day 64 | ‘hello, neighbor’

January 4, 1988: Journal Excerpt. Sacramento, CA

i always start writing when i’m very tired
a bad habit i’ve gotten into
my eyes are burning

it’s a new year and i’m feeling anxious. the 80s coming to an end. time passing.
i’m 27 years old – what am i doing and why?
who can know

i hear sirens. my new old-man neighbor, who replaced the usually intoxicated
french harp playing old-man neighbor, said “hello, neighbor” to me today.
his name is joe. he’s eighty years old and has a chihuahua that yaps.

saw the sad lady this morning. wearing the same brown sweater and old sagging
nylons with holes. the same blue tennis shoes and dirty house coat, with a
look of unbearable sadness.
she walks back and forth in front of her apartment; she never goes too far
either way down the sidewalk. always looking / calling for her cat.

right now i’m rubbing my feet together to get them warm. june, my friend in new
york, laughs when i say it’s cold here: “i guess you’ll have to wear your
windbreaker with the lining”.

Things That Don’t Last Long Enough:
hot shower in the morning
creative flurry
feeling of accomplishment