you know what . . .

i've got some damn good material. its going to be good.

self-reprimand

i'm wrong i'm wrong i'm wrong again. i am so mediocre. it is the last thing i want to believe but it is true. i think he tries to make me angry. he says i need to be angry. not in this way. i wish i would not say things that i do not mean. everyone does. have to let it go. he gives me more than i have been able to give me at this time. unless i start to produce. then it will all transfer over to me. i want the life he urges me to find. he says that it is now. now. now is my opportunity. i need to get off the continent for some time. i truly truly need to. i am afraid that i am lazy. i am afraid that i won't do it. i am so deathly afraid i am paralysed.

i lost my necklace today. i lost it walking around the city and i don't think i will ever see it again. i cried when i realised there was no weight on my collarbone and rode around the city sidewalks, retraced my steps. the hot sun was consoling, but i'm mourning the loss.

where is this place i am trying to find?? it is in me, but where?

after the night

whiskey on ice led to dreaming through the night...soldiers in the woods, rape, bathtubs, shooting under and out of water, escape, survival. violent like my old dream world used to be. the second dream of a classroom in the late 40's, sylvia plath as professor telling me about novel she is writing, two beaming soldiers enter with a single spiral telephone cord with a blue reciever on each end, they hold it up, marching in officially and i think they are coming for me but they hand it to my professor and she leaves the room, a reciever on each ear. the soldiers return marching she and another professor into the room with clear glass bell-jars on their heads, hair florescent blonde, faces distorted under them. she explains that she sold banned books, not only to us, but to soldiers. they are taken to court where they sit in the back and sing eerie songs about the wind blowing only for one night.
perhaps fear over what i want to write and how it will be recieved? plath haunting my style, must banish her. had my latest poem very well recieved and myself encouraged by two published poets and one editor on the weekend. putting together a short manuscript this month to send out.
yesterday was a celebration. the house is ours and we will stay forever if we wish. i love it's whiteness and sun fading up and down on the walls, the amazing silence it seems to embody. the sound of kitty paws tapping on wood, tile, carpet, porcelin, in the silence.

we sisters three

marvelous friday the thirteenth. all three sisters were favored by the superstition gods. the planets are aligning for us, finally. very good long chat with poet prof this afternoon in small room teeming with canadian books. i wanted to peel open every cover at once. tried to remember titles with little success. very full weekend ahead: literary fair, another perennial sale, donuts at the market, walking around the city, exam preparation, writing, writing, writing, pink cupcakes and tea party sandwiches for the little one. bottle of wine tonight and mocambopo poetry night. wish i could forget about my birthday. a bit of self pity that i am not with my family. however, i will be with a canoe, a river, and spirits -- lovely.

sylvia ate a bee

for mothers day i did just what my mother would do. i fought old ladies and children at a charity perennial sale, came home, poured myself a glass of red wine and planted two gardens of phlox, hostas, primulae, and bleeding hearts and many pots of herbs, tomatoes, and lettuce. i have dirt under my nails, cheap wine stained tongue, and my body feels...well, it feels.

just went to sundays at the jbi to hear an acclaimed (bad) local writer read about (what sounded like a bad) trip to india. tables of leechy girls laughing at jokes about yoga and masturbation. we left early and stepped out into a beautiful downpour which tore all of the very heavily scented blossoms off the trees to cover the streets.

had a marvelous day with sylvia. she has slept beside me every night he has been away since thursday. she dug, climbed, sniffed my plants, and ate a bee. little daughter. i came home from poetry night and called her and she walked sleepily out into the hall "mew?. . . mew?" she wants to know where he went. muuummmmm. awie little one.