Ingrid

3/19/78
This is getting to be quite a day of writing. I don't even know if I care anymore. I should wash the dishes. I should take a walk. I should stop nibbling on cigarettes. I should play violin. I will.
Why always straining for the unattainable?
Is this to be my life' s destiny?
I want to be a poet
I want to be a musician
I want to be spayed
I remember what I wanted to write.
My age is showing.
I guess I'm still young & impressionable
And unreasonable.
I want to be somebody's idea of a beautiful (spiritually & physically) woman.
Wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna wanna.

This is the reign of triteness.
And there's nothing to do about it.
We're madly in love in here
And unsatisfied.
Maybe we should take up
Kahlil Gibran &
Rod McKuen
We could
go back to high school
and rearrange our hearts
Maybe the heart is only a pretense.
Maybe love comes from the bladder instead.

3/29/78
And it's time to be somewhere peaceful -- I wish I could die & go to a place where there is no place for money -- but only music & poetry & fairy tales and dancing & painting -- the creative heaven.

4/20/78
A change of colour. Blue (Insolent indigo) I remember the only fun thing about arithmetic was writing neatly with a freshly sharpened #2 pencil. Such a good smell!
I'm waiting it all out, for Spring, for the country, music, poetry.
There are some emotions that seem to remain constant. Like love and loneliness. Self-inflicted. Passion and jealousy are swift; but constant emotions sit heavily like a dull constant pain, like my ovaries, like the heavy womb.

I guess there will always be the poor and the rich. Writing doesn't seem to be my solution anymore. It always ends up more rational than my thinking.
There's a crease behind the skin on my forehead in times such as these.
I wish I could communicate with the goddesses of the earth. They might have some healing answers. Perhaps mother is right -- the women always suffer more.

------------------------------------------------------
For heaven's sake let's have
a little springtime here. back to the typewriter like being
in the old house once again. feeling frustrated and this is much too
slow but faster than writing. sun cat on the shelf. frustration
where is the ability. words will only soothe if you think they can.
but i dont think anymore. my mind has been wrapped up for a year
and would probably continue to be so any way. what is the matter my lord?
between whom? the matter you read my lord. words words words.
it says here that old men grow small and grey and have incredibly
weak hams my nosen hurts naked in warm sun would
be very nice no people for a while though i would become
incredibly lonely maybe if would just be nice to not have
to talk the social acceptance if you dont talk that must mean that
youre anghry or depressed right? an answern please
nonsense and the girl thinks shes a writer just like shes pre
tending to be a musician no creativity if we all could just
slowly grow mad and die.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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machine gun nellie
i could learn to be a one fingered computer...........................

THIS IS THE REIGN OF COMMON SENSE

5/24-25/78
It all makes me so joyous. I find myself almost moved to tears many times a day. Only at night do I become a little uneasy; (still) visualizing "Night Gallery" demons peering in through my windows -- but that's only when I'm inside with the light. Once I go outside & my eyes adjust to the light, everything's at peace again. (So slow, this writing) I think if it weren't cold at night I would sleep outside.
Music, enchanting music. Playing latvian songs on the whistles. Legzdina kundze [Mrs. Legzdina] appears -- "ta ka sapni" ["as if in a dream"]. The fruification of a fantasy. I always have visualized drawing people to the beauty of my music, but now -- I think the tunes are what attracts. Later in the day, playing violin -- a man appears at the corner of the field and pretends to be walking his dog, yet draws as near as he dares. I want to give people my music, but it isn't always good enough. If they want to listen, they can. I won't guard it anymore.
A white vainadzinu pinu [I wove a white floral crown]. Made me feel quite earthy. Thought of the ligavinas [maidens] who spent their days in flower fields, braiding garlands & thinking of their lovers, like me. The sun set & the mandolin sang. I think the birds enjoy music, at least they don't mind. Little furry creature in back this morning. Hedgehog? no. Groundhog -- maybe. Sitting up on his haunches. I thought of shadows. Something was important enough to nonchalantly look about & then an amiable waddle to the greenery by the stream & gone.
In the sun -- brown naked. A bird, silent in high branches a long time -- looking about; at me. Freshly sprung leaves glistening like crystals in the sun. I thought -- a goddess? and it rose from the branches crying as it flew. Listening to the call long after it had gone.

5/25/78
So sleepy, so warm. This only to relate the innocence of a mouse. Saffron had been teasing one -- I felt pity, so I chased her away. A tiny mouse-youth, if anything so small as a mouse have an even smaller form. Breathing hard . . . exhaustion? death? But it was silent in my still hand -- eyes slowly closing. A perverse sense of dramatics: wanting to see it draw its last breath. The nose wasn't leather tipped -- just a point of greyish fur -- & the ears were almost transparent -- so fragile, -- akin to insect wings. Tiny pink . . . feet -- I should call them claws, but such delicacy! Feathery white hairs and minute nails -- the same shock as seeing a newborn's fingernails. The tail was all wrong -- not all. Pink, ratty, white hairs on one side, black on the underside. They're supposed to be floppy grey fur, like the fake ones holding a corn kernel. Wanted to take it in, to feed it, comfort it, but cats! So, instead, I guided it to the safety of a hollowed tree trunk, where it snuggled into & disappeared among dry leaves. Again -- for the sake of poetry -- I wished, almost, that it had just quietly fallen asleep into death -- like Gregor.
Other than that, just a stroll at dusk with Calita & Shadow. Cats are too curious to take walking, but I guess it's a novelty.
The music is soothing -- it becomes my own.

3/11/82
Impressing, depressing as to how much the mind loses with maturity. Write slower, think slower, observing is gone. All these "things" around me are the same as when I was writing well. This blanket from Germany, the sun towel, my clothes, candle, books.
Vocabulary -- shot. Intelligence -- shot. Striving for brute instinct but is that right? Self-awareness. Body goes like mind goes. Fat, water-logged. Wheezing. What? Where's that great potential? Oh teachers you would pity my style now. Ego-bound. Great musician. C'mon idolize. Speaking through amperes, don't understand. But power. Cringe . . . Give to me!
And nothing is given. Back, back, alone. Thought. Gone. Innocence? Is that the cure? How can I be so innocent & objective again? Like Dedalus -- caught permanently in a sneer & I want so to love someone. Is it wrong?

4/26/82
Morning, morning, lovely morning. Except for the too early
rising. Once again reality forces itself upon me. Type, type, type. Lose
the spontaneity if you
don't.
Much better.
Dreams. Some kind of madness that drives
me forward. That and music. I guess when you examine motives
for living they all seem rather absurd. Absurd--good word.
Like a bad taste in the mouth that you're about to spit out.

6/13/82 [After an attempt at word-rhythm]
So much for musical genius.
Perhaps I should put more poems to rhythm. Makes sense to me -- that way no one could misinterpret. Get a music notebook.
Buried kitten today. No longer will laugh at bashing one's brains out. I feared to look at the brains coming out of the far side of her head, I knew they were there because of the soft watery noise they made when I picked her up -- like pasta -- macaroni being stirred in a pot after being drained. Cold & wet.
But I did look in her eye -- but there was nothing there -- grey solid wall that had slid on an angle sympathetic to her brains.
Half her skull empty, & half exposed. It will soon be emptied altogether. The fleas went under too -- they didn't seem to care that they were drinking stilled brown blood.

12/11/82
A testing thing this fate of mine . . .
Always searching for the peace.
Always need to retreat . . .
Love & the heart are constantly intruding.
I think I need to let the love become music.
Such poor wee creatures, we.
More than love, I've found something more than love!
It's that quiet spot.
That quiet, dark spot.
All is swallowed & becomes one.
If only, if only, this were another time & the modern-day mechanizations would stop.
Like the garden.
It's cold there now.
Little rectangle of pure life.
Shivers.

12/23/84
Many months -- I become more longing. It's good. Longing is misplaced, though. Longing for the unattainable. Wanting what I can't have -- always. Bound to be the unsatisfied bitch . . . But the longing brings about a good melancholy -- taking long baths -- playing music -- much music -- much time to think. Much more to learn -- take voice lessons -- learn guitar . . . learn to have an unbiased ear.
Things are growing outdoors too. I think I am connected to the seeds I sow -- as they swell, take root & spread green faces to the rain & sun -- so do I. The soil is my home. The earth is my mother. The greens are my spirit-mates. And beyond the sun. They have that air, that breath, that spirit of beyondness. Growing souls. Wish I wasn't so afraid of myself . . .

11/12/87
Haven't written much, eh? Time flies, just as they always say . . it hasn't been easy. Like not having had a full night's sleep for the last year & half. (With a few rare exceptions) Like not being able to practice music for more than 2 minutes. Like having most of my day devoted to someone else (this includes working) I wonder if "the good old days" can ever happen again?
But, don't misread this. I love my son more than anything. And the wonder of him! You can see his little head & body just aching with all the new knowledge & ability it ingests each day! Today's new word was "okay" sounding like "Akai". We become aware of our speech patterns.

4/25/89
Just finished looking at old yearbooks. Brings back years of memories. Very, very far away. Makes me feel good --
And it brings back that longing though what I'm longing for, I don't really know. I focus on something or someone distant, but once that thing is available; usable -- it doesn't resolve the longing. I think the longing is part of my creative self. The fierce striving toward the inner silent, still darkness & then the striving from that inner darkness to another darkness outside of the self.

-------->Bittersweet chocolate cream wine in a sealed, lightless
Underground cave.
Wordless
Longing
Soft & then
Fiery
. . . Listen to my music
Longing

December 10, 1989
I go nowhere & everywhere at the same time. Too much. So I go through the routine of daily life & dream of a greater future.

I think I shall always strive higher/greater with both my love/passion & my music. I shall always want. I shall always long. I shall always reach for that which I know is not mine.

I shall always have a little boy who interrupts me.

9/24/90
I've become manic-depressive. Publicly (at least 'till now) I'm over-energized, over-enthused, happy, hard-working. Home. I die. Alone. I torture the Tarot. I don't know what's real anymore. Not even motivated by music. Rude to my child. My scalp is burning. Read my journal from early 80's.
Burning scalp.
Manic depressive
Fevered without a fever
Unmotivated
Things don't come when you wait. That watched pot. There's no way in hell it's gonna boil.

Thanksgiving
11/22/90 noon
I want passion from my music.
I need change.

I do.

This may be a good weekend. Or I may drown in loneliness. Recording soon. Music is taking over.

1/11/91
Tape's done except for final order.
How can someone hear this & not understand? How can everyone play to these songs & not understand?
My music makes me happy
I guess it's happy
It's me.

I wish . . .
Motherhood . . .
Work . . .
Money . . . fucking money . . . I've spent it all now on WILLOWBUSH. The little I had. It's good music. It comes from me. Dark me. The inner coil me.

Who will hear it?

My music/soul has spoken.

3/8/91
Laryngitis. Have had it since 3/3. Can't shake it. Scary. Have had to cancel 3 performances including release of "Willowbush". No work all week. Just wonder what I'm being punished for.

Can't have passion
Can't have music.

What have I done wrong?

6/28/91
Body. My body. No body here.

My body can play music.
So . . . do . . . it . . .

7/8/91
Many thoughts through my head. All despair.
I rage. Wanna smash something. Wanna scream FUCKYOUFUCKFYOUFUCKYOU and SlamSlamSlam something hard against the ground. I've broken 2 chairs this way.

I rage against my fate.

RAGE

At least MUSIC happens in me. Eclipse in 2 days. Perhaps this is why?

7/11/91
Eclipse today.
It's nice to have Bill at G.L.'s affection -- if I can call it that . . . his support. Thinks I'm better than "Mouth Music". I'm flattered. It's fun "talking business" with record cos & lawyers. Centers me. Makes me realize there's some value to my talents.

Eclipse.
Wanted to elaborate.

Magical reflections between the live oak leaves. Hundreds of crescent suns on the pavement. A crescent sun. People found it hard to say. Kept going for "crescent moon". Not often that the sun is a crescent.
No siree.
My last memory of eclipse (solar) Was at Krisjans Barons school. Looking through the stained glass in the chapel at the sun. I think we (Renate? Karina?) skipped out to buy some candy outside the school. Met up with some guys (Latvian?) coming back.

Some guys . . .
My demise . . .
I'll always want 'em . . .
Never get 'em . . .

At least I have some humor in this. Who knows why?

Hmm . . . Came home & Kate Bush's "Sensual World" & Laurie Anderson had been playing in my room all day. Filled my room with something. Good? Bad? Who knows . . .

Something is happening. I really feel remarkably positive.

Positive. What's going on?

Was the mistress of the mirror at work today. Caught the sun in my mirror & shone it about as people oohed & aahed. My hand wouldn't hold still though. Shook all over the place.

Remnants of that damnable sinus headache.
Old Hag.

Free CD's

Free sushi

Free chocolate

Help with touring.

Good things will come of this record deal.

I'm sure.

Mmmm

Think positive.

10/26/91
Saturday. Hot sun warming my muscles, my flesh Busy ants parading through the fallen leaves . . . into my coffee cup.

Need to fall out of this limbo. Focus: music, travel

Latvia. What will I do there?

My hair. It just won't grow.

Hm m m m .

11/2/91

Patience. Oh what greater patience is asked of me.

Day 2 in the studio. But not really. Computer problems. Started yesterday. Only one song mixed. It will be O.K., but it's hard/sad waiting. Makes me empty inside.

Waiting. &. Empty

Always.

It's like that with music with motherhood

Even music can't soothe me now.

Waiting.

7/22/92
Music. That I'm looking forward to. Hope my keyboards can be fixed.

The adventure continues.

2/24/93
Learning how not to view the world through "if only" eyes. To fill with the sense of it. It is an incredible place . . . a shame that I will never really share this perception. Though music can be a vehicle . . .

5/13/93
I slice through the night
Through the blackness

Like a moth through a flame
. . . No . . .
Like an open book
. . . No . . .
Like a moth through the flame
Leaving open pages
burning bright white & fluttering
Behind me
As I slice through the
darkness all around me.
Alone.
On my winged bicycle.

Words mean nothing
Words mean everything.

Time passes.

My music speaks. But noone's listening. Words mean everything to me.
Who are my listeners?
What do they hear?

I hope for the future.

That big blank space ahead of me

I have hope in that dark emptiness.

6/19/93
It smells like rain.

Solstice coming. I burn the termites away (Despite helpful neighbors)

Receive letters, phone calls from those who like my music.

Seek connections.

7/5/93
Thor & John have just let me know by telephone that they quit.
So it goes. So it goes for trusting people with my heart. My music.
Why? I don't understand. I'll survive. Go forward. Steve Bernal wants to play. Need a drummer -- oh I hope Chris can. My music. I will abandon all else for music.

Trust. I thought I could at least trust the music. No, you see, by leaving the music, that leaves us with nothing.

8/4/93
Tour over. Driving for hours. Altered states.

Good tour. Reassurance that change is good. Little pit-a-pat heart is better. Nice traveling with a woman. Nice knowing there are people who care.

Music. The driving force. Nothing now makes me happier than to play. Listening. Cheers. Dark, sexual energy.

The altered driving state. No sense of time/pressure. The simple fact of moving is enough. Beautiful country. Great people. Yeah. I love 'em.

Toads singing their love songs outside. Koi seem to have disappeared.
Stay here for a while.

Sleepy so woozy.

The cycle begins again tomorrow.

8/7/93
Nothing big. Just the going forward. Thinking of placing myself as "World Soul" on album cover. Call it World Soul too. Is that too cute? Pasaules Dvesele. Like that. Research these guys. Animus Mundi.

Coffee too weak. Feel the backlash of drugs. Head hurts.

=
Just makes me realize how different I must be, thought I don't really understand how. The crime is to be criticized/punished/avoided because of it. Is it really so difficult for people to understand my way of being? (whatever it is) Like Kathy Sarelas. Open agitation. "You're different. We don't like you. You can't be one of us. We don't care to care about you."

At least, at least, I know my music is being heard. I do communicate there. And I will live/rise through my music. Through that which I cannot control. It's the only way in which I can truly communicate. Oh thank you that you are listening.

Don't make the mistake of trying to draw in musicians to the dark core. Hired hands so to speak. Don't trust anyone completely.

Peter Gabriel in America. I would like to meet him.

11/29/93
Yeah. I do resent it. The working world. The school system. Yes -- parenthood. Resent the boxes they force me into. The stresses. The responsibilities.

Make me miss the lunar eclipse because I need to sleep to get Z up at 6:30.

Need to straighten out the priorities in my life. Need to be able to subsist by music. Not augmenting with more work. Need to focus on art. The silences. The darkness. Please.

12/5/93
Become increasingly sadder at the understanding of the true situation here.

I, here, all open. Feeling understood. Instead -- as I tried to be myself, the collective back was turned. I imagine resentment/malice as I played my monotonous music. While I stupidly imagined that the notes were communicating something.

My self. Flailing for compassion/companionship. Insecure. Unsure. When do these walls between us break down?
Listening to Anima. Almost frenzied at times.
Perhaps "Coil" would have been the better title. Lacks the stillness of Anima. The dark place.

Fall in love with Chris' passionate drumming. . . . the quirkishness of Thor's playing in Chris' precise hands. Perfection in a drummer.

The cards make no sense.

Here's the depression after the ecstasy.

12/25/93
Beautiful, warm, still day.

Consumed by something.

The music speaks. Some, indeed are hearing/listening. I can finally say what I mean & be judged fairly.

To live my life entirely by music. Things would be right them. It's this everyday pretense that's killing me.

To let the music lead. To be music. To stop the human struggle.

1/29/94
Consumed with doubts & insecurities. Want to cry. Want to give up. My music's not any good. Stiff & rigid. Not beautiful. Want to make beautiful music. Clenching my teeth. Coffee in my blood.
=
My eyes. I can't see out of them.

2/23/94
Tour over. Many things. Blurred thoughts/images.

Outdoors before we left: snow, fog, rain, water. Completely still, surreal.

Chris Searles has chronicled the tour well. Seven unstable, agitated. Both annoyed with my dominance/forcefulness. But we talk & express frustration, angers, options. I change. Must I change? My social lighthearted self. My outer skin. I can adjust it. The core stays true. My blurted comments. Fall flat or sharp often. Learn to hear them. To soften their bluntness. Honesty can be too much. Temper my judgments. Horrible cold, snow, ice danger. Fear for our survival. For continued existence. Realizing that nothing can go wrong because I can no longer afford it. Down to almost 0$. Z's birthday on Sunday. Playing funny little acoustic venues for almost no one. Constantly billed as Latvian Folk. The kiss of death. Missing Steve's dark, sexy, soulful bass. Ultimately responsible. I. The rock. I hate it. Hoping for the future. For Anima to change this musical life. Waking up. Oh let me play. Well. Loud. Together tightly.

Have learned if nothing else that I do love to play. And it may just be worth it. Maturing? Learning. Still. Always, I hope.

The cover of Anima to be blood-red. Like the first sentence of this book. Red is good. Blood is good.

Losing touch with reality. Good thing this home centers me.

3/25/94
Again . . . this is almost too intense. The spinning -- the vibrations . . . where is this swirling to? Everything: music . . . love . . . with such an intensity that on the verge of insanity. Or explosion. Anima is a powerful thing. For the voices/forces that speak through me: thank you.

Spinning . . . spinning . . .

Losing control in a good way . . .
In the hands of the dark core/anima mundi now.

Throbbing.

3/26/94
All the waiting-open. It all comes now. Don't understand why this powerful/positive change -- but OH THANK YOU. I really couldn't ask for much more.
=
Music, love, friendship, nature-dark core, spirituality, sex: it all goes hand-in-hand. It's nice when the connections come into place. Yeah. Heaven on earth.

3/27/94
So glad for this life now. Though I will probably always want more -- can't imagine achieving all the things I aspire to/desire. Otherwise it wouldn't be this human struggle . . . Drivel . . .
=
Yeah. Music is spiritual. But also very sexual. Very.

4/27/94
Glad to see my father relaxing all the things he has suppressed all his life. The pain is OK too. That's part of it. Though I wonder if it's the Prozac loosening him. What if it had been like this growing up? Open, honest. May have been the same. Mara would have been different. What happened when she was little that made those young lovers close up & become harsh? Teeth gritted against reality. Suppressed dreams/desires. No one to tell 'em to. Glad for the music/words. Could pour myself out into those large classical pieces. While hating my father's television. Insensitive/unaware. They would not have been ready for my truths, but maybe now.

5/7/94
Realize: there are (I have) 3 kinds of ecstasies:
1) Ecstasy of the physical self (the body) by Sex.
2) Ecstasy of the aesthetic self (the individual spirit) by Art Music
3) Ecstasy of the spiritual self (the common soul) by Anima Mundi and open-ness.
All lead to the same dark core/selflessness.

7/10/94
Cannot make what isn't a reality. I dream. I want to die in my dreams, my music. I want to die on stage. To unburden all these THINGS. I want to stop. I want to be LOVED devotedly. I want to stop.
My (the) owl has returned.

7/15/94
The significance of "Latvian". A way of creating a separate identity. But it is not the contemporary turmoil/politics. It is the intact record of the simpler wisdom of thousands of years ago through the dainas [Latvian songs containing the sum of its people's world-view & spiritual beliefs]. It is a clarity of understanding. A world knowledge & understanding not unlike Taoism, etc. (eastern religions). Access through the language. It is a perspective of a more honest world -- where humans & the world around them (the earth, nature, anima mundi) were connected/in communication. The I as an individual but only as a part of the whole. My language, my culture gives me a vehicle into that. All cultures do. We only have to dig far enough. And it's irrelevant what language we use. As long as we use that vehicle into a vision that can be lost in today's superficially cluttered society. We all need to use our roots to dig down to what really matters, and apply it to "now". English is a most fantastic, supple expressive language. But it lack the stillness/darkness of the older languages. Only words, yes. But words/language are phenomenally powerful. Latvian directly tied to Sanskrit. That old. An early human tongue.

It is the word shapes that do not translate.

And music: it needs to contain the sounds that move all of our "selves". The crotch-grabbing pulse/darkness for the physical self, the beauty (melodies, textures) for the aesthetic self, and the unexpressed (hidden) for the spiritual self. Touch these three in a song & I am in ecstasy.

7/25/94
The bats fly over every dusk. Water the garden & the toads squeeze out of their earthy holes to rub their bellies in the mud. The heat no longer oppresses me though it hurts to see the green things shrivel.

Focus. Recenter. Not so much on the selfish I.

To remember the music -- seek out -- be curious. Think "I will climb a high, high tree and rob the wild bird's nest. Back I'll bring whatever I do find to the arms that I love the best."

12/3/94
Fog. Fog always makes me look back. Read old letters.

I long for these ghosts. How I miss them. Where are they? Do they think of me? There were so many. So many that I still care for. Suppose with time some will return. Through my music. Isn't this why I play . . . to say what I could never say? To call out & show how deeply?

Longing. I would have gone walking once. Looking, searching, hunting, seeking.
None of us are complete.

12/28/94
All I have is my anger

My words & my music
I will have my say.

I blow my nose. It's nothing but blood. Have been this way for weeks.

2/14/95
Few things (only one thing) excite me as much as new songs & recording. This is almost like sex. It just takes so long. But you can hear Chris whooping on the tape. Music does this. Fulfills all the needs: physical, aesthetic & spirit.

Leo rising. Still adjusting to the thought.

3/17/95
We create a god to fill the need for someone to share this life completely. We need to think that our little bodies with their senses fulfill something other than ourselves. I need a god to sense my pleasure of this new flower, this ladybug nymph. The spiritual ecstasy. We need a god to share this. I find it hard to accept that no human can fill that need --
Sexual/Aesthetical/Spiritual

Ecstasy

=
It's like I seem to have a need to place myself in situations in which I have to define my purpose, my identity. My work as an archivist. My music. I choose obscurity & the battle for identification. Forcibly making myself be constantly challenged & battling. Place myself in far left field with sword raised. What is my point?

I am not like you. I want you to see me. Note me as unique. I want to stand out. I want to be somebody.

I want to be known, noted & remembered.

Why?

=
Great "fan letter". There is a reason for the music. There are those who connect completely. There is a purpose to this if I can give voice to what others feel but cannot express.
Highly sensitive. My calling. I forget.

4/4/95 Later.
The first toad chortles/sings his first shy notes. Smile. Wish my life could be so simple. Ken (?) Burns this morning speaking as I think. The thunder/rain. Perkons. My ultimate lover. But he does not strike. T.S. Eliot & I. We share a birthday & more.

Full day. Changes continue.

Slowly. It will come.

The everywhere spirit.

Rain pours.

This life . . . This life.

5/13/95
Caught in this huge wail -- this huge question -- this huge hopelessness.

This constant striving -- and to what end? Why do I need this music -- to be recorded, to be heard, to be believed in? Why is it so hard to find someone that can help us to believe?

Why is this my given? Why always these obstacles? Who is barring the way? What are these lines that cross my fate?

Or perhaps it is a grandiose delusion that this is MORE. It is true to something, but why do I feel it must be made known? Is this only ego? I want to BE somebody. Or rather -- I want this MUSIC to be heard. I don't seek glory -- only that this art be recognized. And, of course, obstacles to partnerships & my constant delusions in that. So certainly in love. Brought to my knees & lower.

Am I really this stupid? This blind? Really futile hopes & dreams? How do I accept the ordinary? The average? I don't/can't fit in. It is not my way.

How do I focus this to accomplish something?

Break down the barriers. Break through. Beyond. Perhaps in death. Somehow to record Red Hand & that will be it. I will have had my say.

Like mamma -- refusing to accept her age & condition. So focused & determined that she can alter it through force of will. She did defy death. Defying age is not so simple. Oh the shackles she must strive against.

What is it that I must accept? That nothing is gained without compromise? O.K. -- but nothing is being offered. Bring me beyond.

8/20/95
Transcribing these many words. Filling discs with them. Making them electric. By reading these words of desperation & need I understand: do not seek out the divine in the human. This is impossible. We are dumb creatures. Simply because I can see into men -- see their depth & darkness does not mean they want me to see.

And I as manic as any madwoman. Desperate. Grasping wildly for something to hold on to. It's not there.

Somehow I "mature". Recognize the futility of my dreams, my efforts, my hopes. Perhaps become human. Lower my rigid standards & visions. Allow ordinary people closer.

Empathy -- yes -- always ("somewhat of a people pleaser"). Like a good dog -- try to please those that "matter".

Why did I begin to need?
When it/they no longer came.

So: cancel the need (the whining)
In music too. Float through these pale-white, shapeless days. Be human. Let the little things suffice. You do not need to be more. You have already been so. It should suffice

Yet the undercurrent in me does not accept the reason. Does not accept complacency. I am not satisfied with only this.

8/25/95
New moon approaching. I sense a slowing, stilling, change. Change toward a calmer self. Stilling the drive, the demand. An acceptance: a resolution.

Question the drive for music. Let it rest for now? Let it go? For where did this drive begin -- this self-pushing, this demand to practice? Perhaps this is the Saturn change. Personal definition through creative pursuit through self-demand then. And now: creative pursuit through others? How? The internet? Self through others. Yes. Unselfishly? Fish.

Think about the book. How perhaps once I finish typing it might be a good time to quietly, effortlessly expire. Withdraw like a cloud. Like a tide. Like a snail. There would be little left to say. My son needs me, but he would do OK. Perhaps his father might become more gentle in my absence.

Or perhaps a withdrawal into contentment. Is this possible for me? Into an anonymous contentment. Not until I connect with the other. You.

9/11/95
Retrospect on recent emotions:
(Now that this is becoming a "book" -- become more careful & controlled) Good to lean back in bed -- it calls me back to dreams after too-early rising, but I know I would not sleep.

The shock of a few days ago: coming home after an incredible thunder-lightening-wind storm. Riding through the streets like a bomb struck. Here: the fence down -- Fuck. Into the back yard: the van hopelessly folded by a fallen chinaberry tree. More trees down. Call the insurance co. Maybe this is all for the better.

But no -- the van's not covered. After another weekend of "meditation" (long hours of little activity, soaking in the tub, typing in this "book") find out the fallen trees too, are not covered. The fence, the shed are.

Mixed emotions: still in shock but strangely unaffected deeply. After all these are only "things". But also the undercurrent of: When do things become easier? Finally had a good, solid vehicle -- gone. Just like music: I KNOW what I need to do.

=
The woundings & the healings. The pattern of our lives. It keeps us busy. It never becomes easy

This humanness is not an easy burden. Perhaps this is why so many succumb to mindless domination & sublimation. Makes the wounds a little easier to bear . . . if we don't think about it.

1/5/96
For a few minutes
anyway

I I I

I want to live like Beethoven.
His consumed passion.

My Pluto. You. My Immortal Beloved. Who will I reduce to tears? You. No-one.

Amassments from days ago. Things that have slipped through the aether on the list:

Recognizing the need for absolute endings. Ends. Of relationships, (Ships), contracts. Always feel liberated, unfettered. My marriage, recording contract, obsessions. As if I intentionally place myself in confining situations only to escape them. The thrill of release, of freedom. I thrive in it.
=
Relation Ships. Those isolated Ships roaming the oceans for a relation. Long may they wander.
=
The music (slowly) returning. A vocal pattern constructed. Considering beginning the album with it. Male? Female? vocs? Don't know yet.
=
"Playing" the draperies at Onyx Cave. What a fantastic sound. Musical rock. Use it.
=
During the night:

I think of my violin. Of lifting it from its case. An unbearable sadness. Desire to make it sing. Can I?

Day, day of Steve, Thor, Chris. Spouting my musical thoughts/beliefs. What is it for. Odd that they should all come together in one day. Lean to allow this.

Confirmed my path. With me. We go forward.
=
Cliff sez: Between prose & poetry. Good then.

Universal You. Universal I.

2/2/96
Waiting. Waiting. What am I waiting for?

Bitterly cold -- though somehow it hasn't bothered me yet. Ice everywhere. Grey, dark -- but not chilled to the bone. Candlemas. Lit one candle...will light more.

Playing, oh finally playing Beethoven. My teachers were so rigid. If only they had encouraged my passion more. Remember: reading a book about a woman who the great composers "spoke" through. Still have it -- read again. Wanting to believe so much, believing that I, too could do this. To know them. To be them. To feel their darkest passions.

What do I want?

Music for the languor of it
If I can.
Come back.

2/3/96

You, the impossible you, return.

This time through Beethoven's terrible eyes.

Of course.

I finally play that sensuous piece
(Actually began with picking out bits of Moonlight Sonata from distant memory -- surprised at how much came)
The sensuous passion. The darkness. The sudden outbursts. The chaos. The stillness.

Of course.

Ever since I can remember: your bust glowering down at me as I stumbled through my little-girl classical pieces. I played to please your terrible eyes. I dreamt of you thumping up the stairs to "get me" in terror.

You died in a terrible thunderstorm.
I did not know.

Of course.

Immortal Beloved. Always yearning for the inaccessible.

Mercurial.

And so I return through you to the music. Try to remember the sensuous passion of it...to give in to it -- to let it flow---------
instead of rigid control & technique.

Surprised at how easily these pieces fall back into my fingers, despite the long pause.

I understand who you were. How driven. I hope to emulate if only a glimmer of THAT

My thunder god.

Slowly, the tensions relax.

To live a charged life. I have no desire for longevity.

2/9/96
This morning, thick with dreams. Could not wake. Heavy. Cardinals, titmice, wrens, chickadees in a wild cacophony of sound. Jays (Away!)

Red. Painted my nails red. Robe is blood red. Red. Return to my red hand. The blood of my body.

If I live shallowly enough, I can suppress my desire & frustration. It wells up to surprise me, though. Sudden deep tears. Where did they come from? Sobs. And "why, why, why?" No cool-headed detachment, this. Who can I blame? No one. Therefore the anger & frustration in my dreams.

I sink. I am violated. I am the cold, hard edge of the sterile moon (oh glowing orange-pink moonrise OH yesterday)

Pillar of frozen stone. Voiceless, dumb lingam.

Friday.

=
I spew out black shit & tears. And soon, blood. Seeking to be accepted. Should know better.

I am violated. I am untouched.

Raw

Approaching explosion.

=
But slowly, the music deepens.
E-e-e.

Shaking. Twitching. Tight. Not well. Not well at all. Barely in control, thought oh we know that hard-shell, bright Ingrid can rise above, pretend above anything.

Maybe I do need help?

No, just you.