What She Wrote

In spite of my urge to destroy all of my journals because I believe they possess spirits of their own and are haunting me, I cannot set them aflame. Tonight I decided to open one up and see what bits of wisdom might be gleaned from its pages. I was twenty seven years old. I was in an agony trying to quit smoking. Endlessly. I would not figure out for another several years that the only thing I could do to quit smoking was to medicate my brain properly. My poetry, though never excellent, was experiencing a growth of maturity. Some years I go through several journals, but in 1997 there was just this one.

I used this journal like an oracle. I stole phrases, scraps, and thoughts and pasted them here like answers to questions I haven't yet asked. Maybe some of your questions will be answered too.

What She Wrote:



Each Day tomorrow loomed like a big fresh scar on the tissue of life, not healing, glowing in the lamplight of today.

I saw death in the mirror at seventeen. Ten years later I look back with compassion at the girl who was not afraid to see god in the devil. To see her own soul pass through the light of the sun.

I will let my hands absorb the cold. I will let my fingers numb in the coming frost. I will let my nose gather the whole winter into its round planes, for the sake of another cigarette. It's the smoking that matters.

How do I know that other people are better at judging my capabilities or my faults than I am? Don't I know myself better than all? And if I am good enough to say that I am bad at anything, aren't I also good enough, and fair enough, to say that I am good at some things?

In my own cage I have forgotten that I am remembered outside of it.

I want to find all those threads that bind human beings together. I want to find those common factors that transcend race, creed, and background. I want to explore people's differences to find our sameness.

I want to study the people who study people.

And it reminds me of the French tragedies where every one dies beautifully, clutching at heaving breasts, bruised in black and white.

Is there a pit yet dug for me at the edge of this moment?

If I knew repent for living perhaps I would fall to my knees. With exhaustion, I would gladly do so. But I know not repent. I told someone once that I was on a ship that had no stops. How true I cry! The lesson here is to live each moment for the sake of each moment.

Self self self. Sick of self. Sick of sick self.

They were, I think, afraid of being afraid of me and for me.

Did you forget I wrote the winter? In weeds of faded black. It's almost time, my love, to ask the springtime back. Did you forget I wrote the springtime? In the lightest whitest lawn. It's almost time, my love, for the springtime to be gone. Did you forget I wrote the summer? In the shade of the old plum tree. It's almost time, my love, for your return to me. Did you forget I wrote the autumn? In wool lit with setting golden sun. It's almost time, my love...for winter has begun.