I remember that Carrie Fisher
wrote in Postcards From the Edge
, "Finally, my surroundings are starting to match the climate of my soul
," or something like it. She was talking about traveling someplace miserable and wartorn
after living in so much beauty
. I don't remember where she was either way. I never finished the book anyway, badly as I wanted to
The rain is never going to cease
in Corvallis. I know better now why I moved out here. College and money the number one excusing factors, and I wonder that they've led me to pander, to live entirely on the surface
, to work myself into cynicism and utter exhaustion
and kill the last pieces of my soul.
I never wonder at the rain here as I did in the desert, but it gives me pleasant ache
s. It's too much to have to cry or work on a sunny day - might as well follow the storm.
He shook me awake from the nightmare
, and I don't think I can ever return the favor.
I only worked for two months
sorting and cutting onions, or dipping them in onion-ring batter
, and it made me feel so inhuman and anonymous in so many ways, but on days like this, I would belong there. I don't want to make my pain conspicuous; I wept for part of every shift, and I wore a surgical mask; machines were loud enough to drown out my screaming.
I don't know which is going to kill me first: my foolish optimism
or my sheepish paranoia
. I've got to learn to do a little more than write.