May 01I'm too hungry to w r i t e 02 thirsty too 03 one more time 05 caught in the act 06 somnia 07 run into rain 08 white towel, black butterfly 09 encuentro 10 fretful shimmering 12 why I love Fernando 14 floralalia 15 fantasy 101 16 I don't get out much 18 I don't want to write 20 recreation 21 Loplop and the Bride of the Wind 22 we are encaged 23 too normal 24 the beneficiary 25 hungry, still 26 twist 27 I sit down 29 a memorial 30 memorial (2)

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M a y 0 1 I'm too hungry to w r i t e
Tapping out a cry -- h e l l o -- hello -- testing the world - 1 - 2 - 3 ~~~ Rapunzel? Rapunzel lived in a tower. She did nothing but grow hair. She grew a lot of hair. Enough to hang herself with. And one day it all disappeared. Rapunzel, silly girl, had imagined all of it -- all but the hair -- the tower, the cabbages, the imprisoning witch, the tall ladders, the bars on the windows, the flock of crows. Thump! Rapunzel landed on her butt when the imaginary tower vaporized. She was festooned with hair and it took her a week to get herself untangled. Rapunzel got up. She wandered through the arid fields with her tresses looping over her wrists and her gown dragging and she wondered what to do with this damn insanity of freedom. Should she get a haircut? That would dramatically reduce the torment of twigs and burrs -- but -- wasn't this just TOO simple a solution? Rapunzel threw her hair over her face from the back. Because she was hidden by this veil, she could cry herself a nice muddy puddle and wallow in it like a pig. Rapunzel was stained with tears and grimed with dirt and her hair was a matted shock wave populated with animals, vegetables, and minerals. And she had a bad attitude. Princes ran the other way in great royal purple migrations and leaped over cliffs to their deaths to get away from her. Umm -- I don't know what the end is. We seem to be stuck at this point in the story. Rapunzel will try to keep you informed -- it gives her a reason to carry on.

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May 02 thirsty too
Far from birds, from herds, from home-town girls, What was I drinking on my knees in the bushes With hazelnut trees all around me In the lukewarm green of an afternoon mist? What could I drink in that young Oise --Trees with no voices, grass with no flowers, sky with no sun! To drink from those yellow gourds, far from the cabin I like? Liquors of gold that make you sweat. I made a pretty poor sign for a tavern. --A storm was hassling the sky. At night The wet of the woods ran out on virgin sands, God's wind tossed icicles in the ponds: Weeping, I saw gold -- and couldn't drink.-- Arthur Rimbaud, Une Saison en Enfer, "Delirium II, The Alchemy of the Word" tr. Bertrand Mathieu

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May 03 one more time
How can I go there one more time. I can't go there one more time. How can I go to that round empty place, as opaque as a faceless silver coin. How can I stare into that unreflecting metal. How can I not admit there are ghosts. I'm not a person who believes in ghosts, but tonight I saw one in the kitchen. It was wearing my coat. I don't know why it was visiting. This is not normally a place where ghosts hang around. This is a place of highly distilled numbness, numbness like a golden haze. And a place of serial discipline, a routine unlike anything found in nature. And there's a place where I don't want to go. It's the place through the coin. It's when the coin turns gauzy. It's when you poke your hand through its cobwebs. It's what you find over there. It's how much effort it takes. Feeling. It's all the rocky places involved, the trails, the dust. It's the essential aridity. It's the remarks from trees you don't believe in. It's the dreadful persistence of muscles, in the face of all these imaginary doubts. It's the campground. There are six of us, each with a little personal tent. Six mushrooms arranged in a circle. No flashlights. Just stars and candle lanterns. No apologies. Just quiet and the night breeze. No armor. No manufacturing. Circles of arms and chains of hands. Myrrh of voices, talking into midst of quiet. Quiet. Quiet. Quiet. And the campfire is a brilliant lively circle. And the night is everlasting.

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May 05 caught in the act
I told someone poetry was "my notoriety." I told someone I write every day. And now I think I'll never write again -- the magic goes away when I discuss it. I told someone I wouldn't want to be a "professional poet" because I would have to make too many compromises in the creative process. Actually -- it's because the creative process is too fragile to withstand that kind of pressure. I told someone I had a difficult time with housekeeping. I told him I was a single parent and I felt I had a lot of burdens. I told him writing helped "illuminate" my life. I was making it all up. I told someone I didn't write about my kids -- I didn't find them inspiring -- I don't know why that is, I said. I told someone I used to write a lot about nature, but now I write more about fairy tales and fantasy. That doesn't sound exactly true. I told someone I wrote "household poems." I told someone I find it hard to write about current events. I told someone I write about emotional states -- I look within and try to find an image that matches what I'm feeling. But that it's stupid to write about "feelings." I told someone I write for as long as it takes to feel some "satisfaction." I told someone I wanted to go a little too far in my next project. I told someone I was looking for collaborators, that I didn't want to do all of it myself. I told someone I found the internet to be an extremely boring, overly dense, and way too perky place. I told someone I found a natural balance of darkness and light working its way into my writing. I told someone I had problems with my parents' taking so many foster children. I told someone to keep their sighing to themselves. I called someone "honey." I said "thank you" to someone. I never once said the word "spirituality." The way I talk -- it's a little naive. You can't take the Illinois prairie out of me. You can't take the confessional out of me. I told someone I'd like to talk to them again someday. I told someone I would take the "I think so" out of there -- it just introduces an extraneous consciousness. I have to take the cat to the vet tomorrow. I might force myself to go into the office tomorrow. I would really like to disappear.

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May 06 somnia
Wide awake at 4 am. Wire haired worries scratched and skittered their way around the chalkboard walls of the small hot room. Dark sky exhaled dramatically and journal leered at her and sprouted multiple pens, all sweaty, that couldn't be grasped. Seams of pink and sooty clouds marred the beach sky at 5. The undistinguished shy salt water laid so still it went unnoticed. She couldn't cry because she had no tissues, so she had to make do with exuding long islands of fog from the side of her head. Back in the warm day bed by 6. The ark listed, moldy and neglected, in the back yard, crawling with earthworms and winged ants. Mated birds tried to tell her what to do. With the docility of baby's hair, she tumbled into a dream, wearing a yellow disposable jumpsuit. The dream was flooded with a curious red water. Deep streams of red water tumbled over rocks at the side of the road. A surging wave of red water, two feet high with a sparkling curl on top, spanned the road, in the sun, a flood of all the wine you ever wanted her to drink. Pajama man spoke German from his deep green flannels and red plaid belted bathrobe. He invited her to Maine -- or was that mein? -- but she didn't understand him. Where would they try to walk? Through the scrub fields of blueberries or along the bare limbed deciduous coastline? A mirror invaded the story, making demands. She turned all perfect and delirious. Her pink shirt opened at the throat and you saw her many necklaces, the ornate silver, piles of coral beads, and the tiny turquoise eye. Then a kiss was in the dream, with no aridity and no delays. Walking Bee, did you know that was your gift? Two raccoons crawled from the storm drain, raised their masks, and asked. I didn't know, I said. I swear by this night's golden crescent moon, I made believe.

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May 07 run into rain
Fantastic thunderstorm. I want to wash my hands in the rain. My hands feel heavy. They ache with heat and humidity. I thought about yesterday's writing all day. I wanted to improve it. I wanted to deconstruct it. I wanted to criticize it. Now I'm tired of it. I'm training myself not to desire a sustained interest in anything for longer than one day. I want to wash my hands in the rain. I worked in the office for five hours today. Assembling quantities of incoherences into release notes. Then adding links by the hundreds. My wrists hurt. Who cares. I'm communicating a company intelligence, not a personal intelligence. I want to wash my face in the rain. Gossip. Chocolate. Coca-Cola. Whining boys. Ex-husbands. Heat. I went home with a stomach-ache. I'm sceptical about a week of this in July. When I will only want to stand in the rain. Example: any saints that stood in the rain? Only the sun I think. Tomorrow: monsoons. Trembling. The swarthy cherub. Our lady of hand cream. Dog pills in peanut butter. The menacing hillsides. Money. Parents, asleep in the courtyard. I'm afflicted with loneliness the way a rabbit's afflicted with nerves. You can see loneliness pulsing in the blood vessels in my ears. It makes my nose twitch. I want to scamper, frightful, into the bushes and only come out at night in rainstorms to nibble at the basil.

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May 08 white towel, black butterfly
I look for myself, but I do not find myself. I belong to chrysanthemum hours, clearly delineated in long rows of vases. I must make something decorative of my soul. I don't know what overly /pompous/ and well-chosen details define the substance of my spirit. My love for the ornamental exists, no doubt, because I feel in it something identical to the substance of my soul. Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet #165 ~~~~~~~~~~~ I've gotten too old for emotional extremes. Or have I? I'm most afraid of a vagueness or a numbness in my future. I feel it, the idle pricklings of the fear, while making macaroni and cheese. I know I'm making macaroni and cheese. I'd rather not be making macaroni and cheese. But I am making macaroni and cheese. That's all there is to it. I don't think I've gotten too old for emotional extremes. Just last night -- I had to take a soft thing to bed with me. It happened to be a white towel. Not even a very high quality white towel. It was flimsy and rough-surfaced. I think it was stolen from poolside in a Marriott outside of Boston, by accident. It was something to hold. I felt an emotion I have never felt before. What was it? It was a veneer. Dried violet. Smoked vinegar. It was vinyl. It was variegated and vulnerable. It had a vagary and a vastness. It was vinca major. It was a violin. It was variable, yet vehement. It was varnished, layers and layers and layers of varnish. Her name was Veronica. Why did it hurt to be awake? She loved the ornamental. She took snapshots. Here's one of this, and one of that. What should I do when fears burn in my forearms? She watched the black swallowtail, a nice butterfly, fluttering in the Rose of Sharon. She wandered but she was never lost. Which town did these evils come from? Which chrysalis? She watched the clouds build up and had no thoughts whatsoever. She snuck a cigarette at midnight and watched the pelting rain fall past her face. Where is my enemy? Why use such cunning tortures? Her feet were beautiful, and regular. She admired them. Her waist was long and curved and smooth as the first inner curl of the conch. Why have you been silent? Silent from my birth? She made dinner, macaroni and cheese. She completed all the required paperwork and returned almost every phone call. What is this for? When will this be over?

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May 09 encuentro
Encuentro (Encounter) Remedios Varo

May 10 fretful shimmering
Screeching up to a deadend. Who wrote this stuff? It wasn't me, that's for sure. Sepia. Her tears started out clear, and then they turned sepia. Sepia-colored? sepia-toned? to sepia? B says she knows what I'm going through even though I never talk about it. She says if I talked more about it, I would get bored hearing myself talk and my obsession would go away. I say if I refuse to talk about it, my obsession will feel neglected and move out of the house. Meanwhile, I'm sneaking it moonpies every night. Whatever you feed will grow. This is a primary spiritual principle. I heard that on the radio tonight driving home in a shimmering rain. I didn't know what to make of it. "I will sing you a little song," I tell the obsession. He sits in the closet growing fatter and I sneak him another moonpie. He doesn't seem very happy either. In fact, he's nauseous and flabby and doesn't want to listen. I'm tired of these italics. I don't know what to do. I'm stuck in italics. May 26th my kids leave for Phoenix. By the time they get there, I will have started the metamorphosis. Last night my battery was dead. The garage guy came out and jumpstarted me. My wee nephew had a ruptured appendix. I'm being sued by my enemy; no news from court. Fifteen dogs and cats died in a kennel fire in Trumbull.

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May 12 why I love Fernando
because I too concern myself with the boss's green glassy eyes and the way his frayed t-shirt shelters beneath his collar because 500 pounds of documentation can be hideously flawed by one weevilly misplaced comma because Corporate Drive is subject to mysterious llamas, and isolated walkers, and dead ends, and rain because I hear a sighing noise above my head and I can't tell if it's thunder, air conditioning, or an unusually massive load test simulation because unrelieved tedium can only find joy a brutal, unsettling enterprise because at any given moment I can discover two or three relentlessly painful sensations if I put my mind to it because no one should have to suffer the oppression of public misuse of words because I too want to write a thousand fragments of someone else's journal because you can start reading anywhere and immediately grasp the whole plot because you only have to read one sentence, and you immediately grasp the whole plot because you only have to read the title, and you immediately grasp the whole plot because variation and charm are without a doubt unwarranted because clouds of different shapes and colors provide an atmosphere of reality because other poets are so slippery it's impossible to make contact with them because the only real color is gray because Disquiet is so comforting "A fractured assemblage of quasi-symbolist reveries, cynical epigrams, musings on quotidian torpor, and gorgeously wrought depressive fits, the book is probably as close as Pessoa could ever come to writing an autobiography ... " Voice Literary Supplement

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May 14 floralalia
Must-have books: Leonora Carrington's fiction Janet Kaplan's biography of Remedios Varo The most exciting part of my weekend (1): Reading that weird story by Leonora Carrington ("My Flannel Knickers," in The Penguin Book of Modern Fantasy by Women) and then gradually remembering that Remedios and Leonora were friends in Mexico The most exciting part of my weekend (2): Painting the piano cow's hooves black Leonora quote: "Anybody over forty and toothless should be sensible enough to be quietly knitting an original new body, instead of wasting the cosmic wool." What am I waiting for: I don't know, Jeanne. I wish I had had more of a chance to talk to you about it. I'm waiting for my self-esteem to improve as if by magic. I'm waiting for my voice to get less shaky. I'm waiting for courage. I'm waiting for my parents to pass on. I'm waiting for a partner. I'm waiting for the next full moon after this one. Primary accomplishment of this weekend: You can actually see that I have pink rhododendron blossoms and a fabulous exploding peach azalea up the hill in the far back yard. Secondary accomplishment of this weekend: I bought a pair of jeans. What's the point of being able to wear jeans to work if you don't have a pair of jeans. I know, I'm weird. I picked up a pair off the rack and bought them without trying them on. They fit perfectly. They are a gray-green color and have a cunning little plaid facing around the inside of the waistband. I feel like an American. What I gazed at: Foreground, white drifts of snow-in-summer wafting over the rock wall Background, the mystical lilac potency of the dwarf Miss Kim's flowers. The questions at hand: What would happen to me if I stopped daily writing and started working on crafting and revision Why am I so attached to the journal format and what if I let go of it What's the point of anonymity Who am I

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May 15 fantasy 101
I you he she it we they are hesitating. I am hesitating. Ahhh -- why are you hesitating, my dear? Well, why are YOU hesitating? Well, what are you waiting for? I'm waiting for the miracle of the interchangeable fantasies. This has never happened before, so why should it happen now? The replacement part is not as high in quality as the original. Or is it? Lunch can be served again. Documents will scroll themselves out of the computer. The kitchen tile will remold itself into terra cotta with embedded shards of cobalt. There is a sandy beach outside the door and a constant breeze. My son becomes completely bald and plays the cello for me on his infrequent visits. Arthur lights a single candlestick and walks around the patio waiting for inspiration to strike. It never does. She laughs at him. Luisa comes over and gives me a santos and a costume. I never use the phone. Night develops a nutritious quality; in fact, the moonlight itself can be eaten with knife and fork and is quite delectable. In a hut with no electronics and no plumbing -- nothing can BREAK! I get a grant for conversation. Our conversation bathes in an ancient undiscovered aquifer. No need to spar with allusions; mentally we know we are poisoned and so allow indiscriminate chelation. The constant stream of healing makes hydroelectric power. We harness it into the million green candles of summer. The mermaids are fat. They let us comb their hair and decorate their breasts with henna paste. But they don't talk so we slap their silly rumps and they roll and splash away to join the pink walrus. ~~~~~ I found out ... why I was hesitating ... there is no miracle ... It's not an interchangeable part. Fantasy is too organic. It always tends back to the original. Which is more like ice blue eyes and hassles in New Hampshire.

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May 16 I don't get out much
I ate a cold artichoke heart and a hot potato with three little cubicles of melted butter. I drank a drink made of earth. I wanted to cry like a river but instead I dragged myself into the incomprehensible now. I ate artichoke and potato, with a heart so hot it melted three little cubicles of butter. Earth drank a cold drink made of me. Uncomprehending, I dragged the river to retrieve the tears of now. Cold artichoke and hot potato met over their spherical heart of melted butter. Earth became so thirsty she tried to drink the river. It's a drag that you don't understand the only answer is now. ~~~~~~ Well, that was boring. ~~~~~~ When my son comes home, I have to ask myself many questions. Why do the toilets stop working when they see him coming? Why are there three bottles of Tabasco sauce on the kitchen counter, two large and one small? What species of creatures are living in those two cunningly landscaped cages under hot lamps in the basement? ~~~~~~ THE INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL OF ARTS AND IDEAS ~ NEW HAVEN ~ STAMFORD ~ NEW LONDON ~ JUNE 16 - JULY 1 ~ giulio cesare ~ teatro hugo and ines ~ convergence ~ rome and jewels ~ bloomsbury ~ vita and virginia ~ gothic films ~ southside johnny & the asbury jukes ~ the edge ~ sculpture 2000 international ~ sail for the sound 2000 ~ neighborhood watch stilts international ~ strange fruit ~ antony sher ~ artists in conversation ~ the arts and public policy ~ corner talk Do you think I have been GROUNDED for the past six months?

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May 18 I don't want to write
I went up into the back yard last night and looked at the moon. I felt a ball of shame inside me. It was turning and turning on a fountain of water like the ball at the Chinese restaurant. Tonight I went to the open mike and read two poems. I kept telling myself it doesn't matter what you read, it just matters that you read. This week I gave a friend of mine a BIG, BIG surprise present. The next morning I woke up feeling a little contented. Tonight she said "It made me cry" and hugged me. Generosity doesn't come easily to me. I can't write. I'm humiliated by my words. I'm humiliated by my emotions. I feel like I'm on the ground. I don't want to meet with my boss tomorrow. I don't want to go to Portland. I have a toothache. I don't have time to go to the dentist. I plunged a toilet today, so one is working. The other is full of crap. This is a journal. I'm ashamed of it. Tonight when I was reading I realized what was missing. The risks. There are none. It's a laboratory with no volatile chemicals and the fans and the sprinkler systems are on high all the time. My reading was simple. I was nervous. I made myself be part of the group. It felt different. I didn't read "Antidote Poem." I didn't feel strong enough. I'm not strong enough. I'm afraid I'll run out of poetry. I'm afraid I'll never stop being lonely even though I've never been lonely before. I'm afraid because I feel miserable and I have nothing to feel miserable about, so how will I feel when I have something to feel miserable about? In my dream last night I felt a tiny chip of this emotion: trust. A feeling of being cared for or cared about. It was a tiny chip of a feeling. I would recognize it again anywhere. I'm going to make a sign for our table at the Art Show.

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May 20 recreation
Technical details are going to be the death of me. Today I played Derek and the Dominos' Layla at top volume while I cleaned the bathroom. It seemed to help. It's easier to scrub crap out of the toilet when I can't hear myself think. Then I choreographed "I am Yours." It came out a cross between an unbeliever's love song and the prayer of a lonely heart. Well, it came out okay. And I danced it twice, and it came out the same way each time so that must be the way it's supposed to be danced. Hard to describe -- constant very slight bouncing on loose knees with feet still and together on the floor. Waving arms around at a certain slow speed. No twisting of hips or moving of feet allowed; funny how wrong that felt. The choreography generated a rub-your-tummy and pat-your-head type of challenge because the top half of the body and the bottom half were moving at completely different speeds and rhythms. Um. What am I doing. Oh yeah, trying to recreate a mentality I can survive within... Leonora. I even checked Andre Breton's L'Amour fou out of the library. I am swooning. I also checked out Mary Gordon. Her book Seeing Through Places looked mildly interesting but reading it made me feel like I was in a death trap. Leonora made me happy happy happy. Oh, I will never understand it. Leonora makes me happier than Virginia Woolf made me because Leonora lived a long life. I want to move to Mexico and follow in the footsteps of the surrealists. Except I think some of them almost starved down there. I know Mina Loy almost did. I don't know if surrealism is relevant today. I don't think it is. I have to understand it better. It's not just fantasy. It's not just misogyny. It's not just blasphemy... Maybe surrealism is a post-war strategy. When we are in a pre-war status. What to do. Um. I was at the art show most of the day. At one point I was surrounded by three women who were discussing the need to make the bed before leaving the house. I was trying to make the point that I NEVER MAKE THE BED. I don't think they were listening to me. One had not only made the bed that morning, but had put on CLEAN SHEETS. Another had to make the bed because the unmade bed was too much of an invitation to crawl back in. The third, if she ever didn't make the bed in the morning, had to make the bed at night before getting into it. I will repeat it here, my bedunmaking manifesto: I never make the bed. And I will never make the bed again, unless I'm in someone else's house. And I never make my kids make the bed. One comforter in winter, one sheet in summer, and you just leave it wadded up in the corner all day and straighten it out at night. It works just fine AND it saves time that you need to do cool things like clean toilets and dance and study surrealism.

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May 21 Loplop and the Bride of the Wind
I love this. This fantastic stuff seems twice as solid and three times as comforting as reality. I'll just go here and try to stay for awhile, until they drag me out. Preface, or Loplop Presents the Bride of the Wind On the threshold of a house of imposing size, the only house in a town built of thunderbolt stone, two nightingales hold each other tightly entwined. The silence of the sun presides over their frolic. The sun strips off its black skirt and white bodice. And is gone. Night falls at a stroke, with a crash. Behold this man: in water up to his knees, he stands proudly upright. Violent caresses have left luminous traces on his superb pearly body. What on earth is he doing, this man with his turquoise gaze, his lips flushed with generous desires? This man is bringing joy to the landscape. What on earth is this white cloud doing? This white cloud escapes hissing, from a spilt basket. It is bringing life to nature. Where have these two strange people sprung from, coming slowly down the street, followed by a thousand dwarfs? Is this the man they call Loplop, the Bird Superior, because of his gentle, fierce character? On his huge white hat he has caught in midflight an extraordinary bird with emerald plumage, a hooked beak, and a hard look. He has no fear. He has come from the house of fear. And the woman, whose upper arm is encircled by a narrow thread of blood, must be none other than the Bride of the Wind. Horses in all the windows. "Good morning, cousin. Good morning, cousin. What good wind has brought you hither?" Good wind, ill wind, I present to you the Bride of the Wind. Who is the Bride of the Wind? Can she read? Can she write French without mistakes? What wood does she burn to keep warm? She warms herself with her intense life, her mystery, her poetry. She has read nothing, but drunk everything. She can't read. And yet the nightingale saw her, sitting on the stone of spring, reading. And though she was reading to herself, the animals and horses listened to her in admiration. For she was reading The House of Fear, this true story you are now going to read, this story written in a beautiful language, truthful and pure. Max Ernst, 1938 Quoted from The House of Fear, by Leonora Carrington, E.P.Dutton, New York, 1988.

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May 22 we are encaged
Birds The river Arcida The maiden aunts The mermaid Lips Shoes and socks Speaking The horizontal Something sparkling The rabbit The streetlight The moon White Pink Pears Sugar Mountain Something soft Burning The elusive nightdress The magnetic Tears The cave The lily, or another flower My own personal repetitive symbols. When you write this many nights in a row, they emerge naturally. I'm probably forgetting something important, which will now come to haunt me. I couldn't believe that story Leonora wrote. The one with the hyena. I got to the end and I just gaped and gasped and shook my head and gasped some more. Hyenas and horses. Hmmm. But they have no resonance for me. I have learned two things: 1) that artists allow themselves to be obsessively repetitive and 2) that artists copy more than they invent. I don't really understand that repetitiveness. Or maybe I do. I could happily write over and over and over on the above topics and I probably will. But I'm not satisfied with that. I want there to be more and more discoveries. My symbols are tired. I need an extended period of travel. As far as copying -- it has been such a relief to find writers I like. I want to write like them. Why not? It's my "tradition." I think I'm resisting copying for no good reason. I've also been resisting revenge and blasphemy.

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May 23 too normal
It is possible to go into New York in the evening to socialize. (Just remember that.) I missed the damn train. So I just drove downtown and parked in the garage and took the local. I am remarkably adaptable to logistical snafus, figuring whatever's going to happen will happen anyway. I saw a man with a great huge mane of blond dreadlocks two feet long. I had to stare at him and I know he saw me staring at him. What can he expect. A little rain fell. I tried to call home. No answer. I had to admit I was my son's mother. I felt an intense desire to write at some points in the trip. About what, I don't know. Just to retreat into a private world, that's all. I wanted to just sit and drink and gobble appetizers. Instead I only had about two appetizers. What a waste. I introduced myself to a number of people. I shook a bunch of hands. I don't know. Is there a point to this? When I got home, I put my son to bed and ate a bowl of garlic and creamy potato soup and took out the trash. I felt ashamed of my weird curtains. Not that I will change them in any way. I feel sad. Socializing is draining. And I can't write afterwards. I become too normal or something.

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May 24 the beneficiary
Who has sunk lower? I sit and squirm, head in hands, and refuse to attempt to freewrite. He sends email, chain email, with words of wisdom from the Dalai Lama. I can't believe it. Maybe it was one of his kids using his mailing list. It's completely unlike him, unless he is much more discouraged or much more silly than I thought he was. How many friends did he send it to? FIFTEEN? His life will improve beyond his wildest dreams. I debated with myself. Then I sent it to -- NO ONE. My life will improve Slightly. There's a slight chance my life will improve slightly. Well you know, I am hopelessly demanding. I never imagined that I would be capable of being married, having children, having a house. I never imagined having a career or being able to make my own living. I was accompanied everywhere I went by great and powerful limitations. I remember vividly when I first realized I could say "Excuse me" and that the librarian would pay attention to me. Two magic words, and an end to hours of silent standing and waiting. When I get up the nerve to say them... Excuse me! My life has already improved beyond my wildest dreams! And -- I have a relationship! This occurred to me today. It's not a very good one, granted, given that it's with an invisible man. But then, neither are a lot of people's. I saw police cars and an ambulance. An accident. The traffic signal was not working. Flashing red only. After I passed through the intersection, I felt the horde of nameless fears take hold of me. I moaned a little. I wished it to be over right now -- the future that offers so much to fear. The only solution is to perform tasks. One after another. They are stacked up endlessly. Not even talking about work tasks. Return those swim trunks that are too small. Buy a hat, and sunscreen for Junior's trip to Arizona. Negotiate the events of tomorrow with him. Cook the salmon before it gets too old. The corn is already too old, but we'll eat it anyway. Walk the dog and pick up his poop. Stop at the grocery store. Fill out the permission slip for travel to Mexico and/or Canada. Call the airlines and straighten out that problem with the return flight. Light a candle and give the candle the task of worrying about whether my older son will actually show up to take the plane on Friday. The lawn really needs mowing, after steady rain for four days, but it's still too wet. Sometimes I ask for a refreshing thought, a surprise, a tiny uplifting gift so I know something is aware of me. I usually get it. Tonight it was a chain email from the Dalai Lama. I'm sorry. I can't resist. I wonder what this will do to me: Instructions for Life from the Dalai Lama This is what The Dalai Lama has to say on the millennium...all it takes is a few seconds to read and think. Do not keep this message. The mantra must leave your hands within 96 hours. You will get a very pleasant surprise. This is true even if you are not superstitious. I N S T R U C T I O N S F O R L I F E 1. Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk. 2. When you lose, don't lose the lesson. 3. Follow the three Rs: Respect for self Respect for others and Responsibility for all your actions. 4. Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck. 5. Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly. 6. Don't let a little dispute injure a great friendship. 7. When you realize you've made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it. 8. Spend some time alone every day. 9. Open your arms to change, but don't let go of your values. 10. Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer. 11. Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and think back, you'll be able to enjoy it a second time. 12. A loving atmosphere in your home is the foundation for your life. 13. In disagreements with loved ones, deal only with the current situation. Don't bring up the past. 14. Share your knowledge. It's a way to achieve immortality. 15. Be gentle with the earth. 16. Once a year, go someplace you've never been before. 17. Remember that the best relationship is one in which your love for each other exceeds your need for each other. 18. Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it. 19. Approach love and cooking with reckless abandon. FORWARD THIS MANTRA E-MAIL TO AT LEAST 5 PEOPLE AND YOUR LIFE WILL IMPROVE. 0-4 people: Your life will improve slightly. 5-9 people: Your life will improve to your liking. 9-14 people: You will have at least 5 surprises in the next 3 weeks. 15 people and above: Your life will improve drastically and everything you ever dreamed of will begin to take shape.

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May 25 hungry, still
There's nothing to eat. I mean it. There's absolutely nothing to eat. I could eat a banquet of roses, a platter of skyline, or a large tray of sunset. I could eat moss, poison ivy, and mushrooms, seasoned with the heady tears of grandfather's regrets. I could eat a stew of the troubles of the lonely, as fragrant as Friday with mussels and milk. I could eat all the noodles of memory, shaped like children's smiles, while the lost teeth fall to the bottom of the bowl. I could eat an immense meal of boredom and then nibble the edges of the hysterical digestive biscuit. I could eat at a miraculous buffet of stars and sex and shellfish, all boiled up together in an effervescence of ice. But alas, the cupboard is bare.

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May 26 twist
My kids are in Sedona. Or Flagstaff. Or Phoenix. Somewhere. A great grimacing of emotional expenditures trying to reclaim my beach. It didn't work. It's only day one though. The phrase is "fragrant as Friday" not "fragrant as tomorrow." I love "Little Francis" more than I've ever loved anything. ~~~~~~ Two ideas: Adopt a neglected public restroom. Make sure the tampon machine works and keep it stocked. Go in and clean every day. Put plants in there. Create strange little poetry magazines with covers out of brown paper card bags. Slip them in amongst the real estate brochures stacked everywhere. (This idea won't go away.) ~~~~~~ I'm not jealous of Leonora Carrington. I am utterly thrilled that her writing exists. I want to write just like her. My purest experience of abundance. And my purest experience of abandonment? Abandonment is not a familiar word to me. Or -- I live in abandonment as a fish lives in water. A look of sick depression twisted Francis's face. "But I thought," he said brokenly, "if one had the courage --" "Courage," said the hedgehog, concealing a smile behind his claw, "is a doutful virtue. You should kick and scream and cry and behave generally hysterically. Besides, you are not touching, you know." "I know," said Francis turning away with a lump in his throat. "You were made to stand square on your feet," continued the hedgehog relentlessly. "You're too resourceful." "I know," said Francis again. "You're harsh. You know fate really means nothing, you know about Nothing and the terrible imbecility of destiny." "Ah yes. I know." By this time a stream of cold tears ran down each cheek, but nobody paid much attention. He looked lonely and small in his enormous purple robe. "Couldn't somebody for God's sake hold my hand?" he asked, looking around. They all looked negative and embarrassed. "All right, forget it. One, two, three for our Indian Lancers!" They all started dancing and Francis hopped up and down, shouting and laughing, but his eyes looked frightened and unhappy. "Little Francis" Leonora Carrington ~~~~~~ Tomorrow I shall go learn about the snapping turtle.

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May 27 I sit down
I sit down to clown around to go to town to make a break to take the cake to isolate to inebriate my mind my spine my climb sublime to survive or shine right here in this house with the nagging pain the style of shame where the name of the game she said is chaos now when I sit down I don't drown I can't wait no who is late or what is fate melt don't crack till he come back till she shake frown when I sit down.

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May 29 a memorial
Sitting here wearing nothing but my unusual bhakti my fringed eyes watch the horses clad in brown sweat snort and grind their bits against the golden light they're wreathed in clouds of glow, the honorary gnats and ticks dance through the grass's gleaming tips, arrayed in swathes and swatches, purple, gray green, gray white and greenish gold ahead the rocky hillside looms like night White rooms upstairs where stones act out with feathers in dramatic silence I watch her demonstrate the bug-eyed freaks of love, abuse, and flagellation, counting out their sins for once in this theater of reproachfully applauding vulvas who sit in sceptical crescents before windows without curtains in this courtroom of the river, judge the pine tree, jury water, mud, and fields, the greenhouse and the gardens [unfinished]

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May 30 memorial (2)
Wearing unfamiliar scent of bhakti fringed eyes watch the horses clad in brown sweat snort and grind their bits against the golden light they're wreathed in clouds of glow, the congregating gnats and ticks dance through the grass's gleaming tips, arrayed in swathes and swatches, purple, gray green, gray white, orange, greenish gold ahead the rocky hillside looms like night Arriving stones, their pockets lined with feathers an audience joined to watch her demonstrate the bug-eyed freaks of love, abuse, and flagellation, counting out their sins for once onstage among the thousand rueful vulvas who announce their penance, then clap out beat of fertile crescents before windows without curtains in this courtroom of the river, judge the pine tree, jury, water, mud, and fields Put on these unworn robes of bhakti never mind that innocence is a ruined foundation that never once supported any but the airiest rooms that lust's an empty pool, skin's quenched by drought, her blush subsided into stains of rust along the jaw, twelve impulsive shamans squat and fart their musk of incense on the lawn, then bear these daughters, stranger girls with hands as soft as slippers on our hair.

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