August 13, 2000

Write! he says. Think I've been here before. The commands to turn
emotional turmoil and inner chaos into something approaching art has
been a saving grace for both he and I for most of our adult lives.
Actually, I was practicing this, unconsciously, from about the age of
12 on. Looking for the vehicle to express all the confusion and
diverted sexual energy churning away inside me and I found art.
Painting and drawing was such an immediate "click", a source of
comfort and release, of praise for my abilities, a sanctury, my
strength for all my life-till I went to FH. Why did I leave it behind?
I have explanations. I say I competed at the highest level that I
could and determined that I was not good enough to meet my own
standards. I say that my vision changed-I found a new religion, FH. My
mother tells stories about the times when I was 5,6,7 years old and I
used to hide under the dining room table with tears running silently
down my cheeks while playing religious songs on my little 45rpm record
player. My mother said I frightened her with the ferocity of my
feelings. But I was never comfortable in church. What went on there
seemed so fake to me-even at that age, it did not hold up to my view
of the world. Perhaps it was knowing then that ecstasy was possible in
the "real" world.  What my mother interprets as religious feeling on
my part, she fails to connect with the facts of my intense sexual
explorations at the same time. This caused my mother a great deal of
embarrassment. She will not talk of the severe punshments I received
having been caught in "the act". Perhaps my winding up at FH was
inevitable.

August 14th, 2000

Sitting in Harvard Square at ABP with Richie. He asked that I make
copies of my journal writing and bring it home (along with copies of
his). He has some people who are interested in typing up these
handwritten documents simply for the pleasure of reading them. The day
is glorious, one of the few lovely days this summer. We so seldom sit
in this spot any more. I start to read my own writing. It is from an
early visit to FH. I haven't read this since I wrote it, 1985. It
sucks me in. Immediately back in that time and place. I smell it feel
it so intensely-something bursts inside me-explodes inside me. Regret,
loss, an overwhelming sadness. I hang my head to shield my face from
anyone who might be looking. Disintegrating, things coming apart,
sobbing, it is unbearable.