This afternoon I tried eating my way out of feeling blue with the aid of an entire box of crackers, but of course it only lead me to feeling a bit queasy. Oh Spring, I know it's not your fault but I kind of hate you this time around. There's something about having the time to catch my breath that only makes me feel more out of breath, I can't go on I'll go on, I know I've already said this stuff before, but sometimes the ordinary seems so terrible, impossible, I'm not ready to face the work that needs to be done.
So many harsh incidents and happenings that cannot go undone, miserably unavoidable. My heart and head are numb and all I have are dead thoughts with absent instinct. I feel horrible for not feeling a whole lot of anything, and I assume a lot of my friends are upset with my absense and lack of phonecalls/text messages/communication. I don't know what to say.
It's strange to me that last Spring was probably the best Spring I have ever had, or maybe the one I like remembering the best, Sunset Cliffs with my two best friends, a night out for sushi, the wonderful drive to Venice Beach, sleepovers at Richard's, making fun of the food he had left for Buddha, loving the Southern California weather for the first time in a long time, I mean, really appreciating it.
Ages ago I felt mystified when I found out that Joseph Cornell used his diary simply to record mundane, daily events, and even more perplexed that Dorothy Wordsworth felt it necessary to use hers to record weather reports. Who cares about that junk, I sniffed, not thinking about just what sort of hierarchy I was buying into here, thinking that I had the ability or right to judge what's important or worth recording.
Now, though, I understand the attraction.