March 7, 1971 - Tired From The Effort

I had the thot, lying here waiting for strength to return after my almost-week in bed, that I was tired from the effort of hanging onto my mind which, it seemed, if I relaxed my concentration, would fly away, would flee, leaving me mindless.

I also thot, on this my 6th anniversary of J.'s beginning and the 1st of his ending, how sad that it is so easy for us to hurt each other by not even trying but often by just being.

My misshapen vanilla aroma'd candle winks & flirts - the flame appearing & reappearing over the bent & molded edge, its light glowing unevenly & palest orange through the fat wax cylinder it has melted itself down into, flickering against & warming the bare bottom of my terra cotta child who sits serenly in her nakedness, staring into space as do I so much of the time these days.

My two cats have endeared themselves to me so much this week of my illness & discontent. Hardly ever do I lie down or sit in a semi-reclining position but one or the other of them meanders and slithers her way onto my chest & abdomen there to position herself carefully & gently in some manner, to warm my heart & person & to rise & fall easily with each breath of mine, the beauty & grace of each of them equalling & indeed surpassing that of any work of man.