The Cambridge Chronicles

A dream about Otto last night. I am on FH. Again, it is not clear, am I about to leave, or have I just arrived. Inside a small shelter, the door is open, sitting on a chair, tying my shoes. Otto walks by. I see him. He sees me and stops. It is very exciting for me. There is emotional confusion. My arms go up like those of a small child running to a parent who is missed. The grownup in me is fighting this awkward movement. It is a combination of child and adult running, stumbling to greet him. We make contact. My arms go around him. There is something like a flash, a jolt, I let go. My holding him is too tight. It is still awkward for me. I notice all these things about myself right there in the dream. He does everything right.

Simone has had some more ideas about my writing. First, though, she has become very positive about it. She has told me that I am like many other writers, ahead of my time, and unrecognized, maybe not till I am much older. She thinks I should write more extensively on one subject. She suggested my relationship with Adele be made into a complete chapter, all by itself. Another idea was for both of us to write things and alternate them. Still another was to produce some sort of theater from the things I write about.

She went to Atlanta last weekend for her friend Robin's wedding. She found herself noticing things and commenting about them in a manner similar to me. She would then catch herself doing this and say, oh shit, I am becoming just like Richard. But speaking out on what she sees is a very good thing. She noticed a number of things about Robin and Brian that led her to believe the marriage might only last a few years. She had a lot of experience with Southern racism. Brian, it seems, is a racist, homophobic, and may be an alcoholic. Robin runs the show. Brian does what he is told. I can imagine that he is smoldering inside, but never says anything. She asks when they last had sex. He: 2 weeks, she: 3 weeks. One wants to make it look not so bad, and the other to make it look worse. Robin wants Simone to go on their honeymoon. This woman needs a security blanket. She is in the middle of all her family and still needs more.

I have been thinking of all these things to write about and suddenly they go away. More praise from a publisher, but its not up to contemporary literary standards, I am told again. Jack borrowed a copy and tells me he likes it quite a lot. He will be over in a few days to tell me still more. He admires my courage to give my writing such wide circulation. Shit, I sit here and suddenly everything has gone away. What's been happening the last week or so? I started to read some of Anias Nin's autobiography. It inspired me for a day or two. Reading more of Mary Chestnut's diary did the same. Why is it that women writers are inspiring me the most? Maybe they write the most straightforward and honestly. MC certainly does for someone in her time and place. I will turn this thing off and go read some of AN.