Two sections from a journal of emotional sensation
Friday, April 5
10:28am
Where have I been? Oh, yes lost in the book—the last chapters when they
both died mysterious deaths—questions why—how—why—conflicting
stories and amazing parallels—The Tin Angel—memories—the last time I
saw him—kissed my hand—he became his father, the fate he resisted
most—only small differences—I miss him—grief again—I hear his songs
in my head—want to talk to someone else who knew him—he's singing
his songs in my head all morning.
11:12am
Checking—no message from you—J. is checking small disco balls in front
of a projector—images multiplied on the walls, the ceiling—my words
floating on film across the space—how do we begin this new stage? I
have to leave it up to you—I have no more energy to try—to negotiate—to
attempt anything new right now— no ability to make myself vulnerable
again—so it's up to you—dream a difference.
2:30pm
Feeling small and forgettable—late again—tunnel walls rush—I
apologized for today's mini-meltdown—read another tragic life—so alike
in ecstasy and suffering—what is important to think about? The next
step? The next task? Wherever thought falls—Whenever thought fails—
there's a message there— broken—broken open—message opened—rend
heart—shuts down before expanding—L. has her breakdown in Florida—
we try to be strong—hard to realize the function you serve in other
people's lives—your role: nurturing mom, critical parent to be impressed,
competitive sibling, fantasy sexpot, drinking buddy, friend in poetry,
secret admirer, rabid fan, party girl, stern father, dependent child—now
we all fall down together—1-2-3-4—we all fall down. "Give me your
troubles, I'll keep them with mine"—P.J.Harvey revises Bob Dylan.
4:40pm
Mouth numb—tears gone—Spanish tape on the walkman—on my way to
better hair—half my life in transit—in transition—thoughts of health
insurance and babies—in 2 weeks, 2 root canals—ready to listen to A., the
queen of hair—her life—her son—her constant dissatisfactions—I love
you A., the hairdresser—I love you K.G., the dentist and the kids jumping
on the train and the illusion of security and the illusion of permanence.
5:03pm
And the girl cries "Yay! Escalators!" jumping up and down—escalatora no
ascensor—no ascensor—here we go again—up and down—strummed the
song this morning in memory of him—and my body in pieces—spiritual
body, physical body, emotional body, intellectual body—body of memory
all shimmering pieces, shattering pieces—I will pick the pieces up.
L. says "All of this and we are at war." So I promise not to be your enemy
if you promise not be mine—let's make a pact.
Daily message today from the Tibetan masters: think of someone you care
deeply about who is suffering—take that suffering inside yourself on the
in-breath and breathe out compassion, love, light then expand your vision
to take on the pain of those you barely know, then those who make you
angry—your enemies—expand the circle to include everyone—Tonglen
practice expanding the heart—I can do this but then what—what
behaviors, actions, speech corresponds with this? How not to act out of
selfishness, neediness, anger, possessiveness, fear, self-protection, self-
interest—there's a blind spot a mile wide.
* * *
Thursday, June 6
12:56pm
Anxious—rapid heartbeat—waiting for my ride to Boston—taking too
much stuff as always—inside head a mess—inside heart frozen—you
mentioned "survival" "fight or flight" Here I am almost constantly in that
state.
1:11pm
I have no more poems in me. Write these notes and notice but no poems
come. I'm afraid—bird chatter—bags stuffed—I sit—I wait for the new
adventure—will have to grieve for us later—no room now.
4:45pm
Rain hits the car—Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl" brings tears
raining— remembering you—remembering.
5:11pm
Pit stop—walk in on B. in the men's room "oops"—now passing the fake
tree/ cellphone tower and my head starts to ache. Big gray sky.
6:04pm
Slowed down—tired—entering another city. "Where are we?" B. says
"We're in a cave!" "Are we under the Charles River?" J.S. asks. I keep
thinking, "You're right— of course you're right—yes—this is the right
thing to do." But part of me balks —disagreeing—tugging in the opposite
direction—I say let my reading be over and I'll sleep in the back row—
sleep until tomorrow—fresh step—new deal—but now stranded on Mass
Pike at rush hour.
Friday, June 7
7:55am
Wide awake in Boston staring at the pale gray stucco ceiling. Roomie's
alarm clock 8:00am blasts "Low Rider" I think about you but I don't want
to. Tiny fragile bubbles and flakes float in my memory—dry leaves fall
out of my notebook—force me to remember. Yesterday my horoscope
said "don't tell your secrets, powerful people are watching you"—or
something like that—didn't bring warm enough clothes.
Dry leaves—leaves in my head—dry leaves in my hair.
8:45am
Just read Bill Luoma's Dear Dad—now don't wanna move—roomie's
getting ready for work says she's staying at her boyfriend's so tonight
room’s all to myself—now she's gone—quiet chilly air-conditioned
room—alone with the big stuffed dog on my roommate’s bed—slightly
buzzed from drinking late last night—drinking with the boys—hilarious
debates on hip-hop and sports—heart happy watching their hands
dance—the insult game—comparing navels after three or four beers—
idiosyncratic social styles—how to use your body to tell a story.
2:40pm
Back at the Fogg—foggy sinus head—got lost on Mass Ave missed our
turn—too much jabbering—too many words—sitting in the courtyard
waiting for F.—saw your name last night and missed you—slipping but
not too far—dreaming of a physical discipline—throw myself into
yoga/Tai chi—right now serene under decorative archways.
8:09pm
"Hill" "happening" "sort" "girl"—poetry out of sleep—these voices shaped
with static white noise—torn between poetry and dinner invitation—
choose poetry—sit bubbly stomached in back row—back of the room—
back to normal.
Saturday, June 8
6:11am
Someone asked me to give him a blow-job—I was weighing the—uh—
issue— woke up with a start.
7:12am
Stay fire-engine red focused—increase memory capacity after the Dugout.
11:25am
Relief—no need to be social—rest—solitude—ducks on the Charles—
finally sun— thoughts moving slowly—fine—stop the noise and chatter—
listen to the big poem.
I fold with you—a solid piece inside me—I used to call her Sophia—now I
guess I can call her Al.
Last night shopping for the right bar—the big group splits up and I end
up chatting about the history of porn—Bettie Page—art porn and the poet
in academia versus that other life—the outside one—that other—that
other one.
This morning in the park I meet a white South African woman and she
tells me about the four-year process of reparations and reconciliation and
how wonderful Nelson Mandela is—her face bright beaming hope.
12:20pm
Walk down Memorial Drive—lovely calm—Hong Kong Boat Festival and
the clear blue everything.
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