November 21st, 1972
My mother is a real living human. I treat her as though she were some monstrous character from some complicated drama. I manipulate her. I lie to her. I fear her.
What I really feel is the loss of her love.
I need to stop that type of lying.
I just had to call her and tell her I wasn’t coming home Thanksgiving. How can I not be emotional about this?
□ Oh God, I can’t stand this! Stop it! Stop it! Shut up– you’re well out of it. The phone’s hung-up. It’s over.
□ What’s she doing now? Lying there in the darkness of that trailer. Crying. I’ve ruined the holiday for her. I always fuck everything up.
□ Wait, maybe there’s a way you can still make it? Maybe you can really really ask tomorrow to be off Friday.
□ You feel guilty because you know that you used the fact of working Friday to justify your not really wanting to go. You didn’t want to go be with your mother.
You’re supposed to love your mother and you don’t!
□ Bullshit– bullshit– garbage bullshit.
□ Oh God, it isn’t a question of not loving. The point is the inability to love.
Can it be that the webs of the ego– the avenues of self are roads that must be forgotten? Unlearned? We are born into a state of sin. By our nature we are sinful.
□ Bullshit– bullshit– garbage bullshit.
Is all I have left, finally, a leaping line of crooked empty words streaming from a whirring blank mind?
I have got to focus in– zero in.
I have been rendered out of focus.
To see the self as bad and to desire to become truly selfless.
Tonight I desire to be truly selfless.
Tonight my self sickens me.
How lonely the self is.
Tonight I am lonely.
All these words are words I’ve said before.