I remember that
Carrie Fisher wrote in
Postcards From the Edge, "
Finally, my surroundings are starting to match the climate of my soul," or something like it. She was talking about traveling someplace
miserable and wartorn after living in so much
beauty. I don't remember where she was either way.
I never finished the book anyway, badly as I wanted to.
The
rain is never going to cease in Corvallis. I know better now why I moved out here. College and money the number one excusing factors, and I wonder that they've led me to pander,
to live entirely on the surface, to work myself into
cynicism and utter exhaustion and kill the last pieces of my soul.
I never wonder at the rain here as I did in the desert, but it gives me
pleasant aches. It's too much to have to cry or work on a sunny day - might as well follow the storm.
He shook me awake from the
nightmare, and I don't think I can ever return the favor.
I only worked for
two months sorting and cutting onions, or dipping them in
onion-ring batter, and it made me feel so inhuman and anonymous in so many ways, but on days like this, I would belong there. I don't want to make my pain conspicuous; I wept for part of every shift, and I wore a surgical mask; machines were loud enough to drown out my screaming.
I don't know which is going to kill me first: my
foolish optimism or my
sheepish paranoia. I've got to learn to do a little more than write.