Sunday is almost always depressing. I don’t know why; well, I suppose I do know why today... I am sitting here weeping over spilt boyfriends, having found not only the poem I wrote for Barry, but some of the loveliest of Kirk’s love letters, as I am trying desperately to clean out this room. (Gawd... no matter how many magazines I give away, they seem to keep multiplying.)

I’m also wondering what kind of stomach problem now... having eaten, or should I say ‘et’ as Collie does, two apparently uncooked crumpets -- well, Mike gave them to me, saying, “I don’t have a toaster...” so I naturally figured they had simply to be tossed into the toaster, buttered and eaten, or et. I don’t think so... they did seem a bit mushy and doughy in the middle, but I thought that was perhaps as I had over-buttered them. Well, the butter just kept melting into them... whatever, my stomach is talking to me furiously, so who knows what is next.

To get back to the letters... Kirkie was absolutely the best at love letters. So sweet, so delicious to read of his longings that so much matched mine... me too, me too, we’d say so often. He and Barry were so close in my mind so often... the only two men with whom I’d fallen in love at first sight, although I often told Kirkie that it was actually love at first write. His very first letter was so charming and so sweet that I simply destroyed all the rotten, dirty old men letters and kept only his, although, some time later I did start a correspondence with Don, the ‘religious conservative’. Imagine... those two terrible words, and I actually carried on a very interesting correspondence with him. I think that the only reason Don wrote to me was because he so desperately wanted to be a writer, and perhaps felt writing to me would help... then continued thinking that perhaps he could convert me to both god and conservatism... silly MAN. I often wonder where he actually went after his forced stay in the hot, miserable Southern state he was stuck in while he wrote to me. He mentioned perhaps going to Las Vegas, although I would consider that horrible city even worse than the hot forests of the South Don used to run in to keep in shape. I also wonder what he looked like... I pictured him as a short, dark haired, though pale, guy... slim because of his running, lots of dark chest hair and very strong (rather like Paul at BB/L, whose arms were like wood)... but when dressed looking like so many of the lawyers I knew in Chicago -- very stylish, light English or Italian suits, with those soft, expensive, Italian shoes, always looking quite new, as a lawyer never walks anywhere... he simply calls a cab. But Don’s running shoes always muddy and worn from the constant running through the pine woods of Georgia or Alabama... or some steamy Southern state. Why can’t everyone have distinctive names like Dick Zaunere. I put Don’s name in Google and several came up in Las Vegas. Now there was a man who loved his profession, although I don’t think religious conservatives should be allowed in it. He was a typical GOP member, and I do not trust any of them to be impartial. Ah, well, I guess lawyers are never impartial, they can’t be, they have to work for their clients. I suppose Madoff’s lawyer must try to get him off, knowing all the while the man was a rotter and stealing from everyone. What a profession to get into... I would not last two weeks. Although, I was in advertising for years and years, selling stuff I didn’t care about, until I could lie no more. Rather like a politician -- good god, there are too many jobs that ask that one go against all that one believes in. One wonders if the radio talk show hosts actually believe the downright lies they present. I guess they would have to, but what sad little lives they must live. How unfortunate that so great a country that my ancestors dreamed of, has descended into the filth and slime and become a land of lawyers, liars and theives.

Can any of us walk with our heads high again? At the very least, I have become a lot more tolerant of almost everyone. I do not hate anyone, but, sadly, I do not love anyone, either. Well, outside of the ones one is expected to love... one’s own. I do adore my children and grandchildren, even while being quite detached from all of them. The other sad thing about this once great country: there is a separation. One is not supposed to ‘get old.’ What a sad state, where so many old women have either bright yellow or pure black hair, attempting to regain their youth, and so many men do not know how amusing a wig or ‘comb-over’ looks. Take Donald Trump for example, he of the orange forward comb-over. Can they not see that ‘bald is beautiful?’ Well, not on me... and I do love my purple hair, although a foolish little girl at the hospital the other day said, “Do you always match your hair to your outfit?” I was in all purple that day. I guess I shall have to buy a set of those day-glo wigs they sell for Halloween. Now If I could only figure out how to make my eyelashes and mouth show up in photographs. I have disappearing features in most photos. Of course there is always retouching.....

Sunday... bloody sunday. I start with depression, and end with the same. But I have traveled from lovely letters to a land of slime, liars and thieves. I have a solution -- no one can go to law school for the next five years, then they must level out the number of lawyers left, and admit only so many to law school, keeping the number of working lawers at a very low number each year. Nonsense? Ah, well......................

"At Break of dawn...

there is no sunrise... when your lover has gone..." and the damned weather has gone along with me for this miserable week, too. We're going into what they laughingly call 'winter' here in S.F. It just means that we get snivily, drisily dark days when you can stay inside and cry and nobody notices... and you can turn over at sunrise and finally go to sleep and nobody misses you 'cause who goes out in this weather anyway. Well, at least I guess that it means that I have finally come to and realized that after nine years of what I thought of as a 'forever friendship/love' has ended by my being dumped in an email. I still find it hard to figure out how he could spend at least eight years telling me and writing me about how much he loved me and then could suddenly write an email saying he didn't. He couldn't even call me... after I had sent him a phone card when he was in a mess and had no phone he could call me on. So much for love and romance... this is the last time I want to have anything to do with it. I love guys, but I want no more love affairs. What am I saying... at my age I doubt that I will ever have a chance at one again. Love doesn't run out, but I guess that time does. And to think that nine years ago I wasn't looking for love or romance... I was just looking for a writing partner. Well, we did write some interesting poetry together, but that was the extent of it, and now, in my depression, I am having trouble writing my name, let alone any stories. What am I saying again: I wrote a 3-day novel in which he figured prominently, got beaten up and wound up being brushed off, while I turned my sights to another nutty guy. Oh no... it was only fiction, but it felt good to have him beaten up.

One of my problems is that music is a big thing in my life... and certain songs bring K back and are hard to listen to. I love Lee Wiley and some of her songs were so much a part of "us"... like "Any Time, Any Day, Anywhere" which brings him back to me so quickly. And I find myself mooning around the house singing all the terrible old 'when your lover has gone' songs. I had forgotten how many of them there are, and a sweet program on KALW took the time to remind me of ALL of them. At least they serve to remind you that you are not the only person to suffer... there must be thousands... millions... billions... beating their heads against the wall and saying, "Why me? Why me?" And yet... they eventually stop crying and get back to work or play, or something like a normal life... so I guess I will also. But right now, just let me cry and get it out of my system. You don't even have to sympathize -- just tell me to shut up and go away... it might even help me to learn to say goodbye gracefully.