(no subject)

Life seems very hard right now. Not in the sense that it is difficult, but that it is strange and impenatrable. It's like raising your hand to knock a wall to see if there's a hollow crawl space behind it, but doing so on some alien artifact, where you do not even know if sound reverbetrates or what that might mean. I know what the Diet of Worms was, and I know how the British Star Chamber's assumption of maleficum trial law contributed directly to the future of birth control legislation. But I do not know when I am being lied to or betrayed. I do not know my best friends, of which I have lost three this year, so thoroughly and completely that I cannot look them in the face. And I make more, have more, but am tired of the processes of making, which is gasoline and conversation and nasty exposure and learning how to handle people-- what they want and need to hear, determining your responsibilites to them-- only to have things slip out from their moorings. The gaps in my understanding are vast and sprawling, and I feel like my mind is a spiderweb, stretching thin and tight, covering nothing. I did not eat yesterday to stave off sickness, and I did not eat the day before, and I cannot remember if I ate the day before that. 72 hours.

There were things to do, it was like making the funeral arrangements, numbers and deletions, electronic systems to reconfigure with precision and the minimum of fuss or lingering, arrangements, stray thoughts-- they will have no dishes, no table, no television. Not sad or upset so much as blank and small. There is a strangeness almost reminiscent. I had not realized we'd had the same teachers, that I would have to look at them and host them and give them somthing to eat and somewhere to sit. Oh. Oh. (Erin brave. Erin uncrying. She worked for three days cleaning the house and cooking the food before she so much as. And she once. Only once. But the strains have worn at tendons, and now I cry at books and movies and thoughts.)

I can forgive anything but a lack of respect. I've had so little. I am Kim's dumb cunt bitch and the baby Keith runs all the way to Kansas City from, and I am my mother's least favorite child. I have so much trouble stringing together respect for myself, and am so careful with my boundaries and my limits.

Summers, I move through a book every day or so. I turned in papers and hugged Danny goodbye and am almost finished with Year of Magical Thinking. And I have to move, and move again, and buy and sell, the commerce of things, the methodical movement. Accounts to be transfered. What is an heiress without money, an older sister without children, a friend without friends? And I was afraid of losing Danny, of losing the girls, and Corey, but so far the rest of the system is holding, which is good because I cannot stand for more cogs to fall out. Hands full of springs. Finish the novella Sonambulist. Edit the play. Work on the sonnet sequence. Do.

(no subject)

Life seems very hard right now. Not in the sense that it is difficult, but that it is strange and impenatrable. It's like raising your hand to knock a wall to see if there's a hollow crawl space behind it, but doing so on some alien artifact, where you do not even know if sound reverbetrates or what that might mean. I know what the Diet of Worms was, and I know how the British Star Chamber's assumption of maleficum trial law contributed directly to the future of birth control legislation. But I do not know when I am being lied to or betrayed. I do not know my best friends, of which I have lost three this year, so thoroughly and completely that I cannot look them in the face. And I make more, have more, but am tired of the processes of making, which is gasoline and conversation and nasty exposure and learning how to handle people-- what they want and need to hear, determining your responsibilites to them-- only to have things slip out from their moorings. The gaps in my understanding are vast and sprawling, and I feel like my mind is a spiderweb, stretching thin and tight, covering nothing. I did not eat yesterday to stave off sickness, and I did not eat the day before, and I cannot remember if I ate the day before that. 72 hours.

There were things to do, it was like making the funeral arrangements, numbers and deletions, electronic systems to reconfigure with precision and the minimum of fuss or lingering, arrangements, stray thoughts-- they will have no dishes, no table, no television. Not sad or upset so much as blank and small. There is a strangeness almost reminiscent. I had not realized we'd had the same teachers, that I would have to look at them and host them and give them somthing to eat and somewhere to sit. Oh. Oh. (Erin brave. Erin uncrying. She worked for three days cleaning the house and cooking the food before she so much as. And she once. Only once. But the strains have worn at tendons, and now I cry at books and movies and thoughts.)

I can forgive anything but a lack of respect. I've had so little. I am Kim's dumb cunt bitch and the baby Keith runs all the way to Kansas City from, and I am my mother's least favorite child. I have so much trouble stringing together respect for myself, and am so careful with my boundaries and my limits.

Summers, I move through a book every day or so. I turned in papers and hugged Danny goodbye and am almost finished with Year of Magical Thinking. And I have to move, and move again, and buy and sell, the commerce of things, the methodical movement. Accounts to be transfered. What is an heiress without money, an older sister without children, a friend without friends? And I was afraid of losing Danny, of losing the girls, and Corey, but so far the rest of the system is holding, which is good because I cannot stand for more cogs to fall out. Hands full of springs. Finish the novella Sonambulist. Edit the play. Work on the sonnet sequence. Do.