Been going through journals, typing them up and letting go of the books. Found this today . . .
July 21, 1996
I know Exile. I taste salt on my tongue after I lick my lips. Sweat covers my body like a shroud. There is no holy place; every place is holy. How can I describe what I am seeing? There are cars outside, I hear them driving by. I used to pretend they were waves on the ocean. I hear insects outside, a constant whirly buzzing. I see the lampshade, skin with scars, thin enough to allow the light burning beneath it to shine through. Feels heavy here, the back of my shoulders. What if I pay attention to all of that tension? Focus into where I hurt. Tight heavy weight pushing pulling. Separates me. Try to move you. Stretched piece of leather, hard. You move up to my jaw, make me tired. No way to knead you out. Oh, ow. Why are you here? Why do you make me feel so tired? Why do you make me feel so guilty when my grandmother is in the next room hooked up to an oxygen tank, her skin clammy gray white, her hair not hers? Quiet, shrinking, smaller and smaller into the couch. She is proud, no pictures please. She will have a will. Her pink bathrobe makes her look even smaller. No reflection of pink on her cheeks, her skin sucks it all in, not enough energy to reflect light. Grey. So many layers of life. Her car is blue. Janet called me a sweetheart. I am tired. Francis loves me. The 8-track machine is working well. My ankle is tight. It crackles every time I move it, try to stretch. Is there a perfect poem? Kerry got engaged in front of everyone yesterday. The water in the room is too cold. Here comes mother to disturb me. She has a pack of Marlboro Medium 100’s. I know that she’ll try to talk to me as I try to write, she always does. Whenever I’m doing something, she suddenly is interested in what I have to say about this or that.