27 November

I have often said: "It is odd, is it not", when really what I meant to say was, "Truly, it is not odd at all." Today, in this light, I shall say:

Truly, it is not odd at all that I have developed such a manic independence. Something in my lungs began at a whisper and swivelled sharp like from the barrel of a revolver, first parenthetical and then emphatic, growing, (Iwantout), Iwantout, I want out! I want out outoutout OUT OUTOUTOUT OUT

So you see, it is not so very odd as I first imagined. It is not so very odd that I should pick an Idiom, an Outside Idiom, farfarfar from anything related to this idiom, to my father and to his idiom, and cleave to that idiom as if to my own independence. For in that idiom lies my independence. And all other idioms, the idioms of Hixson/ Baptists/ Engineering, how I shun it and all its partisans! For to me it represents every conglomerated bit of whowhat I'm running from. A father. How idiotic; how perverse!-- and yet: this is whowhat I am, this is whowhat I will always be running from. And so I have picked my idiom, my quick-becoming self, the future that I will and must inhabit; a happiness I can be assured of apart from the perennial oppression of malignancy, unservitude, unlove; and this, my choice, born from a love. How wonderful to see a future unfold like chrysanthemums, to witness the existance of both love and unlove, universal self which is axis to both; to choose love and sacrifice a million untread futures for its sake; to feel the ebullient pull of incoherant sureness. How relevant to have something to be running towards.