July 18th, 1976
It occurs to me what an entirely terrible situation I am currently in. My job, my home, my relationship to Richard, my possibilities. The promise of my immediate future pleases me.
My mother calls at 2:00 in the morning. Sobbing. Hysterical. Leaving my father. Crying for her lost life. Lost her glasses. Wanting money. Talking to my father– his calm, controlled voice. Hard to believe that in the past six months both my parents have been hospitalized for mental problems.
She appeals to me– her final source of sympathy. My sympathy drains. I am annoyed. I tell her the phone call puts me back into the position of being a fourteen-year-old listening to another fight. Brought to you through the miracle of the telephone.
My responses are angry and short. I am failing her at last. Her tragedy has become so transparent and shallow to me. I cannot suffer with her anymore. God knows, my learning from her has done its share of damage to my world. My whole life has been an attempt to be happy in spite of my parents.
Cleaning house. All fucked up. Stoned and drunk. Been buzzing. Cleaned the living room, dining room, kitchen. Need to clean the bathroom. The miracle of Friday night sex keeps bringing whole levels of consciousness into awareness. Supremes on the stereo. Still Margie and The Beatles and junior high school and long summers and being a teenager. All this still now to me.