Sleep journal, July 8, 1985

I’m not quite sure what’s scaring me.  It’s kind of dreams even though I know they can’t hurt me.  They’re just so weird. 

Diary entry, April 24. 2014

Knowing matters.  Why does it matter?  Because it does.  It matters.  But that’s the game—the torture—the double bind.  You will not be allowed to have the one thing that could either give you peace or send you off the cliff of despair, or both.  This one thing will be taken from you.  Instead you will wonder whether you have banana Weetabix poisoning, or if you are right but lost in the red straw network, or if you are sort of right but kind of wrong but full of good intentions, or if you are just a nutter.  You will be told you hold the answers, but there are no answers inside.  Just a howling wind, an incessantly buzzing bee, a mass grave filled with the fallen, the ones who foolishly entered into No Man’s Land armed only with a musket and grim determination.  A musket is no defense against an ICBM.  Grim determination and a dollar will get you a ride on the bus.  Or it would have about twenty years ago.  Now you’d probably need a couple of bucks.

You will be denied all knowledge.  Knowledge will die within you, to be replaced with rotting suspicions and wilting hope.  No seeds can be planted here.  You will be left a slave to ambiguity, a prisoner of doubt.  Enjoy the banana Weetabix, because there is no going back.  And I do like it.  It’s quite nice with yogurt.  Not with milk.  Must never eat cereal with milk.  Never ever ever.

The Witch, Pt. 2

Notebook, 2013

This is a fool’s story warped into submission

Say what you want to say?

No one wants to listen

No one will help us sleep at night and

no one can save that kitten

No one wants to know if it is spring

or winter

Or whether the stars were bitten

Jump off of that bridge if you want

but that was never my mission

Blame yourself for your liar’s heart

The truth was always there but

YOU WOULDN’T LISTEN

Draft letter, 1992

I’m probably going to deny that I wrote this, just to let you know straight out (this wouldn’t fit in with my image of myself).  But I wanted to thank you for whatever it is you’ve done to help me, for putting up with my constant abuse, and for making me feel less scummy.  And I had fun, too, which according to you is okay, so I’ll trust you on that one.  I guess I do like you after all, and I will miss talking to you (kind of).  (It’d be too much to admit that I’ll miss you, so I won’t.)  Thanks for the water gun and for the bell that chased the evil spirits away while I was here.  And for the safe “connection,” which does mean a lot.

Haunted

Diary entry, April 24, 2004

I had a dream last night where I rescued a little boy.  He was very special and he knew important things, so this particular group was out to get him.  I snatched him from them, then took him to all of the places he needed to go to in order to get the information he needed--the nasty group hot on our trail the entire time.

At one point I bust us out of a building owned by the nasty group; we stole a gold convertible and drove it into St. Paul, where we kept missing buses to the train station while I found food for the boy.  There was someone else with us who kept freaking out, but I seemed fairly calm, and the boy, very cute and remarkably cheerful, all things considered.  He was smiling the entire time and he had beautiful eyes.  We just never gave up.  We kept moving.