What is it? Questions. Answers. Paralysis. This is a point. This is a letter. This is a word. This is a story.

She is sad and discouraged, head resting in her hand. Head in hands. Objectionable behavior. Pressed into a diagram.

This is the geometry. This is the measurement of her. This is the slippery slope, the slide. This is the choppiness of commas. This is the desire to relax. This is hunting. Hunting for badgers. Hunting in puddles. Hunting under the microscope.

This is looking. This is devising. This is an insult. This is non-allusiveness. Allusion, illusion. Protrusion, contusion. This is desperate. Separate. Disparate. Apparent. This is desparent. This is disappearance.

Inconclusive, in conclusion.

Abusive, people under pressure.

Sometimes I can take it.

Other times I start to have a breakdown.

Sadly.

Sometimes—no, not sometimes. Why vagueness?

It’s better to be March.

It’s better to be rain and snow in March.

It’s better to be best in class.

Restful inconsistencies
emerald generalities
tawdry perpetuities
garbanzo beans and
phony etymologies
a bunch of garbage

Failure rate;
how to increase it

Shake it out the funny duck
the incompetent
with hair of feathers

Fragile—something
she cannot avoid

Secret secret sad sad secret
secretions

I could write some Kerouac-like bluesy pieces, they would be about the past they would be about woman the wife the mother at home they would be the Al-Anon version of the blues, something tells me it would be awfully hard to write these blues honestly

november 9

Still sad. Sadder than ever today. I want to throw myself on your mercy. To wander into your crowd full of people I don’t know. I set up a conflict with people around me. I don’t stake my claim.
I don’t taste my own sauce. I guess I’ll leave here now.

I heard something on the radio yesterday about supermarkets and the vast surplus of food/calories we produce here in the US. The radio voices said—No wonder we are confused—due to the pressure of food marketing. I am immune to food marketing.
I close my eyes to it. I used to get overwhelmed in the supermarket, until I blinded myself. Every year, I buy fewer and fewer packaged goods. No meat. Less and less fish. Ordering herbs and tea in bulk, online. This is a project full of pleasure.
A possible sadness antidote.

Still sad. Last night I had an apple and a few chunks of parmesan cheese for dinner, and watched an Italian movie “I’m Not Scared.” Intense. I was distracted from sadness by my awareness of what was going on inside Michele, the 10-year-old boy. Empathy, I guess. I also felt the heat of the sun and the joy of running in the wheatfields. I played and ran in fields. Corn fields. Forests. Meadows. I played in brambles and thickets, streams, streets.

I had to miss the poetry class on Halloween. This was disturbing. I should have tried to go. I could have made it. No use trying to reinvent the past. I had to miss out. I hate to miss out. I am easily disappointed.

Sad girls are responsible. They take on the tedious tasks no one else wants to do.

If I’m very busy writing, I won’t have time for tedious tasks.

But something’s wrong with my invention. My imagination is broken. I don’t get out much.

Returning to the sadness, the persistent sadness. The sadness of short sentences. The sadness of employees. The sadness of elderly eyebrows. The sadness of muted achievements. Of not knowing your place. The bewilderment of multiple remotes.

The fear of not ever having a home. Not at home here.