Sept 5

Where alone is, maybe that’s where I can find peace, to avoid use of the simile, to feel hurt, see how hurt inside I am, it all comes out like vision from the eyes, myself, like the virgin forest over there, those hills, this valley, setting out upon the world to find the sky, the heaven I’ve looked for all along. Now it seems redundant to describe the color of the grasses, I am all a dirty yellow, pieces of weed, I have grown and dried brown, I have become fertilized with cow dung, I am dormant. How it seems forever and I am surpassed with my own ill-kept remembrances. See how I cried when I was a boy, now I am not a boy. No surprise, only the tightness in the throat, keep it silent, and everything else, such a long way gone to that distant place that I wasn’t happy in, why aren’t I happy now? Where is alone? maybe that’s where I can find some peace. I’m not going to try there, anymore than to let the uncombed grasses tangle me in uncontrollable nervousness, sensitivity to force my fingers through my tangled hair.

5 September 1973