Sublime

The door opened and a woman in her late forties came out. She had permed hair, a linen jacket, printed skirt; her eyes were puffy and swollen from crying. So, it’s one of these offices, I thought. An office without a secondary exit. I liked secondary exits. The suffering needn’t meet the suffering in the anteroom of suffering.

Just back from four days at Asheham and one at Charleston. I sit waiting for Leonard to come in, with a brain still running along the railway lines, which unfits it for reading. But oh, dear, what a lot I’ve got to read! The entire works of Mr James Joyce, Wyndham Lewis, Ezra Pound, so as to compare them with the entire works of Dickens and Mrs Gas

The Diary of Anaïs Nin—five

ONE AFTERNOON, CHRIS AND I left the crematory in his white van and drove into Berkeley to pick up Therese Vaughn. Therese died in her own bed at age 102. Therese was born when World War I—World War I!—was still years in the future. After returning to Westwind and placing Therese’s body in the cooler, I cremated a newborn baby who had lived a mere t

To heal the wound left by the Death Mother, it’s helpful to understand her origins and how she came to be such a terrifying expression of nature.

“Digging my father up” Do not be surprised if, When you walk into the kitchen, You see me digging up my father. He lies beneath the floorboards now, But I need him. I need his opinion on certain things. So, I will dig him up and place him in a bag. Then, I will place the bag in the car and drive him to work. I will place him on my desk so that he c

my people my people

I thought

the fall would

kill me

but it only

made me real