Games to play online for free

Games to play online for free

Games to play online for free articles.

Reading Virginia Woolf. A friend writes me a poem - 1977

A Reminder to New Readers (2!): Ive taken on a daunting project! Transcribing years of journals, which I started writing in 1976. Thanks for reading.
February 4, 1977
Ive crossed off a whole page of things to do today. Feeling very entergetic & satisfied w/things  including W! Feel very close w/him again & slowly dawns the realization that I must talk in order for anyone close to me to know my needs  I need to learn patience  and especially, I hope I may learn to give unselfishly & not expect too much of those I love.
Spent an intense 45 minutes w/NCG today. I just poured out female security vibes, or tried to anyway.
It was fun running into W like that today. He is so pleased to see me doing my thing & fitting so well w/him.
Normal liked the pelican!
7 p.m.-ish
I may go dancing tonight, though right now my addled mind is doing its little dance between where is he? & is everything alright? &whatever it is. The usual, I suppose.
I have been rushing through the last part of the V. Woolf biography. I respect her so much, but cant imagine her thinking that Quentin Bell would be an objective perhaps, she would. He treats her insanity from such distances; it seems to me that he misses her mystical qualities. I would not want to read the psychological interpretations of VWs crazies. She simply wasnt born in a time when her black spaces would not frighten her!
The other night I dreamed that two of my teeth grew huge & fell out; I handed them, agast, to Daneli, my constant dream companion.
Know Im relating to VW more than I probably should. Presumptious of me. Still, there is also a relativity in my exploration of literature; particularly as it has been a self-guided tour w/ few hand holds & many falls into total romanticism. I DO NOT read romance novels, however!
Of course I am frustrated about my work. The time off went mostly to social pursuits & play. At this rate, I will never have enough good stuff together for a fall show. The worst of it is my guilty feelings when I see my time squandered, though I suppose it isnt, really; or is it? (Shouting Libra-like all over the place!) I want to function as an artist and not let myself shunt the work to the background of whatever it is I seek, or by my inability to center. My ability to rationalize is acute. Here I am, writing, when a Bird of Paradise, not to mention my poor, dotty swan, are waiting. Everything is ready, including me: bathed, freshly made-up, casual, ready for anything!
Damn! A letter from Steven today which I feel I should mention (things thought of in the shower to write letter was pretty spaced out & full of horrors about his financial stress. Sent a picture of his house, mentioned his mother & his dogs operation in the same sentence. Signed it I love you.&& oh my.
Feb. 5
Normal has written a beautiful poem. It was laying at the door, weighted down by a large piece of wood. The poem is grand; has a life of its own & would, perhaps have blown away had she not put the wood on it.
I am not educated. Not really. I feel it so intensly when something like this, something I must understand, is presented to me. There is, first, the wonder that anything quite so original & fine could be written down about & given to me. I am honored by its lovliness. The message will come w/further reflection.
I have been thinking about death this morning. Not in fear. Just as a fact. The starlings woke me, finally, & I needed to separate myself from W, though his large warmness did not irritate me today as it does sometimes. The day is overcast; chill. The little black birds (and one large one) are pecking in the grasses next door. I kept watch for the cat because, though the starlings are jittery & kept flying up & off, then returning, the large bird stayed steady, filling herself & only looked up /> The fire is not raging this morning, though I wish it were&
W was such a lord last night. To get him out of his space w/o so much as a growl (well, a little grumble)! He took me dancing. Even collected some gentlemen to dance w/me! The band was awful & too loud. I still have a headache  from drinking. Ive decided to quit for awhile. Ric Willis, Michael Wood, Jimbo, Nancy (who left this morning) Barb Norris & Belinda were all there.
W doesnt dance. His presence is felt though. While at Rics he got riled at me  my need for freedom is often hysterical seeming to others, like when I lose modulation & laughter comes pealing. He thought I was laughing at Michael & Nancy & perhaps I was a bit, though it was more at the incongruity of them together than anything mean. Of course, the fantasy of being infatuated w/Ric colored my actions somewhat & W may have picked up on that energy.
Dancing is joyous for me when the music is good. It can be sublime, then. It wasnt last night. I remembered, dancing, being a white moth in Ashland; feeling so free, so beautiful.
Here is Norma Catherine Gleason then:
Nautilus (Sailor, Ship, Mollusk in a Spiral Shell)
It is the ninth letter
the command, the hand which
rarely gives itself. Occasionally
It says, If I were you,
but I feels nothing not its own.
And yet, I is imaginary, real
as the pairings of nails.
I
In the beginning,
She is radiant.
When she passes
men leave their rooms.
Here the water
is parakeet green.
The anemone, wave-
blown, sultan purple,
extend their tentacles,
the lion sand
lies motionless.
She descends
because her heart is weightless.
II
The night is black,
the sand blue-black
the wave white,
an endlessly recurring
scroll. She holds
the night to her ear
like a shell
and hears,
endlessly approaching,
his car. Her own voice
low & vibrant
as a horn
she cannot hear.
He came in from the sea,
looking at her.
She sat filing her nails
in light white as pear.
& moved soft, grub-like
into her prepared chamber,
shutting the door.
NCG 2.4.1977
&.and thus is she released, my friend. My old lover.
This feels like a restless day. The only thing I feel I must do is get to D somehow for awhile. And I really must settle into my poor flying swan, which eludes me, so it seems, so endlessly. I dont want to fuck it up either, which is an ever present possibility.
Ahhhh. The fire crackles. My headache is less consuming. I wonder what the friends are doing & I think of eating. Leaving W warm in my bed to waken alone. Unfair. I would not like it. Such a presence he is at times! (Last night, in the smokey orange light of a pseudo, dirty bar, bedecked splendidly in blue jeans & his glory hair, the king sat, making tidy notes of his subjects behavior. His benevolence a motion in the room. He is obviously lord of his dominion.
2:45 p.m.
Ive been to see Daneli. Poured out my heart, except, as always, only part, which is so unsufferably frustrating. That there is more for me&the moments w/him more precious but freedom still ringing. Obviously, I must admit that I need him still. The thought of not having him in my life regularly makes me feel ill enough to imagine it should be termed fear, this dark twig, tapping in the wind against the pane. Stilling. Then beginning again. I take his saying I think of out of his flow of words (Few. It was my turn this time. His is next; weve arranged for it, tentatively, for Monday coming). Im dealing w/those words now in my very recesses. D from me. Frightening. Terrifying.
The car fucked up this morning & it was my fault. I didnt let it run or warm up enough & she did not like it. Controlled by a machine? Allowed independence (ha!?) because of the car. Can I let it go? The luxury of waiting until I can better afford a princess Always! What to do!! Never peace to learn to discipline myself.

Reading Virginia Woolf. A friend writes me a poem - 1977