I came away with one conviction at least, that Dr. Abrams is a type of genius, is perfectly sincere, and is working himself to death. The people who know more than I do can say what they like, but those facts remain. He is undoubtedly living 50 years before his time. As for sceptics, I do not see how anyone dare to be sceptical in these days of wireless telegraphy and wireless telephone, which after all are entirely based on vibratory foundations. I saw Dr. Abrams discover a cancer in one person, tuberculosis with syphilis and malaria in another and a decayed back tooth in a third. These were done from a drop of blood, the patients were not even in the room. They came in afterwards. Nebulously, in my head, I understand the process, but one has to be there to see.
My own experience with the medical profession has made me very open minded. I have received the results I looked for from the one doctor in London that the medical profession declared to be a quack, when they, the so-called best doctors in the profession, had failed to help me.
I sometimes think the medical profession is, of all professions, the slowest to accept new ideas, the most conventional. Their sense of professional etiquette seems to count before all else.
Later in the day we went to the house of a friend of George Sterling’s, a composer, who sets his songs to music. There in a half dark room, full of flowers, and baskets filled to the brim with rose petals, we drank red wine. Curled up on a sofa I listened to the playing and singing of his songs. Now and then George would read out loud some new poem not yet published.
That night we went and sipped absinthe in some low haunt. It is no use, Mr. Prohibition Agent, to come after me and ask me where that was, because I don’t know, and I’m quite sure George doesn’t remember.
Monday, October 17, 1921.
San Francisco is rather proud of being built like Rome, on seven hills, and it certainly is effective. One street was so steep that a ladder was built onto the side walk to help one up. The cable cars go slipping perilously down, or crawling terrifyingly up. But the towns in this country that I have seen vary little in the way of buildings and streets. Their atmosphere varies.—San Francisco for instance, has that foreign cosmopolitan feeling that characterises New York. But whereas New York gets its atmosphere in ships from Europe, San Francisco brings it in from the Orient, and with it some of the mystery which New York has not.
The temptation to me to board a ship and go to China is heart-breaking, and it seems so easy, so obvious. Only I can’t, because after five months of wandering the funds are low. I must return to New York, and work and work through the winter before me, to store up for the next adventure!
Monday, October 17, 1921. Burlingame.
ONE DAY IN SAN FRANCISCO.