Now, before I get too far into the new year and have to go back to school, I'm going to put my notes here, otherwise, knowing me, I never will. And I want to write because writers write. And I want to draw because artists work at their art. So I keep telling myself, and then not doing those things. I'm going to just transcribe my notes (several pieces of paper folded up small in the drawer) with as few edits as possible so it doesn't take ten hours. If it gets too long I'll break it up into separate entries.
Something I miss about California at my old house is that there were a lot of places to hide outside: in the tree in the backyard, in the tree down the road...until they cut down the tree in the back and I got too big to climb and hide in the cork tree. But if you walked up the hill or down the creek you could find a nook or a spot where you could lay down and curl up in the tall grasses or behind a bend in the creek bank and be by yourself.The cool breeze and warm sun were my companions in sadness and tranquility.
Here's the Monkey Garden from The House on Mango Street, this small excerpt reminds me of The Secret Garden which I used to love so much....and the hiding places in the park under the huge Willow tree and the mass of camellia bushes. "And then I don't know why but I had to run away. I had to hide myself at the other end of the garden, in the jungle part, under a tree that wouldn't mind if I lay down and cried a long time." And on feeling ashamed and embarrassed: "...I wanted to be dead, to turn into the rain, my eyes melt into the ground like two black snails...I closed my eyes and willed it, but when I got up all I had was a headache."
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