Living Alone in L.A.

(1973)

One

It's almost 4:00 a.m. The morningtime spreads its silent dewy arms all around this needing-to-be-healed city. This is the tender, tender hour before the birth of the sun. I look at the flower next to me: before it died, it opened up so far that it fell apart. And next to the flower are the crayons I regressed to hours ago when fear struck me. I let it all out in purples and reds and blues and greens, the clean crayons releasing the fear, taking me back to when it was summertime, an eternity of slow rocking time, with fruit trees and happyscreams—everything an answer under the sun, when hours were longer than lifetimes.

I ask myself: how can I really learn how to live my life? How can I ever touch it, not be fearful of it? I carry this journal everywhere, as if to convince myself that I have a shadow. I record my thoughts, as if to be ready to answer all the questions I ask. My journal is my journey, my discovery, and within it I make thousands of journeys and discoveries. Every situation, every experience longs to teach me something. Everything matters. And when I write, I can remember and forget at the same time, as if merging past, present, and future. I can't really say what I want, except that I must live deeply and write constantly. I'm always open, ready to receive more life. I want to penetrate the moment by embracing it. But perhaps we deeply feel things only when they're brand new or when we're needy. No, I don't know who I am; perhaps I'm just a symbol of myself. And I meet new people inside me constantly.

Without words I don't know if I could live. I have this continual longing to say what has never been said before, to touch upon a new reality. But ultimately it's only my own individual life I touch. I feel alone, and that feels both frightening and liberating. Freedom.

Every new day is a brand new truth. Perhaps truth rests somewhere between emotion and reason, pleasure and pain. Truth is the dividing line between opposites. It's the full view from the top of the hill, the willingness to experience extremes and then go beyond them. Truth is acceptance, a summary of everything.

Two

Cloudy spring days. Baby birds. An endless number of poems to write. Feelings are mirrors. The warm Earth. A new mayor. Winning and losing (all illusions). Levels of direction. The TV screams next door. We're all in capsules. Someone with red hair by a fire. Surprises in my mailbox. Happiness is the world in tune. Joy is the wildest truth. Honesty is a continual uncovering. My thoughts go for bumpy rides over my feelings. Time sneaks out, again and again. I feel like a hedonistic monk. I feel like a daytime moon.

Three

Even at night I run on daylight energy: projects, ideas, poetry, plans, music, research. So much life to give and express. Still, I drift into confusion, and what I am conflicts with what I'd like to be. I can't leave pain alone; it keeps calling me back to write about it. Every thought is ticking like a clock, and I turn each tick into words. Sanity is so sinkable, so easily lost. I try to turn habit into ritual. I try to make this new home heal me. I don't have a doorbell or a phone or visitors yet. In the silence I hope to feel more complete.

Sylvia Plath scares me. Her poetry is profoundly clever with pain. But she never quite reveals herself. I don't trust her words, though I admire them.

I want words to get to the root of things. I want them to flow out naturally, revealing the treasures within. I don't want craft to be a box, but wings for all those secrets we need to set free.

Note: yesterday I saw the moon and sky and sun meeting in the water.

Note: work on being able to say yes or no rather than having a hard time saying either and ending up with maybe.

When the sun goes down I sometimes feel crazy with longing, as if I must run, taste the very source of life, merge with fire. And after such passion there's always the temptation to feel despair. But I never lose sight of tomorrow—the magical tomorrow, that expected unknown—and know that every new morning promises me myself. That self that wants to discover the unity in all things.