Week ending June 27
Drank 3 glasses of wine, and ate a cream puff.
Because happiness is not in me.
"Call me no longer Naomi"
I clapped 59 times.
Three hearts glued together so I tore the top two off.
There is nothing predictable.
What we could have done together, I did alone.
Johnson's Baby Shampoo smell.
It is hard to express my feelings.
dwi pada.
Should eat more nectarines.
Yuppie ranting: "I get up early in the morning to make my money, how about you?"
Homeless person ranting: "When you look into the mirror what do you see?"
Adagio becomes adagietto.
So I was waiting for the conversation to end.
My butterfly and Jack Spicer's butterfly duking it out.
All my despairs, my own fault.
If this were a lullaby.
I told God he was funny.
The bells are ringing.
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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.
