Sleep without pills? impossible. take pills! death? have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
As they say in the movies, I got here the hard way, with no education and no dough, and whatever I am I am because I wrote it.
Poems reach me, and hold me, and give me pleasure.
Sometimes I feel like another creature, hardly a woman. I can’t be a modern woman. I’m a Victorian teenager–at heart.
And I say to myself that the trouble with life is that people are strangers.
I don’t know if I can go on spilling myself out to people – those strange strangers.
Personally I’d give ten thousand bucks to be a psychiatrist and not a writer.
I am so tired of that old suffering.
My heart cracked like a doll-dish...
And so she danced until she was dead, a subterranean figure, her tongue flicking in and out like a gas jet.
Your hands found me like an architect.
She owns her own hunger.
I am not seeing anyone or writing anyone – I’m on my 8th draft of this play and how many more – God knows.
I’m like a jew who ends up in the wrong country. I’m not a part. I’m not a member. I’m frozen.
It was pretty rocky last month but I didn’t want to depress you with my depressions. I lack contentment. No. I lack a mother.
I am going to lose myself – or else, the chance is that poetry will save me.
The great theme we all share is that of becoming ourselves, of overcoming our father and mother, of assuming our identities somehow.
I am never sane, you know -.
Tonight the landscape is fired by moonlight and I am thinking of you somehow.
I know that I have died before – once in November, once in June. How strange to choose June again.