her to myself, and she'd look over my shoulder at my prints or show me something about |
