September 1 Bhaim
I was carrying around matrika energy all day. I wanted to swing swords with my eight arms. The job hunt: The one potential job that was challenging lucrative contract work fell through. I had already basically given up on it. I was angry all day about the plan to take the "safety" job if nothing else happens. I really DO NOT want to commit to a company again. Maybe I'll go crawling back and offer to behave myself and do the party goods catalog. The library: why are they building a big Starbucks right inside the public library? why did they decide to make that inviting reading room into a huge "Friends of the Library" store? and I DO NOT like their electronic card catalog, I never have and I never will. Every time they improve it, it gets worse. And they only have one terminal on the main floor, and it's always in use. Twenty-thirty people at once could use an old fashioned paper card catalog! Isn't that a PROBLEM? And forget the browser interface. They need a bank of half-size terminals with basic author, title, subject search only. I want to redesign that frigging system every time I go in there. The grant: I DO NOT want to do that grant application. I am suffering horrendous procrastination about it. I don't know what is wrong with me. I'm not comfortable with it. It's a great layout & design project and it's sitting right in front of me; all I have to do is reach out my hands (full of paperwork) and take it. The printers: why is one estimate $700, another $1100, and another $2250 for basically the same thing? And I DO NOT like not knowing what I am doing. Lunch: richness of food, poverty of interaction. SICK OF IT. So I gave myself luxurious permission to work on this site for a couple of hours this afternoon. Aaaah. I read somewhere recently that it's hard to be successful when you're angry. It's probably also hard to be a compliant doormat when you are waving eight swords. ~~~~~~~~ Matrikas: The eight mothers, created by Durga to help her battle the demons. Bhaim: The mantra used to invoke Durga/Kali in the Tantric Devi series; useful when beset by demons

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September 2 I was a star
Finished a good draft of the grant application Accepted a temp job from 10 to 1 tomorrow in Valhalla Another exciting job interview at 2pm tomorrow I'm tired. I've always wanted to work in Valhalla. What does it mean to push the memoir over a cliff? When it hits bottom, its bones are shattered and it can only remember one day at a time. What does it mean to make a mosaic without form, just a long thin trail of tiles stretching out into forever? Some are turquoise, but most are just a dusty red clay. A poet without a poem, a dog without a home, a post-mythologist. Someone who burns ideas for dinner and scalds her hands rinsing regrets. ~~~~~ I had a starring role in a play in eighth grade. "The White Gypsy." I can't remember the plot. I was a princess. I got the role because I could read aloud with expression, memorize reliably, and carry a tune. My costume was a pink lace formal from the thrift store. I had no bust at all. I don't remember what was done to the berm-shaped top of the formal to hold it on. I had to remove my glasses for the performance. I couldn't see anything. At one point in the plot, I had to scream. I could not be taught to scream authentically. I kept going with a weak "aah, aah, aah." At another point in the plot, I had to hide inside a small hut-shaped object made of papier-mache. I can remember being inside there. It was cozy. I don't remember anyone saying anything to me about the performance. I don't remember feeling embarrassed. Maybe I was beyond embarrassment. Post-embarrassment. What's beyond embarrassment? Observation. Adventure. Courage? No. More resignation. Both stubborn and reckless. Through no fault of my own, I was set on this path and there was no getting off it so I might as well keep walking. I was on stage, I was a star, but I was blind so it didn't count. The show must go on. I sat with a girl younger than me on the bus that year. Her name was Zoe Butkowski. She had extraordinarily thick legs. Her eyes were huge and dark blue gray, perfectly shaped with bright white whites and thick dark lashes. She wasn't a good friend; I only knew her from the bus. But I remember such a feeling of comfort and relaxation to have a seat with a smiling accepting girl named Zoe. ~~~~~ There's emotional correspondence between this story and job hunting. (Maybe the mosaic does have a form.) Granted, I dress better now and I don't have to remove my glasses for interviews. But today there's no Zoe. No -- the journal is Zoe.

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September 3 God vs. the aunts
The exciting job interview was postponed. There was an HR emergency. Curious -- what's an HR emergency??? I am disappointed to have to go through the weekend in suspense (about the interview, not the emergency). I was building up a tremendous steam pressure of irritability this afternoon. I wanted a nice escapist nap. But the dog was exploding every five seconds because the neighbors were yelling and throwing things off their roof. I had to take myself down to the Sound. Quote of the day: (Laura is speaking to her last-chance suitor, Mr. Arbuthnot, & hereby ruining any possibility of marriage) Mr. Arbuthnot certainly was not prepared for her response to his statement that February was a dangerous month. "It is," answered Laura with almost violent agreement. "If you are a were-wolf, and very likely you may be, for lots of people are without knowing, February, of all months, is the month when you are most likely to go out on a dark windy night and worry sheep." Lolly Willowes, Sylvia Townsend Warner (I am really liking this book) Down at the Sound, I made up a theology of maiden aunts. I was trying to force myself to pray to relieve job-hunting discouragement and dread of the weekend. Prayer has been recommended to me so many times I find it impossible to believe I can't pray. But I can't. I was hunting around for a comforting alternative to prayer and I thought of maiden aunts. Not my real maiden aunts. My spiritual maiden aunts. They gathered around me. I thought about their clothes and their names, their frustrations and their flaws. They are not especially loving and they are not good role models. But I'm interested in them. 1) They had no lives. They were enslaved in their brothers' families. 2) They prayed to accept their lot graciously. 3) This was so wrong that it created a great thundercloud of misguided prayer which won't go away. 4) Their power was in their anguish. 5) It's false to turn them into warriors or transform them in any way. 6) They are problemmatic, useless as guides. But they like my attention.

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September 4 Goody me
Today I was cast back into the past, into many pasts, into houses where I used to live, houses where I never lived and never will live, houses where I might have lived and feel at home, houses of pain, houses of neglect, houses of trouble, troubles and accusations spoken and unspoken, confessed and unconfessed, and a hand on my shoulder to bring me back to myself, and the sky and tomorrow still speak to me. ... a shower ... the young bride-to-be wearing a dark maroon velvet slip dress and shoes with outrageously high pyramidal heels ... the generations are all mixed up ... I have to stop worrying and enjoy my salmon and eat the chocolate mousse filling out of my cake ... they want her to be a good housekeeper, a good cook ... they are sure everything will be fine ... she's all set, like a table ... she has everything she needs for her kitchen ... there's a parade of china, utensils, silver, wineglasses, clean potholders, ovens of all kinds, dancing like Disney, a parade I watch with cool and electronic eyes, the flash from the back of the room ... the divorced women give her things for herself, things that can't be divided ... have they found a house yet? ... email from a lost college friend ... she found the house the summer I lived away from home for the first time ... I learned to make yogurt behind the refrigerator where it was warm ... I learned to eat waffles with peanut butter and maple syrup for dinner ... eat vanilla ice cream with creme de menthe ... play cards ... ride bicycles at night ... I was living with a man who fell for someone else that summer ... I didn't even mind .... a letter from a home girl, you're breaking my heart, stop living with this man, come home, it's not worth your eternal soul ... but I was free ... I was free and what I tasted was sweet ... I was free ... although I injured my real foot symbolically twice, once a burn, once a slip from the bicycle pedal into the spokes ... my mother said come home, but I don't ... my son packs for college ... theoretical packing ... what do I say? nothing ... just what was said to me ... I remember a sort of pain, but maybe more a rebellion that smells of iron or ironing or burns ... I want more than anything to clean out his space and put my house on the market and walk my healed life with whole feet, where I left off, somewhere in a car with all my belongings ... I tell the sky, I have tears in my eyes, I'm in trouble, I'm in trouble, I'm in trouble .... .... "The Crucible" ... on PBS uninterrupted by commercial breaks ... I haven't seen the movie before ... I am completely mesmerized and don't move once ... Goody Osborn, Goody Proctor, Goody me ... or I could easily become hysterical ... I could accuse, I could deny ... I could forgive ... I don't know what I'll do

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September 5 Thorns and a kiss
What am I doing here? I don't want to write about getting my son off to college. I wasn't very involved anyway. I just paid for it. But his leaving completely dominated my day. There's nothing else to write about. Before he left, I was beside myself with impatience. I did some heavy gardening, attacking that brambly corner. After he left, I was limp with relief. I took a nap, took a bath, and made myself a can of creamy chicken and mushroom soup with extra mushrooms. About an hour ago, I started to worry that he would flunk out and come back. How long would it take someone to flunk out? My arms and legs are sore and covered with scratches from tearing out brambles. If I were much more clever and alert than I am, I could make today into a charming variant of the Sleeping Beauty story. There was even a kiss. Who wakes up? Him, or me, or both?

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September 6 Forgetting
The third time, I listened. Three times now, emphatically, I've been told to Forget Forgiving. Just Forget. Okay! It seems so revolutionary, so heathen, but today I started to get the point. What a clean and silky power, forgetting. Selective, intentional forgetting -- not enforced forgetting, like memory loss or Alzheimer's. I feel lighter already. I've started to welcome impious Forgetting, in her graceful veil. Now I hope she'll ask her taller foreign cousin, Invention, to come by more often. We could have so much fun! We could read short stories to each other. We'll tramp about in the fall woods. Walk along the river and gaze into the black water under the rocks. They'll tease me about all my hoards and reluctances and my anachronistic desire to write my memoirs; they'll accuse me of being a loathsome Troll from the Realm of Real; but they are so seductive, I'll forgive them. I can't resist their silvery laughter. Invention and I will fall deep into conversation. She'll teach me words in her language. Forgetting will stand guard. She's never ever jealous and she never interrupts. I trust them both completely. Their hands are so warm and gentle. ~~~~~~~ I think Sylvia Townsend Warner must have been good at forgetting, although I've just started getting to know her. She wrote this passage (from Lolly Willowes): There was no question of forgiving them. She had not, in any case, a forgiving nature, and the injury they had done her was not done by them. If she were to start forgiving she must needs forgive Society, the Law, the Church, the History of Europe, the Old Testament, great-great-aunt Salome and her prayer-book, the Bank of England, Prostitution, the architect of Apsley Terrace, and half a dozen other useful props of civilization. All she could do was to go on forgetting them. But now she was able to forget them without flouting them by her forgetfulness.

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September 7 Cleansing?
Words I received in the mail today from men who are strange: "You're amazing, how fast you work. I wish I could be like you." "For Cathy, who's looking for something..." "I wish I could fall in love/ though it only leads to trouble ... " (typed lyric) Number 1: I don't think I would recommend wishing you could be like another person. Number 2: I definitely wouldn't recommend sending CDs representing your taste in music to an ex who cut off all contact with you more than two years ago, enclosing no note, only a typed up lyric and the songwriter's autograph. (deep breath) Sent out five resumes this morning. Took two long and dull phone calls this afternoon in response to one of them. Shoveled about 10 garbage bags full of indescribable debris out of the basement. Sweat a lot. Worked some more on the grant application. Then helped my friend with her grant application (gagging on paperwork). Made some nasty chicken dish for dinner and got chicken grease everywhere and then had to wash almost everything with hot soapy water. (deep breath) It's a low estrogen week (weak). My right ankle feels strange. It burns, then it's numb, then it hurts. It only feels normal when I walk on it. It's getting worse instead of better. I can't stop thinking about "Kafka." Just the word Kafka, nothing else in particular. The last time I was dealing with heavy trash, I was starting to read "Metamorphosis" and had to stop. Come to think of it, all my extremities feel a little strange. Tender, or bruised. Fleas. (deep breath) Temp work tomorrow. It'll be great to get out of the house. I've been thinking about the practice of "spiritual direction." Somehow the earnest, over-placid tone of "direction" has gotten under my skin. I want to play with that tone. I think I need to apply "forgetting" here. Why am I still so rebellious? I'm reading Doris Lessing's autobiography. I adore it. I love the tone. I recognize it. (deep breath) I'm going to go out and stand in the cool wet air for a few minutes.

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September 8 Outfits
In employment limbo. Today I was a "free lancer." Another day, I'll be a "temp." Am I looking for "consulting?" Am I 1099 or W-2? What's my rate? I wear silk clothes to a jeans-and-polo-shirt studio. I hold my spine straight and take long slow steps in neat leather shoes. I'm wearing an invisible crown. I ask -- a few questions? some questions? too many questions? I feel tense and feeble and down on my luck. I mistake the Return key for the Enter key -- is that absolutely elementary? The man overexplains some technical gumbo that I already know; I let him. I'm playing the role of Ordinary Temp. At home I whip off all the silk and put on ancient blue painters' pants and a Tshirt that belonged to one of my son's friends. Then I walk the dog. Then I make two dinners; the second replaces the first, which is so nasty even I don't expect my son to eat it. Then I help with the homework. The way I help is this: I get so overbearing and efficient about approaching the problem that my son realizes he'd rather do it himself. It works for us. Ok, mild-mannered one, if you jumped into a phone booth and whipped off all your grungy clothes, what would you be? science fiction hat made of bird wings forest mission corner sitting silence chicken leg hut bhakti castle of smoke daylight nightfever buckskin pouch and leggings chlorophyll the ana suromai? everance still watching making up noscent, nosense, noscient, nosentence, nonsense Just a pile of words.

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September 9 Creativity: low
I turned on the TV late last night; I was having trouble settling down. Kurt Vonnegut was being interviewed! He looked extremely handsome and youthful at 76 years old. He was funny. He said "I think people should write poems to each other." He kept talking about creative work and how it grew one's soul. There's no market for short stories these days but people are writing them anyway. He was wonderful. Kurt Vonnegut! I'm in love. Oh, I'm exhausted! Head: I'm wearing my hair in a kind of Elsie-do. Reminds me, when I was in high school my nickname was Elsie Dudash. I don't know why. Foot: I went to the doctor today about the mysterious pain in the ankle. I'm wearing an Ace bandage. I'm supposed to get a good pair of supportive sneakers. And take NSAIDs. And I had blood drawn to check for Lyme and ANA's. I weigh 128 which is just about what I've weighed my whole adult life except for pregnancy. My blood pressure is good. Having blood drawn makes me queasy. Job front: Two companies claim to be interested in me, but can't get it together enough to interview me. One of them supposedly likes me so much, they're "creating" a job more suited for me. Suspicious. A competitor of my former employer wants to interview me. Could be tricky. Recruiters sending me notes like "Have you ever thought of selling?" Selling out, maybe; selling, no. I'm about ready to take the hateful step of signing up for the alumni reception of the consulting firm 9/22 (networking with suits). Unpaid job front: Just when I wrap up the grant application, another big project kicks into gear. I volunteered to do five pages of layout for the church photo directory. How hard could that be? Insect world: The dog is chasing a giant fly around the house. You can't see the fly, so the dog appears possessed. There's a flea population explosion. I don't deal well with insect invasions. At least St. Louis encephalitis hasn't come up our way -- yet. Fruit world: Almost all the fruit grew hair overnight. Humidity. I threw most of it out today. I'm sure the rest will go tomorrow. I'm hot. I want to track my creativity quotient against the temperature/humidity and against amount of sleep and against amount of tedious day work. I'm sure there are correlations.

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September 10 Respiration
I was sweating, self-conscious because I could smell my sweat. I was hunching my shoulders, crossing my arms tightly over my stomach. I didn't know what to do with my feet. I finally started scratching a flea bite on my ankle. I was breathing. I continued breathing. My mind was uncomfortable, roaming and hovering, dipping and disappearing. More breathing. Can writing be like breathing? The body is simple. The body is selfish. The body doesn't care about East Timor. The body secretes, the mind wanders, the lips and teeth move. There are flowers on the table. The eye rests on the flowers, gaudy and sentimental. The lungs flare and recede, more rhythmically than any set of words. My head cracks. There's an oozing spot there on my brain. My knuckles burst into bloom. My skin crawls. My body is thrown against the wall of high school, of college, sitting in lectures, staring, fidgeting, waiting, squirming with irrelevancies. I'm still breathing even though my tongue completely clogs my throat. This is a silly and pointless conversation. As usual I'm keeping as quiet as the ocean depths and the pressure is building up between my ears. As a contribution, I name the purple flower. Cosmos. Then I say it again with just a touch too much energy: COS - MOS. You can quote me on that. Now I'm falling asleep. Flesh demands it. And even in sleep, I'm breathing. And writing is like breathing.

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September 11 What is important
I have never almost always never decided what is important. Blowing in the wind. Whims of the wind. Whims of the architecture. Inside this structure, inside this maze, it is not easy to say what is important. How important is it? I maybe might could possibly never agree with myself that any of it was important. Memories disguised as important: a quilted pink jacket pieced on the floor of the trailer in Creswell or the red lights in the sky the night Dawn's babies died. What is important has been crushed out of me. From the first day I've lost my grip on what is important. I am so tired of the unimportant. For example, whether anybody understands. Whether anybody cares. Whether anybody knows. Whether anybody listens. If he thinks that's important, who am I to say what's important? I didn't ask, but I was told. The Abyss. The Incarnation. Mosquitoes. He said, she said. I scroll quickly, fast forward through my thoughts and feelings, then reverse. Nothing. Today I wrote "struggling so hard to make a living on my little sugar farm here on the slopes of this volcano." That was my answer. But it was too late. There are always too seldom few way too many distractions. Lunch. Sleep. I wanted to nap. The whirring, loud, relentless whirring of the mental ceiling fan kept me awake. I fought to sleep, then I woke up bruised and exhausted, my mouth filled with plaque, my house filled with animals. It was overwhelming. So, let's go, my dear. There is no way to insist on importance from a ball of yarn. You can't knit the organic heart into life. All you can do is keep quitting and keep putting away and sometimes always never stop moving and maybe possibly someday you will stumble into it, or it will stumble into you, your own glowing spectacular tremulous true throatway of Experimental Importance.

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September 12 Gertrude Interlude
Now listen! Can't you see that when the language was new -- as it was with Chaucer and Homer -- the poet could use the name of a thing and the thing was really there? He could say "O moon," "O sea," "O love" and the moon and the sea and love were really there. And can't you see that after hundreds of years had gone by and thousands of poems had been written, he could call on those words and find that they were just wornout literary words? The excitingness of pure being had withdrawn from them; they were just rather stale literary words. Now the poet has to work in the excitingness of pure being; he has to get back that intensity into the language. We all know that it's hard to write poetry in a late age; and we know that you have to put some strangeness, something unexpected, into the structure of the sentence in order to bring back vitality to the noun. Now it's not enough to be bizarre; the strangeness in the sentence structure has to come from the poetic gift, too. That's why it's doubly hard to be a poet in a late age. Now you all have seen hundreds of poems about roses and you know in your bones that the rose is not there. All those songs that sopranos sing as encores about "I have a garden; oh, what a garden!" Now I don't want to put too much emphasis on that line, because it's just one line in a longer poem. But I notice that you all know it; you make fun of it, but you know it. Now listen! I'm no fool. I know that in daily life we don't go around saying "is a ... is a ... is a ..." Yes, I'm no fool; but I think that in that line the rose is red for the first time in English poetry for a hundred years. Four in America Gertrude Stein, In Words and Pictures, ed. Renate Stendhal. A wonderful book full of photos and bits and pieces of text. Stendhal writes in the introduction: The interplay of the parts will, I hope, highlight a particularly modern aspect of Gertrude Stein's work: its wholeness, its nonhierarchical unity of highflying thoughts and everyday trivia, spirituality and common sense, philosophy and erotics. The juxtaposition of words and images may also shine a light on the paradox of Gertrude Stein's personality, embracing the legendary and the down-to-earth, the female and the male, the self-enthroning and the self-ironic, the word-dictator and the fool at the court of world literature. The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas -- a marvelously pleasing book. I read it as a teenager; I think it's time to read it again. I can't say I've seriously tried to read anything else Gertrude wrote. Through the Stendhal book, I discovered the subtitle to Tender Buttons: "Objects / Food / Rooms." That is very exciting and something I must investigate further. When I first knew Gertrude Stein in Paris I was surprised never to see a french book on her table, although there were always plenty of english ones, there were even no french newspapers. But do you never read french, I as well as many other people asked her. No, she replied, you see I feel with my eyes and it does not make any different to me what language I hear, I don't hear a language, I hear tones of voice and rhythms, but with my eyes I see words and sentences and there is for me only one language and that is english. One of the things I have liked all these years is to be surrounded by people who know no english. It has left me more intensely alone with my eyes and my english. I do not know if it would have been possible to have english be so all in all to me otherwise. And they none of them could read a word I wrote, most of them did not even know that I did write. No, I like living with so very many people and being all alone with english and myself. The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas

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September 13 Care and concerns
Grandma Beryl, Mount St. John, Yountville, California, March 21, 1979 She worked for the IRS and raised her daughter alone. ~~~~~~~ I weeded a strip of the garden today. The "Miss Kim" dwarf lilac is growing up healthy and luxurious, but it's in a bad neighborhood full of thuggish bindweed. I have to rescue her every so often during the summer. I cut the roses back severely; I might just dig them out. They're pathetic excuses for roses. I only got one thorn puncture, in the back of my right elbow. But I think I did grab hold of a small poison ivy bush with my bare hand. I washed the hand well with soap and water, so we shall see. ~~~~~~~ My son told me his friend poked him in the eye with a sandy finger when they were down at the beach on Sunday. He explained to me how it was an accident, and how he went and rinsed it with water for five minutes. I was proud of him. He can take care of himself. ~~~~~~~ Two guys are coming over soon to wash the iguana. They might even take the iguana and snakes away with them. The reptiles won't tolerate a flea bomb very well. ~~~~~~~ I have stomach cramps. I don't want this job I'm interviewing for tomorrow. It has a lot of drawbacks. It's the second interview. What should I do? Go to bed.

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September 14 Join the campfire girls
Stubborn. I'm feeling so stubborn. I felt more and more stubborn as the day went by. For relief, I hacked a bush to pieces with a dull Felco hand pruner. New opportunities start to happen, flare up, then sputter and disappear on me. I'm too stubborn to want to write about that. The campfire won't start with damp wood and no kindling, no matter how much newspaper you light on fire. We had inadequate tools. We had inadequate wood. My friend and I had a shortage of men and a surplus of boys. The boys were trying to light the fire by burning up days' and days' worth of newspaper. Headlines, horoscopes, classifieds turned into sparkling black ash were flying up and falling all around us. I was washing the dishes in a flimsy aluminum sauce pan. There were a lot of dishes. I don't know how I got this job, when what I really wanted to do was yell at the kids. A stranger came to "help" us. He helped with the campfire, not the dishes. He got it going pretty good. He sat around and told stories. He told the boys about catching fish with balls of corn meal. He told them which areas of the shore were best for fishing. He talked about rowboats. The three little boys listened, wide-eyed, fascinated, asking questions. They had stopped throwing great gobs of newspaper into the fire. They were up way past their bedtime. He was enjoying himself. She seemed happy at first. She had invited him to stay. She likes to "meet" men. She likes their help. She was flirting. Then after too much time went by, she didn't know what to do. "Is this guy freaking you out?" she whispered to me. I was steaming. I wanted to set his hair on fire and then douse him with leftover dishwater. I was afraid. Another time, I was alone. The summer after college. Yosemite in August. I joined the rangers for nature talks. I made friends with a younger woman. She invited me to her campsite for dinner. I thought it would be okay. Her father questioned me about everything. I didn't know how much to tell him. "I wouldn't let my daughter do what you're doing." Later I watched a small bear trying to get into the dumpster. I don't think I was lighting campfires on that trip. I was eating sardines and crackers. Yumm. The next night I went up the high road and camped at Tenaya Lake. Nobody bothered me. In the morning I had to dig my hat and mittens out of the footlocker because it was so cold. Another time, last summer. I was trying to split wood with a doubtful hachet. The man at the next campsite offered help, reaching for his big axe. I said "No thanks, I'm just messing around..." Meanwhile, fury at everything blazes inside. I am not fucking messing around; I just want to play with my own campfire. I had bad experiences as a girl scout. I was watching the brownies march in the parade. This phrase popped into my head: "I wanted to be an Extreme Brownie." I want to start a troop of extreme brownies but I don't think I'd get many girls to join.

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September 15 Draft Zero
Once I hear anything twice, I start to disbelieve it. I don't believe in: the importance of first drafts telling the truth through fiction the responsiveness of the universe what it means to be human reaching the universal through the particular the adjective "great" sensory details unity I could never be an academic. I'll never be any good at writing reviews. I do believe in: moleskin hats with or without a cigar draft negative one closets full of abstractions trying to outswim this rain and get over the horizon as quickly as possible I don't necessarily have anything to say on any given day. Today I can say I dislike Patricia Hampl's writing. I want to believe she has something to say to me, but she doesn't.

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September 16 Trickles of relief
What I wanted to break was the grip of these big mega-jobs that are closing in on me. Instead I turned toward a much more vulnerable target: writing and the rules of writing. Just imagine, breaking the rules of writing! It's easy and fun. Writing may go off and snivel in the corner for awhile, but she'll get over it. I breathe a sigh of relief that writing is so defenseless and at the same time completely self-healing. Like a big bowl of wet cornstarch. Miniature signs of progress today. Not enough to make a difference. Personal communications, not job related, with the deaf, dumb, and blind -- two people said "water" to me today, which is not much but it's better than running around the dining room screaming and throwing your eggs. There's a long way to go, and I'm nervous, but it's a small relief to have this breakthrough. I drove to White Plains in a hurricane for a meeting that never happened. I knew while I was doing it that it was foolish and any other person would have phoned ahead and canceled. When I got there, the receptionist said "Well there's a problem, well I don't want to call it a problem..." The guy had left to help another guy who was being evacuated. So I ate a bowl of tomato soup in their cafeteria and drove home. No problem. I got over some kind of Adobe plateau today and started to explore some different web techniques. Style sheets, frames, floating boxes, cyberobjects, marquees, and other doohickeys. It is not hard, but it gets ugly fast. The test page doesn't work all that well, so I'm not going to post it, just this one piece of play:

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September 17 Deep in muck
I'm still vibrating too wildly from the day's interactions to type very well. There's no way to write about the day without making a gossipy juvenile mudpie. Oh well. I met 5 new people in interviews (2 companies). They were all impressed with themselves. I wasn't impressed with any of them. Nevertheless, I imagined myself really hard into those jobs, making a mockery of myself. I had to fill out an application. I am completely insulted by companies that make me fill out an application. This one was especially bad, containing about 4 pages of information I didn't read about their need to run a credit check. My writing hand kept stopping, and I didn't want to do it, but I made myself finish it. Immediately thereafter I met my nemesis of job hunting. A guy I worked with on my first professional project, 15 years ago, then a silly young guy right out of school. And remet the last time I was job hunting, nine years ago, when he was about two rungs above me on the ladder, and well pleased with most things. And remet again today at a different company, where he's about four rungs above me on the ladder, and very well pleased with everything. He remarked on my purple and blue kiddie watch & I tried to tuck it back under my cuff. He said "a wife and three kids" and I said "how did that happen?" At least he took it as funny. I heard way too many three letter words that start with C in one day -- CIO (2 kinds), CEO, CTO, CFO ... Two guys were very careful to tell me where they lived, and asked me where I lived, even though it's clearly visible right at the top of my resume. Apparently one's address carries all kinds of important information. Subliminally I was angry, so I made a mistake and told him my most recent salary, which I knew was outrageous for that job. Judging by his reaction, I don't live in the right town to get that kind of money. One company had about 50 people employed in status reporting, quality assurance, and other types of make-work. A woman with a huge bouquet of dead gladiola on her desk thought I might be too "hands-on." My head began filling with helium. I spend so much time trying to convince other people that I'm hands-on enough. I think this was a red flag. I had lunch with Silvercurls. (No hands-on.) I was so uneasy I felt like my seat was a hole in space, ready at any moment to warp through to a parallel dimension. We "talked." I made it happen because I can't endure not talking anymore (at least not for more than a few months). It was horrible. He said "now I've really muddied the waters" and I said "well, at least the manhole cover is off them." Maybe this was an inappropriate metaphor. I talked to three recruiters at length on the telephone. One of them is now my best friend. He calls me "my dear" and is very active in getting me these very oppressive interviews. The other two just made strange comments and transplanted small shrubs of self doubt. Ticked off, item by item, my qualifications against the job posting. That annoys me so much. Like I could only do what I had already done. It's so demeaning. It's not "what it means to be human." Am I doing something wrong? I don't know how else to do this. My friend Alice called about 6pm. She wants me to work for her next week. She asked my rate, and I think I told her more than she can really afford, which upset me. But I'm going there for a few days and it will be a relief. This also happened the last time I was job hunting, nine years ago. She was my job hunting port in a storm and good luck charm.

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September 18 Sky / grandfathers
Joseph Cornell, "Weather Satellites," c. 1965 I took myself to a museum. There was an exhibit called "Collage in America." I love Joseph Cornell. An elderly neighbor and I have taken to waving Hello to each other when walking or driving down the street. He is remarkably cute, with a round head, fringey white hair, and thick glasses. He shuffles along, a little hunched, and drives an old navy blue Saab. I'd like to know his name, but we haven't talked yet. I can't believe what Mario comes up with. Mario's the corner neighbor. He's retired and has very bad teeth. He wears only dazzling white clothing, year-round. Sometimes he wears white long johns under shorts, other times a three-quarter length white coat, or a white coverall. He says amazingly relevant things to me about my work, then he goes on and on about something so garbled I can't follow him. I feel bad telling him I don't have a job yet. The white haired neighbor who lives in the falling down brown house was walking home with his groceries. The grocery bags were just opaque enough that I couldn't see what was in them, although I tried hard. He stops every few steps to rest and examine the hedges. It took all day for this feeling of funk to leave me. Taking an interest in my neighbors helped. The big bowl of New England Clam Chowder helped. There was a planet in the morning sky at 5am. I don't know which, Venus or Jupiter? It was big and bright, a brilliant pearl.

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September 19 En famille
Dealing with my children today made me want to get right back to job hunting tomorrow. It's a good thing that it works that way. The older one (19) missed four buses getting here from Boston for a surprise one-day visit. He's now missed two buses trying to get back. He had a lot of baggage loaded into the car for the trip to the missed 8:35 bus: an electric guitar, a laundry basket, an electric fan, a trash can, several coats on hangers, his bookbag. I said "You're going to get on a BUS with THAT?" He said, "Yeah, it's been done...." As he was getting his stuff together, I reminded him of the time twice. One of my parenting rules is Never remind more than twice. He probably really wants to miss the bus and is setting me up to see how crazy I will act. Now he's planning to make another attempt, the 11:55. This one has a layover in Hartford for four hours. I tried to get firm about the baggage ... he said he's pared it down to what he can carry. I offered to plan a trip to Boston in the coming week to take the stuff up to him, but he has to have it tomorrow. Some mothers would probably drive him to Boston tonight. Too bad he doesn't have one of those mothers. Meanwhile, the other one (11) is out too late on his bicycle and I have no idea where he is. He's getting his back up about the church youth group, which met earlier tonight. I forced us to go (pizza and soda, that's dinner) and he sulked the whole time. Luckily we had an excuse to leave early which was the departure time of the first missed bus. Now I just have to decide how hard I'm willing to push him into youth group participation. I'm not very happy with the whole setup. Meanwhile, something I can control, I think. I'm rehabilitating a cat. The old calico cat, Kied, who came to us on Halloween night in Georgia 13 years ago. She's been living down in the basement, flearidden and alone for the past two weeks. I gave her a flea shampoo. Wet cats look so funny. Then I moved her food, water, and litter box upstairs where she can get more human contact. All the other animals are out of the basement, hurray!, except the fleas and millipedes. I'll bomb them again when I get a chance. Kied has an unfortunate name. We tried several names, but that was the one that stuck. It comes from a highpitched crooning of K - i - t - t - y, Kitty, Kitty. I was never sure if it was spelled Kied or Keed or Kede or Kead; one day at the vet's I just made the decision without asking anyone else's opinion. She has a calico checkerboard on top of her head and a black fur beauty mark on her upper lip. She is still a sweet, friendly cat even though she's been through some hard times.

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September 20 Behind the curtain
	I just wanted to do this today. To the next room ...
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September 21 Stream of Urd
Interview today: Business Person tells me his job is to know everything about everything. He's completely serious. I describe my greatest strength to Business Person as a "weird facility with data." I'm absolutely serious. Tonight I struggle with this opportunity. I "did very well" in the interview, and they want to do the final Thursday. I sit at the keyboard. I can't possibly write anything. I need guidance, I need guidance, that's all I can think. Finally I go in the bedroom and get The Woman's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets (Barbara Walker). After just a short search, I find: Urd One of the Norse names of Mother Earth, in addition to Urtha, Erda, Eartha, Wyrd, Wurd, Word, Weird, etc. Urd was usually called the divine fount of wisdom tended by the three Norns (Fates) under the root of the World Tree; it was also the name of the oldest Norn, an Earth Goddess who knew everything, past, present, and future. The gods couldn't render judgment unless they gathered at the fount of Urd, beause they were helpless without the wisdom imparted by the Urdarbrunnr, "Stream of Urd," which gave life and mind. Old mythologies held that the fount of wisdom was female, and without it neither men nor gods could know anything. Norns The female trinity of Fates as she/they appeared in Scandinavia: also known as Weird Sisters, from Teutonic wyrd, "fate." The Prose Edda called them "three mysterious beings," High One, Just-as-High, and Third, who revealed the secrets of the universe and wrote the book of destiny; hence their other title, Die Schreiberinnen, "women who write."

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September 23 "Song to the Mother of the World"
"Goddess, Matajargat, Mother of People, Mother of the World Mother of dead ones and live ones, having won out in three great wars in the hearts of men between demons and stars, you are Goddess of All. "Mother of Earth, support us, make the world of living creatures one. "Sea Mother, be around us, move us, rest us. "Mother of life, breathe in us, beat in us. Draw forth our powers to touch and smell and taste, to see and hear you. Show us the ways to know you. Let us touch your heart. "Mother of Knowledge, you make our life a crystal form displaying your aspects. It is dark by day and clear in dreamlight. "Mother of Visions, in your three-stranded braid, in your three eyes, in your mighty trident prongs you create, sustain, destroy us, you destroy, sustain, create us. "We cling to you, giver of refuge, constant shelter, only companion in our sufferings, the only one who goes with us to death. "Your forms are endless-- Brahmani, Maheshvari, Kaumari, Vaishnavi, Aindri, Chamunda, Durga, Chandika, Ambika-- endless your names, your weapons, mounts, and jewels, yet each one moves in us and gives us power. "May your sword, smeared with the blood and fat of the fallen demons, your great light gleaming in its magic steel, be sharp for us. "Age after age, the evils in us rise against us, and we who were healthy grow sick and feeble. We fear the wars to come. We call on you, Goddess. Save us from the powers that destroy us. from Devi, Suzanne Ironbiter, p.31 (based on the Sanskrit text of the Devi Mahatmya)

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September 24 A Fine Mess
Repeat: "Age after age, the evils in us rise against us, and we who were healthy grow sick and feeble. We fear the wars to come. We call on you, Goddess. Save us from the powers that destroy us." from Devi, Suzanne Ironbiter, p.31 (based on the Sanskrit text of the Devi Mahatmya) ~~~~~~~~~ This is a fine mess you've gotten us into. This is a dangerous game you're playing. ~~~~~~~~ I hate this kind of game. I got an offer today, my first offer, a big whopping offer (relatively I mean) from the company ten minutes away with the man who wants to know everything. I would have been ready to accept it, BUT ... Unfortunately, the last interview of the "final" yesterday was with the CIO (Chief Information Officer) who turns out to be among the worst of the demon spawn of King Shumbha. By the time I was released from being held hostage in his office, I was shaking with anger. I still see red whenever I think of him. Any normal person would say Ergo you shouldn't take this job. Except for my Best Friend the recruiter who is trying mightily to convince me my "career" is at stake, this is the last job on the planet, don't be a fool, whatever. "Sugriva cannot believe I have denied him: 'Do not be haughty. All the world cannot defeat the demons in battle. What man would dare to stand against King Shumbha? How can you, a single woman, face him? You should go to him. Let it not be that everyone will see him conquer you and drag you by your hair.'" (Devi, p.19) ~~~~~~~~ When I got home yesterday, I had to force feed myself from the Devi Mahatmya: Slaughter of the Armies of Mahishasura The Slaying of Dhumralochana The Slaying of Chanda and Munda The Slaying of Raktabija The Slaying of Nishumbha The Slaying of King Shumbha By the time I got to the Song to the Mother of the World, I was just starting to feel like I could cope. ~~~~~~~~ I'm too weak. I need Durga to help me. She said she would. "When you pray to me with concentrated mind, your troubles will be to me as Madhu and Kaitabha, Mahishasura, Shumbha, and all their hosts. I will meet them in set battle. Though they are strong, matched against my powers, from which all powers derive, they will be destroyed." (Devi, p.34) ~~~~~~~~ I don't know what to do.

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September 25 Saturday Review
Two blonde things come out of the blue. He has the smallest feet. She uncoils her wet hair. He still suffers from a weight of irony. She's anointed with an oil of entitlement. They leave early for Providence. Thunder dawn. A golden emergency comes to the vet's. Six round brown eyes wait and observe. Trembles but no tears. Finally, eight pedicures. A large thick envelope comes by Fed Ex. It says its name, "Integrity." Then blushes with shame. I allow it to sit in the corner. I spend time with two rugs, cheek to cheek. Daytime now prefers the second floor. But as a child, I always wanted stairs. What did you do with the flounders? -- We threw them. Aftermath of anger aches. Manynumbers. Dreads. A pecan pie awaits.

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September 27 Journals talking
So sore, so exhausted, dehydrated, my body's thermostat not working correctly, hot, then cold, on the bed, covered, uncovered, weak, at that point yesterday my mind went forth and made a discovery in comparative religion. I doubt if it's an original discovery, but it feels so satisfying because it came through the online journal. "It's a feminine spiritual action -- the glimpse! ... I try to embody these actions in the (online) journal. It is a fundamentally spiritual process. That no one can necessarily recognize. (I am so worn out.) (I want to cry.) (This is so beautiful, but how could I possibly pursue it / expand it?)" Today I made three difficult phone calls. It has not been easy for me to get out of this job offer. I'm very critical of my inability to say a firm "No." It should be so easy. I'm torturing myself? I don't have the words to do this. I have other kinds of words. (Re Saturday 9/25 entry) "It was like a refuge. A huge room opening up to me to explore and feel exalted and comfortable. The next morning (Sunday) I felt so cleared -- I cooked pancakes! I had some words in my head for the problem. It's like I had to visit that language place for my sanity. I was so grateful I got there. It took a while of sitting stumped at the keyboard before I remembered there was an entrance." I'm aware that this journal is coming to a year anniversary. It doesn't seem possible. I want to change something about it, but I don't know what. It has never been very intentional. I dream of making it intentional, but maybe I'm torturing myself with that. I like it being invented every day, open to amusement. "- Humans make art. - I'm afraid of art. - I'm afraid of being human. - I forgive myself for my mistakes in old relationships. - I feel a very odd sensation of calm, like -- I do what I can."

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September 29 News
"Reader, I didn't marry him." I've always wanted to write that. How Jane's life would have been different if... My version doesn't even sound right. It's clunky. "Reader, I married him" has that kind of meant-to-be-said rhythm, the "read" followed by the "ried" -- just like the story, it had to happen that way, no news to anyone, unavoidable, deliciously inevitable. Who cares what happens after "Reader, I didn't marry him." There's a sensation of "well, screw you then." I certainly feel let down walking away from the engagement. Why do I keep getting to a place where there's no story? (PS This is all a reference to the most famous sentence in Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. I certainly hope I'm quoting it correctly.) ~~~~~~~ I'm installing a shopping cart for my friend's website. It's part-time, tremendous fun, and we can walk around in our socks if we want to. I've had houseguests. Don't plan on doing any creative work when you have houseguests. My son has been sighted (that's sighted, not cited) in Boston. Reports are that he's doing extremely well, "thriving" in fact.

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September 30 Poor reception
Waiting outside the front entrance in the pouring rain with an inadequate umbrella. There's a sign inside that says "Welcome" but the doors are locked and the reception desk is dark. I examine the small boxes attached to the wall for buzzers or switches, but they only work with a card or a key. Should I walk through the landscaping in my heels and frighten that woman I see working at a computer by knocking on the window? I tentatively step into the landscaping -- it's six inches of spongy and saturated wood chips, so I just wait in the rain for someone to come along. Waiting in a little rectangular box, elevator doors on two sides, locked glass and wood doors on two other sides. The sign says "ring bell for entrance." I ring the bell. I expect to hear a buzz or a click; all I hear is faint creaks and thuds far away. I can see the receptionist's desk inside, unoccupied. I'm feeling confusion and claustrophobia. I just wait for someone to come along and let me in. The receptionist never comes back. The VP goes through her papers to get the application. Then he leaves me alone to fill it out. I notice a tiny gold metal turtle resting on the marble table in the reception area. I pick it up and examine it. I put it in my pocket. It's my reminder of slowness. I reach out to an old old friend for a reference from my old company. I find her name in an old directory; I find her number through Information. It's really great talking to her. I'm often afraid people won't remember me, but they usually do.

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