How to transcend the technology of record-keeping to the art of documentary? Kate Millett is mesmerizing me with her book. Her life. My own meager efforts at journal keeping more often than not is so much garbage pail therapy. Dumping venom and pain onto paper to see it and deal with it.

Allen has hepatitis. Where do these sufferings originate? Why? What is disease? It depresses me totally to think that someone as close to me as Allen could be bedridden for as long as three months and not able to drink for a year. My bar buddy. My sister. I am panic-ridden. A feeling, I suppose, not unlike death fear.

It occurs to me that this journal has reached a natural end. And yet I cannot leave this book. It is only half-finished. For the first time, I will create a chapter– rather than a section. This has been the record of late winter and spring. 

“But I will say, as long as I am breathing, Larry will be there, just like my mother.”

Richard is on the telephone with Lou, who maddens me as easily as she intrigues me with her neurosis. He is defending our relationship.

Some totally boring cowboy western is on television. I offended Lou last night. Good, I don’t care. Touché. My dog is curled up next to me. Leftover dinner is on the stove. Home booking like some soft old ship is carrying me through my days.

I sip my gin and tonic. Richard is arguing with Lou on the phone. The television blares about Krylon and athletic foot.

This chapter has ended and all life rolls forward gently.