Somehow life seemed to go on. I was often on auto-pilot and fighting my way out of what felt like a nearly bottomless pit. The summer seemed very long, often almost blank and in a few ways it flew by and finally morphed into a new semester and some new patterns.The trick was surviving to get there.
July 7, 1968, Sunday
It is the last evening of my little holiday already. I did quite a bit in the last twenty four hours. I finished my brown/gold/calico square dance outfit--it consists of a tiered skirt, a peasant blouse, a wing-collared pull over top and a pair of bloomers. I baked a cake-mix cake and this afternoon took up a couple of hems and did a large batch of ironing. And now since dunner I read three chapters of Business Law and feel pretty self-righteous now.
I am shaking off the black depression that has been dragging me dwon again. The i=virus of self-destruction is stil in me butit is gradualy losing out, I think--hope. One of these daysI'll be one of the kiving again rather than a zombie and a better and more real person becasue of all I've gone through. You aren't real until you've truly suffered, not just the puppy love growing pains but a white hot soul searing anguish that melts you down to the very edge of nothingness. It is a long slow process to build back but if y ou survive, you're somebody. You may not be good or great but you are somebody. Sympathy is more than a concept, love is more than a word or tangled limbs on a bed. Not that sex doesn't have its place but sex disguised as "Luv" has become a pacifier for a generation of overgrown children. Yes, me too.
I light up a longhorn (Marlboro) and say you have to have some crutches to lean on during that long phase of regrowth. It is recognizing them and learning to stand without them that is the hard part. This particular coffin nail happens to be the last in a sixth pack of my first and only carton and it's been sitting around for some while. People are kind of shocked to find I smoke at all, mostly. Mabye that is why I do it!
Will I write to Jim or Dusty? I've been feeling thus urge to turn over some old rocks but maybe I can resist. I probably should and yet there's a little doubt that lingers and builds wondering. I walked out the railyard this morning and sat out by Babbitt's warehouse on the ramp for awhile. I h dn't been there since March or so, just passed by a time or two. I've even thought of going down to the valley and spending a day prowling around but I have to remember I haven't got anything to ride anymore and I wasn't really cut out for the infantry bit so no foot soldiering. So I guess I'd best skip that. Maybe Jerome though? If Cottonwood is $5.05, Jerome should be under $6.00. And I have wanted to take some scenics and do a little exploring there. I even resisted the temptation to go up to the Powwow and see if Stacy Newton was there. Look how good I am getting. Maybe I will write Sir James a letter--just out of curiosity and then perhaps I'll go in a week or two and do some photography and sketching and possibly drop by to say hello if the fancy moves me.
I guess I did not do any of that because the next time I wrote anything was a week later, July 14.. July 8-through 13 must have been very not-notable. You think? That was a good sample or example of the summer of 1968!
Pictures? Maybe the two men I was thinking of and wondering; both had taken themselves out of my life but at that time I did not know why. Well, I did some in one case because for Jim M it was the political poison encasing the Morgan Family after their sudden disgrace and destruction. But I was sure Dusty would not feel the same about that.... So they were part of my hard time in the summer of 1968.
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