- Today Sun. August 2nd at 10:00 AM our baby girl's cry reached air - thanks be to God for such a beautiful gift. There's much to do for me now - no amount of social inaccuracy can disturb me: it's beside the point.
Claudia came earlier than we expected- her weight 6lbs they said the before her time accounts for the little weight. Dolores my beloved, may all the angels praise you for the labor that was yours. -

I'd like to go with my wife and child to a wood - with the condition that never once would we look back to see if they've caught sight of us. The intense degrees of rudeness that one has to put up with in his life would be enough to bow a soul for life, but the movement outside makes it seem as if he were whole when a truth the integument lies: he's in tears all the times.

There is failure in all of us: shall I keep on writing?

Oh, yes! I made a mistake about the time of Claudia's birth - found out for certain it was 10:42 am Anyway, she's still a before-noon baby.
The mornings and nights are getting cooler, but the afternoon's remain as hot as ever.
I do not know where any of this will take me: beginning and end are caught in the now that is contingent?

What am I doing here? feel myself wasting away under a job that says I must give thought to poetry only when there's free time - why have I allowed myself to be drawn into another injurious open market?
did I have a better choice back there?
Each day I learn a little more - but what constitutes this growth? Just that today one's older than he was yesterday - only to discover that I'm still unemployed.
In denying the contemplative life we do so in order to get the whole population into the labor field and thereby "create" an industrial hierarchy that is we are used for the purpose of holding up those on top.

To keep on writing out the diurnal only to put it aside - forever -

I wish these last moments of summer would pass away. As a child I loved winter: why? as a boy I continued in this love - again why? in my late twenties I went out to spring and summer; now in my early thirties I long for winter stirring because of the approach of spring better: I long for winter (that in those final moments of winter) ready to give way to spring - if one knew the why of the child's ache, one wouldn't have too much trouble in surmising the grown man's ache for past time; but unfortunately there are some circumstances which upon investigation reap only unknowns - by way of parenthesis, happiness is an equal brated state, it is not an acquiescence to the conditions at large that is to say, fulfillment of difference is not a condition of the material ideal. - It's indeed unusual to find myself in memory as the little boy in mackinaw and cap playing in the snow a little before 5 on a day when all its grayness seemed gathered about the heart: that is to find it cropping up so often. Is it possible that each time my responsibilities become too burdensome, an image of that forlorn little boy in the snow appears?


  1. "There is failure in all of us: shall I keep on writing?"

    This line can stand alone as an expression of the writing condition itself. It sort of reminds me of Jean Genet's description, in regards to Giacometti's sculptures, of art as the "wound" every artist bears within.

    Thank you for sharing these wonderful journal entries.


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