| edged out 3 part 4 - 1982 september-october | work & days: a lifetime journal project |
16 September 1982 The minuet from Orphée. Eurydice waits. Do you really know. You've got my number, ah. Embodiment interaction. increasing presence in the immediate feeling tone of each sensation. We learn to move within these forms of energy, becoming familiar with different sensory levels until finally we contact the neutral wholesome energy that pervades all outer forms. At the first level the recognizable and placed. Closely attend. The first layer of feeling opens to a feeling of greater density and toughness characterized by a holding quality which blocks. It can be gently melted. At the third level only a kind of totally melting quality. At this level the individual ego doesn't exist, we are the feeling. Then we know how to use the raw material of experience. At the beginning of any sensation we increase and expand it. When we reach the second we expand that as well. 18 Scar. [sketch] [Riddley Walker] What kind of connexion. What kynd of connexion Brooder Walker's boy wer going to do
Here I am your new connexion man. An crippel Only I had to wait for the different shapes of it to shif a part so I cud work be twean. Which they done then I did work in be twean and seen the shapes of it. It wants keaping qwyet til it joyns up with the res of its self if it ever does. How I pult the dog I lissent him in. I sust how it wer with him some times when wer boath lissening hy 1 of us wud starve the other like when 1 boat puts a nother in its wind shadder. Yu ar lukin at the idear ov me and I am it Eusa sed, wut is the idear of yu? The littl man sed, it is wut it is. I aint the noing ov it Im jus onle the showing ov it. 19 At the church turn-off. Bin two cars running parallel. Stop for the orphan girl the little strayd gypsy girl. Take her back across the yard to the one of those, is there someone will have her. This woman will, in the dark daylight back of the door. Post office? Store?
lite grean eyes open so wide the strong an the weak inner acting and what happent in the cloudit chaymber - About to shit, am next to the window, field of blond hairs raised up in the light, quickly done, ejected, I can see them bowing over, I can watch them lying down. 20 The little child I'd given for adoption when it was born, family brought it to visit, left shit on my lap that had been on its overall, mother apologized, their family meager dark people (Orthodox Jewish family on bus), the child "but it had wonderful eyes," it's Paul's, blond. A huge blue clear eye. "Yes but" it's huge because it's magnified behind a big round lens in the center of the face. "It is beginning to show signs of being a closed system." (As Riddley Walker.) In one of the ways of working there is a sense of ideas ending up being the same one. The courage of Mozart I suddenly realized that I couldn't go on in the usual way, talking about Miriam, describing her. There she was as I first saw her, going upstairs. But who was there to describe her? It came to me suddenly, it was an extraordinary moment when I realized what could and what could not be done. then it became more and more thrilling as I saw what was there. Everything available, all past experience, seen while I sat writing, for the first time as near, clear, permanent reality. What did I forget, from yesterday (all day). Was lain down in bed and it came back.
Wide apart pointed eyes. Face this time her old one, why, grey. The blue shirt I remembered, breast points in it I know from my own. I'm not asking. I stop. Let her will make topics, from not being willing and from knowing what she would, if I were willing. The day from morning waking in the pink quilt in the kitchen. Oh oh. The bad novel. Making tea and toast. Not doing yoga. Watching the time. Gzoski talking. Sat down with the telephone. Thirteen hundred. When I was going to phone Pastor George the heart knocking. Was trying to calm it with breath when finally I thought it was preparing me. All the years I didn't understand to let it prepare me. Why's my body interested in this! No answer. When I was listening realizing there'd be no answer it was knocking again. Back and reading. Going to walk streets in Chinatown. Hair. Shirt. Pants. Shoes. Buying food. The relation to the checkers at Produce City. Getting the plastic bag myself. Wanting junk reading. Sleeping in the aft. Oblivion today. [time summary:
Had in a tampax to get the last stinking blood, taking it out, ripped dry. Still hurts. Afternoon that having to lie down of this late summer. Sleeping a little, waking in that physical peace. This is a rare time without agony, but the hunger for junk, goes on to eating at peoples' and reading Omni and so now it's over. 24 Laurence the girl. I can fly. Loved by refusing to please. Through corridors with skirts and a boy. "It is clean." What he can't win over is finding himself ordinary and spite. Thinking of the connections. "I don't get what I want. I get something else." But having to want it and not get it. What do I want. Then I thought it was safe and went to bed, heard the bike rattle and there came pretty one with the news to make me rage. Arab boys in the library overrun it, illiterate chalk letters. She's very good at talking about writing. It's the only thing she can do is talk about writing. She's a pig. Trying out what it is if I speak against her. "Jam and Rhoda aren't going to have an affair." "I don't mean that. I don't think Rhoda would have her, but I think she'd have Rhoda." Trying out betraying her. The way he's talking! Is like you.
Wondering at how I forget Didn't write that she said "If I don't have you the house is nothing and going to Hong Kong is nothing and the group is nothing" and I knew it was true. Rhoda out of town and she forgets too. My use: anger to fuel work. From the stunned garbage eating. What happened. Tuesday in the affection and safe position saying I'll keep in touch, helping getting money, having work and family life, coming to the door confidently, thinking maybe I'd wrench down the rest of the plaster. What meets me is shock. It's no longer - .... "Sometimes you like it, how am I supposed to know." "I've had two days of peace and as soon as I see you I crack." She seems in a berserk. Ordering me to sit down. Hiding behind a door. (Whose shock was it.) Staying still out the window, one eye peering up under my arm. "I'm upstairs writing beautiful things about us." I'm cracking up laughing hysterically, she's peering. "What are you doing?" "I'm cracking up." "Good." (Belly pigeon.) Weds - junk day. Thurs - phone R's father. Bawl. Fast. By aft call her with growl. "NOT NOW" says the cold one. I hang up. I call back. "If not now then ...." She cuts me off to go upstairs. At the phone beside the laundry yelling distraught. She offers an appointment. "I'll see you in November you bloody doctor." Using the impetus to go for my boots, and the way she runs up and watches. I fling the key and am out the door like a judo fling. She holds the door and shuts it behind me. It's about five. I have a sense of being disposed of. When she says "Do you want to stay for one statement," that's it, that's the knee I fly over out the door. It is my speed she uses. ("You've been managing me." "You like it, it shows I know you.") I leave when there's nothing else I can do. I expel myself rather than have you do it. I leave in bitterness and bravado and try to use the schwung to work. 27 Sunday Clearbrook. Saturday all day sad. They've been willing. The phone rings. It's the car. Eating little, 4th day, feeling the differences more, not liking her errors, at times.
I suddenly wondered what would happen if I saw that I could never get what I want, but that it wasn't personal, it was the law of movement of the universe, to head for C if you want to get to B. 'Sideways stepping.' Then what would I do differently, do I still want or do the wheels stop. "Your little exploitation." "I'm not sure it's exploitation. That's the Buddha too." Then the journey. [we go to Clearbrook to see my Grandparents] In the car love coming into hands mouth and breasts. Blue jean leg. The black and brown glossy again. Is it as the dream, when he's gone she'll be able? Coming joyful comical through the dining room, balanced, looking, seen, seeing, moving, light, weighted public appearance until from one moment to the next I see her and him with her, two same curves over their plates, Sunday clothes, a large table of small others. Chocolate brownies. I get down by her without any speech, delighted. "Ehhh-llee?" Put my head along her arm to say the whole adventure of her being there and our coming to find her, and his being beside her and the coming of the gesture. Then she takes it neatly: "Geht, wartet in meinem Zimmer." The moment at the glass door, I had my hand on her shoulder, I realized it'd been questing sexually over the woman shoulder-knob. Night dream of coming out onto the tarmac with her, to her truck, round head pickup, she puts her hand on the door, small square latch, is opening it still talking to me, a big darkness man inside leans out and grabs her. I wake in heart fright. When I was still standing watching whether to scream or jump in. A being somewhere. Convention toilets? Rooms? Piles or cells. That one won't come, I don't think, though a something is there. A tobogganing. Out the window to white pictures, animals like decals, sequence scenes out of different times. White outline. They can see them too. Then why not dreams, you see these intermediates. On the Sunday morning the waking was I'm in your (tone). It takes all day fighting for me to remember being in it. Then I go home and have it in my writing in my journal. It's nothing to do with what you argue or your issue, it's like an atmosphere. Clouds - herd of elephants. Rightly enough uncertain. I make them by outlining parts. A berry row. Picking with Frank. Threading them, working well. The supervisor come to say I'm out, that cabin will be closed, I remember I did speak to the boss, tall thin man who was standing behind at the hiring or greeting. I disagreed with him. Your discernment. The open dream in the window. "Do you have money honey?" "Yes but not the key, bee." Yogourt and tea on the steps watching a bee find into the honey jar, tongue out the end of the proboscis digging, singing hum, louder in the jar, wings become [sketch]. It does widening sloops as it leaves. Mama chine. Alley to Naam. Look at gas stove. Staircase. We had tried. She was dreaming she looked toward my house, saw a woman spread at the window, man head between her legs, and then that I with her got something some way up her. "How'd you do it!" Like an electrical outlet maybe. She was angry, told J. To future: the house on 6th, its front steps, the room upstairs, floor mattress, pink quilt. She sleeps spread across her own bed. I am lying next to her as she falls asleep, beginning to see moving visions. ("I fall through visions.") Hungry girl too hungry for me. "I want to ask you, is my kissing improving?" Swelled real slippery girl thing. The one kissing's thirteen. In the eyes closed realizing how much petting gesture and feeling is still from impersonation, polite. That forgot stretch of dream came back as I said this, assume it refers. And here yawned. Coffee taste lines mouth. T' - k - k - k - t' - k - k - k. Lie back in chair. Metal clipboard. Change attention the clock's changed sound. [undated letter to my mom] To tell you about visiting your mom and dad yesterday. We borrowed a car. Nice freeway stretch, some branches with a bit of yellow. It's happened before, that we get our focus and are starting to talk about something we don't want to leave, and looking at the fields, some blue smoke, the kinds of trees, when it gets familiar and I have to say, Mm I think this is starting to be Clearbrook. Then it's always still slightly thrilling to be driving north up Clearbrook Road. Menno Home . That's a home, and we drive up closer, but it's Tabor Home. A man with lines on his face tells us where the Menno Home is. I say to Jam, That is my race, that sort of lines on the forehead. On the yard of the Menno Home, persons in their fifties standing, walking, with persons in their eighties. Don't know which part to walk into, take the closest, it is right into the medical wing. "I'm looking for Luise Konrad." "Konrad, that's in the Home." Down the medical corridor looking into rooms full of distress, little lumps sleeping in those low hospital beds, or in wheelchairs, with dropped necks. Oh little thin children. Long hospital corridor, feeling the kind of walking in it, that is like the little kid interested in what wd be in every room. "I'm looking for Luise Konrad." Nurse with long ivory teeth. "She's moved to the Tabor Home," from one passing by. "Her husband got sick and she had to move so he could have her room." "He's here now?" He's there, he's alright, but he was quite sick, and the children are deciding whether they should be in the same room when they get one. "They're sure cute." "Hm." When we're driving back to Tabor Home Jam is thinking should we go back and see if we can smuggle him out to see her. We decide we'll find her first. We walk into suppertime. It's like walking into a big silent birthday party. It's quite comic and exciting, the two of us bravely venturing in, peering, so we won't miss her, all the ends of the room, nobody talking, the nearest having a good look at our entrance, and we're looking back, at these people who are a different color and size, like a small white mute race of quite young people, the faces innocent and curious. We have to go completely through and into an annex in the back, and there at a big table, eating and looking at her plate, which is close to her face, is small young Luise Konrad, and next to her, in his Sunday suit, eating and looking at his plate, her small young husband. We get close enough to have touched them before they see us. "Ehhh-llee?" Then she's got her social sense instantly, "Geht, wartet in mein zimmer." "Okay wo ist die." "Thirty four," waves her hand. After us, from the table, another one helpfully repeating, "Vier und dreizig." J goes with Ezra looking for blackberries. I find cookies in the Sall. A few, they aren't good, though they look good. In the same corridor as her room, other doors, names on them, Maria, Justina, Anna. Some are Mr and Mrs but it's reminding me of school dormitory. Her room with what look randomly picked photographs. "Are there people here from your village?" "Yes I went with some to school." Neighbours come in. Two women, one Opa doesn't know well, and then the lines of kinship are searched out. They seem to me to be back in the village in another way. J notices their dignity. The way they talk to establish rank. Where does that noble bearing come from? ("A narrowness in what they're interested in.") I didn't know, thought the story must be from their first villages. Oma was sitting on the bed in a white dress, with quite a lot of pink in her face. She was often interrupting about someone walking past in the garden. "Seest! Da geht er." Hearing her speak to Jam in German, as she confidently was often doing, I started to hear Old English. Opa in the armchair, fragile in his face, much thinner. "I used to have meat in my legs! My pants was full, like a baloney! Like a baloney!" Teeth and eyes, his always sweeter look. Pete was coming to take Opa back to the Menno. We left them alone holding hands for a little. They'd just got telephones. When she was kissing him goodbye, he was bent down to her head, I couldn't see her face but J told me the look of a young woman that came onto her face. She looked blooming. We walked them to the door, watched through the glass, Marianne getting into the back, Opa into the front, and then when Pete got into the driver's seat, the whole car suddenly dropping, her exclamation, and then her guilty and our delighted laughing. On the slow trail to her room a woman came bowing through a doorway, "Vautfeah yast haust du?" A tiny woman holding onto her door post, in a dress from the sixties and a big oval brooch, a big oval hungry face. Oma in her fine white dress, hair net and gracious neck hump, looking innocently and curiously back, introducing us. "Friends. You are friends." "Yes, friends and you are Anna Kroeker." Turning her head up to look at her door, "You can read so far?!" laughing. Looking up with that clown appeal, "I am a small and old woman." She accompanies us up the corridor, she on one rail, Oma on the other. She goes on past Oma's door, but then she comes back, she wants to look at us and have us look at her, a little longer. She's standing by a projection of the wall that's the height of her shoulder. As she speaks, she loses her breath, lays her head on her arms on the wall, raises it, gasps, goes on speaking. She's talking about the ages of her children and granddaughter, but seeing her with J not understanding the German, I can see an overwhelming drama being recounted, like the message of a child who's run a long way. And the household goods - "We don't need it anymore" (he), (she talks about the Geschirr) - are dispersing forever. "Let the children have them! Pete and Jake and George and Ben and Herman." "Und die Madchen nicht?" [Back to the journall] Weds 28th Long dreaming. Going to see him. He's at first alone, we're liking, in a cabin where he is. His father maybe first (don't see now), a family and farmyard. His mother frying pig sausage in frilly egg lifts the lid to show me. Her spatula lifts the food. A baby I change. Very wet. Sopping, more runs down the bed. Put it in with an older baby. Boys. A girl alone looking at the sole of her foot. The farm. Left with the woman. Part pretty girl courted applicant. What do you farm? Part dairy part iron-root plant. She runs out to look after work. Cleared areas. When he comes back (I see her green wool pants) dressed odd smiling embarrassed down through gap teeth. Yokel. Commotion. His taller brother at the door. Will I come with them while dinner's being made, on up through pastures. We're going to clear a small patch. I'm thinking scrub but we come to a school room, he sits with the class for a minute. I do too. the clearing to be done some railings or desks, on a landing. Oh sure. I can easily in my good clothes push them over, stack them down in the foyer. School supplies. Paints, crayons fall out. Are they empty. I say yes without looking. The brother is with his girlfriend, maybe they'll go in a room together. Walking over the fields with him he said "You're the first girl he's been willing to bring home." "I think he didn't bring me, I came." Called for dinner. He comes to the door, red open vest, scarf on his head, gap-toothed yokel. "You have a --- scarf on too!" he says. I have the blue one on my head. Transition I don't remember, do we mock fight to be able to get into each other's arms starvedly kissing at last. From this introduction to his unlikely family woke up hungry again to see him. Bright morning. Will it run five years too, even the phantom loves? The dream the night before rose when I was writing it - in under the vine rows arches in the southeast field, the field supervisor woman comes through, blond, solid, probably a dyke, suspecting me. I show her the plants I was taking out are all common weeds, yelling back. "You don't trust your reader." "What reader do you trust?" "A larger myself watching a smaller myself." [summary of journal themes] 1st October Friday Waking at 5. Sat with pages. Kitchen dream. C had had an eighteen year old, T in a slip sultry, comes to me holding a kitchen knife, C has one I take from her, press into the flesh of her palm, quarter inch, I wouldn't cede to her, now I have both their knives do I want to run, can't hold back both of them, around into a basement looking at all the corners, I have to think of something different, am trying to unscrew the chain on the basement window, when they come in, the game is up, we look at each other, I wake in fear. Doze. Get up very heavy. Fruit and vegetables. When I phone her she says voice is horrible, compressed in the lower part of the tone, mean and suspicious like years ago near the beginning. I'm doubtful, but this moment I must hold the border. (T saying "She could still hurt you.") "You used me to climb through me." I see it's what I said. If I did it's only to get back what you - .... ("She's holding back with you probably.") Then Carole like a child excited at having found Rhoda a place. Oh, was that - .... Happy foot bounce. "He brought it up himself." [R moves into the small apartment building across the courtyard from 824 E Pender, upstairs from Carole] J waiting. The garden shapes and heat. Pink light on brick. This morning and Wednesday pained (crying through to [aries ?]) with R. Day --- by that dream. Wednesday smoking from wanting to get through into what that connection is or means. I'm held. To what. Saying I want to get out of everything. What I could see was the attachment of daily being to those references. The alone I wanted was to have slipped those referents. Picture is of posts. Sense of how dull the journal is. Other - the ownership of stuff in the basement and in her basement. It's that too. Sprig of basil and a swallow feather held by the mother for easy birth. Sacred herb near home and temple, India. Was full moon. Dream of R and the children. "Where's Sara?" "I don't know." Where's Sara? Has he killed her? Begging to come onto the boat to say goodbye. It costs me so much to come over and then I see them only one day. In the dining hall, small thin man light long hair glasses stops Roy. "You can't do that to women." Roy berserk freaks as if to hit him, I don't look, it was the table. Woman next to me hand on my arm proudly says "That's my man." Then I'm woken into the feeling and understanding, shock fear, remembering the depths of fear. Then I wake again into the bed in J's east room floor. Sunday morning. Sunday night it's into the sea of white light. Sunday midday the house and painting. The real estate woman. Sunday morning, the essence of table is work. It brings the ground up, it puts the legs underground, below the waist. It's mutual work, and hands. The Buddha films, Tibet. Burning/roasting/cooking the dead man. Marion. Cutting up the Arch Dig. Impressionists. Décor. Tibet. Leboyer.
[address of North-South Institute] 6 I once in winter went to a sea village in an unfamiliar part of England. No one knew I was there and I don't remember the journey. I'd wanted to cross to an island monastery but when I arrived I found the boat had gone and wouldn't cross again until Monday. It was Friday evening. I had money enough for two nights at a bed and breakfast, but none for other meals. My room was a small cold one, upstairs, with flowered wall paper. The landlady brought me tea and some biscuits upstairs. Oh thanks for the biscuits. The room was chill, grey, had in it books left by summer visitors, and other little things, hairpins in the drawers. The small window towered down over a wide dull beach, sand and some bluegrey light from past sunset. I went down and walked briefly through the streets, down the bank, onto the polished low tide strand, a few fishboats, some walking married couples. Cold and damp, extinguished, the island across the way. I had nothing to do but sit in the cold bed. I turned off the light and lay there. In the morning I was alone in the dining room, eating slowly, eating everything, all the toast, the last of the second pot of tea, and beginning the new book I'd brought. It was Castenada's *. At the dining table in what I think was the parlour, taking the edge of the tea intoxication, into the terrific excitement of the challenge of Castaneda in 1972. I took the challenge into the first day, by stopping reading and going out for the rest of the day. I don't remember anything in that day except for walking far down around a headland, miles, in cold wind, dull light, without lunch, maybe without dinner, or was there enough for chips. On Sunday after breakfast I must have started home. Must have hitch-hiked. Forgot the place. [probably Journey to Ixtlan, 1972, Simon & Schuster] Last night dreamed myself there, in the streets of that village, looking to stay in that bed and breakfast or some other. Either there were no more bed and breakfasts going or the rooms were taken. 8 Not anger but meeting anger: heat come up inside the face's skin. What does he look like angry. He's holding his face in an angry expression. [Paul K] "I don't want your initiative in my basement." What else do I know. The unpleasantness of detail in any time with him - how much is disliked and held back - I don't like that he gets pretty women without having learned to discern them; when we took wood to that man I hated to hear and see them in that exchange of respects, that they were immediately interested in each other in a way that obliterated me. Why do I think him slimy and others appreciate his warm-heartedness. Can I make a real question. Do I owe him any help. Yes I have to fight against his - what - he seems to me to be dropping into a portly jovial type - when I first knew him he had a lighter moon-boy look, not public figure object collector. So did I do it. The greed was there, he was already ingratiating. Why though T complains and gossips, don't I mind: because she's physically someway clean. And now C, who also seems to have dropped her discernment. Robert whose oblivions don't quite matter because he's scrupulous. What I think is pulling you down, is that you're afraid of pain and don't know how to use its clarity, and instead dodge into some little comfort, and then are committed to those little comforts and fantasies. - I'm more, other, than my human identity.
Substantiate by task, dream-rooted The dragon's kiss. Hinterland where one's dominant sequence starts to dissolve. I'd just lie there listening to the leaves. Blastula - city [herb list for the alley garden:
[these were in an envelope in this volume] mora delay the common short foot mulberry marash maresc
morgangeba mori morra crown of the head morion morrion morne mourn morn murnan moros stupid morphe from the shapes he calls up in dreams moro a round hill or promontary mors thanatos morsel maori marasca marasmos marmaros lit. sparkling stone mare miere fem of mearh horse OE mare marea mare's nest mare's-tale mar garet maura irish mary my marrow my mak mirari a star merak beta in ursa majory mercari to traffic merces reward hire wage o mer cur ie' mere meros part mergere immerse meridies south midday merere to deserve meröe myrr swampy ground myr mer aides mire murus OE mirce mormyrein to boil, crackle murr diving birds myrioi ten thousand myrike tamarisk myrmekos ant OE myrra murra myrra Arab murr Hebrew mor mar bitter myrtos whortleberry
- X and Y had a good time and look forward to seeing each other. When they meet Y is tired, X finds Y odd-looking. they go to a gathering. There is little to say. Some children greet Y with glad eyes. They're Z's children. Is Z there? Not necessarily. X sees Z first. Z, seeing X look, sees Y, leans forward delighted. X and Y in intermission. X gets offended. After the intermission, Y leaning together with Z. X feels it's hopeless to be introduced, goes skulking out the other door, and wants to look, not at how Y is, but at Z. X goes home. Y follows after some time. They fight. Beer makes it blur. Sentimental. [Z is Lee Maracle.] Night and morning repeating it. X must phone Y. They talk some hours. X tells things that had been held back. Y is persuasive about the previous night: it had been time to touch, that had made her bitter. Z is a gift and a finely limited connection. X says the love-making has been awful as if y isn't really interested. Y says it's because X won't have a baby with her. Y says it's because she's not a finely formed A. "What is it that you want passed on?" "Sometimes when I'm alone I am happy." "Yes that should be passed on." X says it's because it would be with. A free B can have children but it must be alone. "I could hear that was what you really wanted." An eros must be met by an eros and a logos by a logos. She thinks she can be logos and someone else eros. A mutual lovemaking. Our fantasy was that we challenged each other to say - when I say skill I mean mutuality. Suddenly a wonder - are you speaking for my womb. (If I spoke for it, would you be able to say something else.) X says she's vulnerable to losing herself, and she thinks it may have to do with wiring, either a biological give-over mechanism ('one flesh') or from M's example. Y says X is slow: she means that she is in the vanguard disbelieving what she's been told about reproduction, believing that what she is, must find its company further down the line. X tells the fantasy of that piloting afternoon, of telling C, she'll be the one who can make it. Y brings up the Buddha who refused to go because he was being propelled by the suffering of others. "But he was enlightened already!" I can't make it myself, but I can navigate for her. When I hope to have her admit something about what she can do and I can't, she says she doesn't understand. Oh, if she would have admitted. (What - and what has my admitting made, what about this admitting, will it take my working mind, what was the confiding and admitting, except for the falling made by the sight of Z's beauty available to Y.) Yes I probably would have done it but if I had where would I be now. The posture - the voice - is protest - you don't understand. Hillside dwelling. Across the hill to where. In a forest timbers upright cells. (I see a darkness with, I saw and am holding what I thought I saw.) Over the hump. (In the hill house) a small girl I'm holding up and begin to make sexual feeling in. Lay her to bed with another. The context isn't there until it arrives later. Another girl to lay in her bed. The older ones are upstairs sleeping. The enemy will come tonight. The lights have gone off upstairs. (She did it.) Everyone must come downstairs to sleep, I call them, girl and boy cousins, two to a bed, four beds. Think of them as ten but with myself count 9. How do I know she'll attack, or what she is. (Dreamed remembering.) Remembered the book with a line picture of a tiny woman in the air leaning over a bed with sleeping children. Enemy. (Roseanne) is crying. "Why are you crying." "Because you're going to die." I don't feel as if I am going to die. I feel as if I'll fight steadily. I put our safety into bringing in one plum (peach, tomato) for each. Go into the garage, hillside, opening to the hillside and street, by the connecting door, many boxes of fruit, gather up ten (?nine?) into a basket. They're gone, the people standing around, neighbours, have eaten them, yell. A man, Turkish, lying in the lower cot of a bed, I yell at him to go out and buy me some, he hardly speaks English, won't go. I start again, now it's having to dig through little ones, the boxes have emptied, starting to panic, there's a box under that one, green plums, will do, quickly gather a lot, I'll count them later. (It depends on getting the right number into the room with the children.) One of the children is slicing them! Has taken them into the room. Now how can I count them. What I had in my hand has transformed to a sliced tomato, some thin sliced pointed pieces. I look again, what it is is that the mischief has made her picture in my hand. Tiny red angel shape. How can we count the cut pieces. I must continue to fight. This woke me, thinking what to do. (Later I know: count the whole ones, set the slices outside.) It was panic thinking, I mean without grip, I must figure what the trickster's game is and then use it. So she makes her transformation and finds it's done for us. That thought, I didn't know if it was artificial (it's how they think).
- The shadow and its variations are made visible in a small work of logic. that in a rotating fluid planet that has been well mixed by convection the sustained motions are those of nested fluid cylinders. A surface on which the molecules of CO2 can come out of solution. Air in a crevice. - Increasingly I can go further. Instinct is not to tell. I think if you told me I could do it more. Morning sitting on the grass looking into the corner with nasturtiums coming out of fresh dug ground where there was branch rubble piled. Knowing it's a clearing gives it a look of a tiny civilization, an orchard. Without his own front teeth, walking like a dead man, dead for some time. "They shore have purty colors don't they," leaning over the aphid-struck columbine clump to please me. "My sister in Richmond she ...." The letter seemed simple-hearted and a good beginning; showing it because of its trouble; and then in confusion. Night and day those two glorified. - Dear being. Heart cry. Yes but not literature. Why is heart crying. There is a usual way to name it. Is there a new way. What would make it stop crying. Necessity pushing up from below Compulsion comes from underground Tangible chaotic world Burrowed cities Follow the curve downward into indigo stillness As if on thin ice / outer world To retract the assumption / the symbolic / the bridge - [passage copied from earlier journal] I didn't see myself coming out from between the shelves. He was already there and did see it. I'd thought it would be I'd see him come through the door. A red Datsun truck. "My little truck." The voice before the face. Rapidly, "I've thought of you too." It must have dawned. What kind of open face. It was what it was: the sight and the rehearsals, this is the moment, not enough time in it for it to be simple. "I want to caress and fondle it." The difference from other moments: that I was interested in what it was. How did it look. Out from between and there already knowing. It was already the importance forms, curious checking whether it's true. How do you look. Not less. There's old age under your eyes. Luminous. A touch I saw coming but didn't feel because I was reaching to touch, out the end of the arm, rib skin I could feel, this was like the dream, under cloth. Now I'm looking at the hands, I wanted to know, they're thinner than Do those people read me as easily as I read this one. He's talking fast telling out his dreams! "I thought if the phone rang and there was no one speaking I'd know it was you." Easy confession. Give the card. Vancouver Taxi. It could get you here. The page brightened. Turned head : breaks in the clouds. The colon presents. Thin straw hair. Even in city days still the straw hair. "He works with koans a lot." And round eyes I get an instant to stare at. Grey-green strawy eyes. Thin face of a type of lean fifty year old man. "License when I was thirty-four." Ragged Andy. Today I wasn't prepared. "You were working at the Hastings Steam Bath." "Your face will change completely." He hasn't thought of that. "It's very interesting." - This morning her penetrable form. "I feel I'm transparent to you and you can see all the small changes." I mean when I touched it I had the sensation of pressing into a layer, three centimeters of love. what I said knowing only I would understand it was "You feel lovely." Coming with Janeen down through town I see Mrs Wold's house white with pink corner boards. Down a room we must be already through it. We're blundering through people's rooms. The last door opens for Mrs Wold coming home. Showing photographs. There's one of bands of animals running downslope across. The shadows running are wonderful tiny elephants with their trunks up happily. It's the shadow animals that are running. The animals themselves through not looking at them are grey blurs. The photograph is black and white animals on what we later see as color, and looking makes the color come through differently. Cheryl took the picture of something J made. This is the picture I should be working on. There's a cut to a folding gully straight up. Exciting and wakes me. What is it able to say. If the cloud shape is blowing through as the flashing on an overcast day. If the arowana swims through not really visible just a change in color of the brilliant grass.
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