July 21, 2016
Semi-annual Black Mountain visitation, where I, not having planned to do any such thing, bought a musical instrument, a plucked psaltery. The ladies at the store overwhelmed me with advice and chit-chat. We sang together selections from Jesus Christ, Superstar after I told them I was in it tonight. The drive to Black Mountain was inexplicably black and despairing. The blackness and despair aren’t inexplicable, but rather why they should erupt on a bright road in a bright morning heading to frivolity. Had a salad and cocktails and the morning was barely over.
Thought of Indian Guides. At the beginning of a meeting you had to stand with you hand on your father’s shoulder and sing “Pals Forever” to the tune of “Darling Clementine.” At the age of– what? 6? 7?– I was almost too mortified to go through with it. It was hard for me even to touch my father long enough to get the song out. Even then something had come between us, something cold and unnatural. I’m always stopped from going back far enough to discover what it was. Did he feel the same? I assume he did. I assume that whatever it was arose from him, as I was too young to have formed desires and aversions of that strength on my own. I do not remember either of my parents hugging or caressing me. Once. Ever. There must have been a reason–
I am going to write these things down as they arise. Dreamed during a nap of my father’s mother, so vividly that when I awoke I went into the living room to see if she wanted anything.
Rainish sky with no rain. I am not going into the yard until the yellow jackets are dealt with. My anger is still a pale coal.