[A passage from my 1995 journal]
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M
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aybe this is really a Black Journal entry, I don’t know, but
it’s 3:45 on a late sunday night—literally, of course, and I always have to be
literal, a goddamn monday morning—and I feel that old sense of LoS—Like on
Sunday. Like on Sunday. The grimmest, most barren part of the week. I don't
really know why except that I’m too tired to sleep and I can’t breathe and
everything looks suddenly hopeless. Not suddenly hopeless; just like it's
always been, except that for the moment the cover has been whisked away and I
can see the hopelessness that always existed underneath it. I just watched
something called Angels in the Outfield and as it ends I feel something
of that same sense I felt years ago contemplating the end of Make Way For
Ducklings. Disillusion, I guess, the sense that one gets when watching the
Christmas Tree burn after New Years. [1/2 Oc 1995]
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