At work, and the woman doing the year-end taxes has the soaps on.  Soaps are bad, very very bad, and I forget how bad until I have to watch them again what’s going to happen?  I’m preoccupied with this question and would rather be in my dorm room at school which is now full of another girl’s stuff, since I am no longer at school.  If I were there I could lie on my bed and look out the window where rain would be falling, down four stories. 

I could lose myself in stories again, other people’s stories, which are so very different from mine but reminiscent to the degree that I have increased hope according to the hope of whichever heroine.  Like Jo March.  Like Elizabeth Bennett.  Like Desdemona.  Like these women who, if I really think, are women like I am a woman, living their days like I am living mine.  Isn’t it weird to believe that other people are not unlike yourself?  That everybody is alike, really, alike in feeling that other people are unlike us?  I want to be

like myself, true through, so that whatever hard knocks will ring me like a branch of dry wood and will produce of course a dominant tone but also overtones.  I was knocking a couple of pieces of wood together in my backyard the other day and I found the first overtone.  That is and will remain a big moment in my life.  I never knew that was possible, can you imagine?  I want there to be enough space and toughness that I can ring like that and not be broken up into splinters and I believe it’s possible

and even coming.  Christ is doing that.