More journal 4-6-06:
I'm still practicing stars, trying to find that perfect five-point form of the divine shape. Pentagram. Pentacle. It's supposed to be the golden shape: perfect. But not by mt hand. My hand creates the imperfect shape and scribbles dark secrets of my shadow. I like to push dark holes through the pages and watch ages of voices rearrange the words I speak.
Unclear, I know. This is all supposed to lead to clarity. What a parody: I only write to feel less alone. It's not a matter of discipline or career objective. It's a survival tool my psyche and my body have adapted to keep me sane, make me whole.
Why are we born into this world broken? I do so want to believe we are born whole and perfect. I really believe my son was, is. But what if he grows up and struggles as I do? What if he can't find truth and wholeness? It's a heavy burden to lay on him, I know, to claim he is perfect, he is true, he is whole. It's really what I long to say for myself, yet can't.
I keep myself down in a cave, not ready to acknowledge the light in my spirit. And also not ready to give it up in order to join the real world - Capitalism - job market. I do not belong there. I belong here, in these words, in this book, in the divin Universe of the written word and language and blankness filling up. I am this book. I am married to it. It's my soul mate. It's why I can't find a human soul mate. Who else could give me this divine space, so clear and unquestioning, so patient and understanding?