Alone on Christmas
I just spent the last few minutes waiting for water to come to a boil on the stove for tea. While waiting I skipped through this journal, stopping every so often, and read random pages. It seems that what I have written at other times is sufficiently removed from me to permit my pursuit of authorship of literature. This is good.
The things I read also pain me at times. The thought of a past once present now changed into memories.
As I sit today, Christmas, before my desk, I will not forget, I cannot forget myself when I am writing… it soothes me by its connection with the past, direct, like looking through the space that I have traveled from the eternal point of view. Sehr gut.
I sit down,, spreading ink on paper and what yields it? Ink on my small and ring fingers and a touch with the past.Journals, Mainz, West Germany, Dec. 25, 1975.
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