10.25.2001

tomorrow there will be the carving of the cubist pumpkin. today there is sick stomachs and a lack of understanding regarding gene theory and the double helix in all its glory and riding a bike in the cold and not wanting to erase the dry-erase board and not wanting to check that the computers are logged off and not wanting to do much of anything and yet there are things to be done, there is the library to be gone to and the eyelet to be fixed on the costume and the smells of cooking to affect and create and the cleaning and the sleeping and the going to of the store. eleanore has been ill, has gotten better. grandfather is in the hospital, unconscious thousands of miles away, moving limbs yet and breathing independently. the character of the novel is coming together in snippets of habit gathered from everywhere and some created separately. the blog has been left un-updated. my dreams are of hangings, accidental suicides of boys from bands named jude who fall, while moving diego velasquez's las meninas, out the window and hang, dead, in broad daylight, suspended with a little princess below on dark backgrounds and reflections in mirrors and people in doorways, painters staring beyond the canvas, breaking the picture plane and confusing the separation of that which is viewed and that which is viewing... head itches, pain in side. scratch, mumble, sleep. the wind is blowing tremendously, showering us in bursts of dried leaves, and watering eyes and noses. the wind howled this morning through the headphones and drowned out gordan gano's voice, explaining again the good feeling and how it always feels like you're leaving. in all this activity, i am searching in myself and out of myself, quietly, unhurriedly, wondering how to reconcile differences between myself and my husband, the way in which we view things, deal with that which we're given. in all this i am wondering how to go on, how to not get sad and break down everyday in the cold while walking. pain in my side is making me want to curl into balls under the covers, hidden, sleepy, dreaming nice dreams where people don't die or come back from the past to haunt me. i'd like to think nice thoughts where things are the opposite of confused, where things are clear, where the future is a straight line from this point to that, cluttered over with lovely memories yet to be had and bad things that are not so bad. i'd like to see me in the future, writing novels, and coming to greater understandings of myself and my purposes, those around me and those i love. i'd like to see me in the future with happiness, depicted as a family portrait, myself and it in front of blue skies, framed or in an album. i'd like to know that all of this is headed in a direction of my choosing and it, in its correctness, makes me feel whole and of value. i'd like to know that i will succeed in overcoming the great obstacle of myself and my confusion, my perpetuation of negativity, guilt, anger, fear, hurt feelings. i'd like to know that one day, i will die without fear and without regret.

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