Week ending May 30
Fortune tellers grabbing my hands everywhere I go.
A completely nonverbal dream.
Naked, up all night, in the kitchen, on the floor, eating jars and jars of Gnutella.
Like a day long heart attack, but I never die.
He encourages falling.
The ink used to print it was extremely dangerous, but I wanted it anyway. Even if it killed me.
The state of being a woman, and what cannot be escaped.
Testing the waters is delusionary, because there is no water.
I want to read everything I see instantly.
I cannot hear but instead feel the slammed door.
I have lots and lots and lots of tape.
Because I am right at my limit.
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About Diary of a 36th Year
I started writing in a paper journal right after my 36th birthday in October, 2008; it has become a collage of scrapbooking, diary writing, a lady's common place book, printed out web articles and blog entries, photos and pictures, poems, dreams, emails, lists, receipts, found items... What is excerpted here is the less embarrassing, and more textual fragments thereof.
Never, never forgetting Anais Nin, with an eye toward Joanne Kyger's journals & journal poems, and remembering Virginia Woolf's insistence that everything must be documented, the diary blog is a palimpsest of new narrative, old narrative, and post modern collage styles.
Updated every Sunday.
Never, never forgetting Anais Nin, with an eye toward Joanne Kyger's journals & journal poems, and remembering Virginia Woolf's insistence that everything must be documented, the diary blog is a palimpsest of new narrative, old narrative, and post modern collage styles.
Updated every Sunday.
