Thu 04 Jul 1996 19:16
Kyle is missed. Sara first today though. Then Kyle and Kyle forever, she is most make believe. The color in my water can is bright light blue, the color of the water in the fountains of the sick. I want to paint the surface of the ocean as I see it from the floor. If I wanted to I would be trying and I am not any more. I have some work to do. Tomorrow I will start. Now I am without future without past laying on the bed in a half-dream. I do not see tomorrow there is only now, the present is forever and it goes no-where.

I see the people, I see the place, the present is forever and it goes no-where. Thinking it a miracle that she would
care for me for myself, or even let me love her as I want to do. I think it is a miracle that she would let me love her as I want to. And it is, has not happend yet. The future is forever and no-where. That she would love me too

I finished the E on her shell. I have carved her name on an abalone shell. I imagine seeing her again though it is psychosis, I don't know why I do- It's cause there's nothing now.
I have to play my games, write my papers, see a woman and draw her and call that life.
I love them all, and call it life.
I don't know if it is me that is the problem, I have said to some I want to see them as individuals, and they stay quiet, I don't know if what I am saying is bad to them, I have no clue how they feel and I love her.

Am I really loving them all-
as Marx as in art of loving, love that does not bring about being loved is not love, so I do not love them all if they are not loving me, I know not how much they do, I know I want to see them each day, and I miss her when she's not there.

Let's
"Come with me to the killing of the hogs."
"No, I do not want to go there."
Let's go to the show. You can watch movies when you're in a rest-home. And she stays, and I mess with life again. If I have draw, If what I say sounds true, then I should not feel bad about the disruption of a life, in fact I would disrupt all lives that are not true lives, and who am I to say, I am not the one to say, the lives that are disrupted are the ones that decide to change.
"Colin, I love you." This does not happen, it only happend once, and then I was not human, and she was,
"Colin, I love you."
"I Love you too, mom."

I am hurting and ugly, this moment.

She took the paper and tore it. She put the pieces in the trash basket, picked up her keys and walked out the door, closing and locking it.

She walked down the hall of her floor. White walls, a ceiling of florescent light. She walked by the elevator as it went down, stopping at the door to the stair-well. "Fire door, keep closed at all times."

She went up the stairs to the roof, where you have concern for her safety, perhaps. She was growing peas up there.

Mary looked at the peas, then she sat down on the one chair in the middle of the roof.
She lay down on the ground, what the hell.
She looked at the sky for an instant, then rolled over, resting her forehead in her crossed arms, her feet crossed at the ankles.
If the artist could see her, she might draw her. She would lay on her side watching.
Mary has black hair.

She lay there on the roof, the slight arch in her back the curve of horizon upside-down. My hand across both back pockets, apex. I feel soft shoulder blades through a red-brown wool. I take both ankles in both hands and feel bone. The vein on the edge. She does not feel.

Mary turns her head to the side, the peas, the artist in her view, her eyes are closed.

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