6/4/94

Always (there are) the reasons to
write. The inchoate, confusing thoughts,
findings, piling up one atop the other, like
the books, papers, envelopes and magazines
on the floor, on tables and desks, chairs and
dressers, bookcases, anywhere there is a flat
surface.

Whatever and whoever I envy, the corrosive
feeling resists my motivation to do, to
connect, to express.

(After writing this I called X
and we talked for 3 and a half hours.
We discussed the Language Movement, our
careers as writers, relationships
between men and women, his view of letting
the negative emerging be absorbed in a
Zen-like way, the New York school of
poets, (their snobbery), French snobbery,
air fares to Europe, the lack of a "wise
man" in the Language school, his distrust
of Y, his own overcoming of his
difficulties w/becoming known, my
idea of the cultural unconscious to
counter his idea that the avant-garde
just effects itself-