Jacqui (jacqui) wrote,

"Death is an acquired trait." -- Woody Allen

Sick with fever, sans makeup, wearing a too large flannel nightgown, and her favorite new sugary hat made by her friend ana, our heroine grapples with death in the front yard.

I've been at the computer all day -- trying to get through the e-mail, but it won't happen, I just can't do it. My mind is lured off on too many tangents where my fingers all too willingly take me. There is always so much to see here and so little time. Visits to just three journals and I'm sent off on different courses, empathy, concern and worries over pregnancy and mothering, inspired by colorful imagery, collage, and creativity, the need to create a personal art space of my own, the debate over Ted Hughes and the role he played in Sylvia Plath's suicide, the subsequent death of his lover and the Medea-like murder of their daughter, (at least Sylvia left her children alive, left them bread and milk, opened the windows and stuffed rags around the kitchen door to keep the gas from escaping), anger over the burning of her last journal, Gwyneth Paltrow and sites that rip into her and the new film, and a search for Frieda Hughes poem, "My Mother". I could have wandered further, there is so much out there...

My body veers between cold chills and burning sweat. I take my nightgown off and put it back on again. I feel guilty for buying and wearing Ugg boots. I want to play outside in the yard with the big kids and direct the decorating of Halloween, but I was only able to summon enough energy to make it down the stairs once to stand outside for a brief moment, long enough to take these pictures, and then come back in again. I need to sleep, but I don't want to. I want to play but I can't. I'm slumped over in my chair and frustrated by the computer's signing me on and off over and over again, and the sound of my poor wheezing rat behind me makes me sad. A cat is trilling at the door, her need for a mate, as if this overflowing home could hold one cat more.

"Any idiot can face a crisis; it is this day-to-day living that wears you out." -- Anton Chekhov

"Search for meaning, eat, sleep. Search for meaning, eat, sleep. Die, search for meaning, search for meaning, search for meaning." -- Doug Horton

"In the end, everything is a gag." -- Charlie Chaplin

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