From: Journal: Difference, I ….
Like, people being different they usually end up disliking each other— essentially. They come together at a certain point or stage of their lives and caught up there, they combine: sexually, emotionally, they entwine their differences; within the complex of themselves, and through the confusions brought on when one has to confront and deal with difference, in this emotional and sexual, tie… the stresses are enormous as time evolves.
Dealing with one’s ambitions, through the stresses of these, unrequited needs in the other. The others difference of correspondence to desire, basic urge of being sexually attractive to someone— to be 'stroked,' desired—desired physically; desired emotionally: carried in the thoughts and expressed in caring actions, sensitive to one's frailty. Desired intellectually an creatively; sharing one’s small achievements— large achievements. Helping each other be as large in their potential as they can.
I am an inward stimulated person: I listen in, for my inspiration, while the knowledge from without, to a great extent slips through my conscious mind, noticed, but hardly remembered. Lodges somewhere, I suppose, within my mentality, though often gone on the instant from immediate memory, manifest’s eventually, through the artist of myself, the ecstatic— from the right side of my brain’s hemisphere, perhaps.
I must meet demands inherent within my personal, moral focus. I am not to myself my own; yet one though, ever more alone— I the clown— the beggar, though none of this is in 'comforts’: My body rests well.
I need to give, but I also require an environment essential for my soul’s awareness— The essential self, that will strive against its own destruction by overt changes in my personal reality, and which can often prove to be a prison sentence— maybe for life.
We imprison each other's souls when unable to work through each other’s differences. In the beginning I come toward you— My sexual fire, burning you up— love is the key, it seems: "…Freedom is the lesson we must learn…"(Song playing on the radio).
You came toward my emotional romanticism; you came toward me in your youth, in your search for some dream. We have been twisted by fate; love is turning to hate, as the dream steals away in our 'New Age,' dawn.
We crouch in our cells and weep our lonely tears. We are robbed and only have each other to curse; creation moves on and we are in our experience.
I cannot make it to your standards of understanding—the environment where your full plant blooms. My world is a strange one, fearful strange, and I have much fear here, at the radical fringe: the psyche's underworld— the gateway to the arts— the mystic path; and hurt from twists and distortions; disassociations from intent…
My Master calls to me: Whispering grasses catching the wind; rippling green plains where sheep feed— milk and honey flow and the still waters run deep. ("…she needs to be reassured…. and she will never leave…and I'll think of her now and then…." ) Playing now.
Duty had caught at us …We knew, as the children went to school: We were outside the system and became merely, out of work—Uh, wage work. The dream would crumble; all the playthings pass away, become merely colored rags after all upon poverty's cracked wall— House dumps, on marginal property— Funk, fades into clumsy skill— lack of a trade.
The stained coloring, peels from the glass and we see so poignantly clear, we are so far behind. I am spirit in your trip— fantasy, if you like; such stuff of dreams: Hobos we were camped behind garages and sleeping in cow houses found along side the road—We did those things together, away from the crowd. We went there and came back, together. ("The Sandman say---- Wonderful baby, I watched you grow…. I know nothing of what life's all about…") Playing now.
Alone, I come to my environment.
FHS.
