confessional

Waking up breaks my heart.Getting dressed breaks my arms.Joining the crowd breaks my legs.Letting someone in...does me in.

I long for the day I no longer long for him.

A book, a true book, is the writer's confessional. For, whether he would have it so or not, he is betrayed, directly or indirectly, by his characters, into presenting publicly his innermost feelings.

She [Mary Maclane] is almost always referred to as __onfessional._ She has been referred to, several times, as the first blogger. Whereas her writing does not confess much - it is much more spiritual memoir than anything, or perhaps something akin to a mystic__ courtly love, directed at the self. I am wondering what distinguishes writing as confessional_I keep on feeling I prefer the latter-day MacLane, the diary she wrote while convalescing from scarlet fever back home in Butte, Montana, I, Mary MacLane, that Melville House is only publishing as an ebook. Mary MacLane melancholy, totally isolated. Feeling intense disquiet. Now in her early thirties, meditating on her whirlwind celebrity, in cities, feeling distanced from all that, but longing for it too. Obsessed with the Mary MacLane who stopped writing, or stopped publishing books, who was involved with the anarchist/bohemian crowd in Chicago, with the Dill Pickle, who died in poverty and obscurity on the South Side at the age of 48. I want to write about her, but I don__ know how or why yet.

I've seen so much and lived it all._I _wanted _to _bite _ the _earth _and _taste _it. _It _is _both _bitter _and _sweet, _and _ if _I _had _my _time _to _live _over _again, _I _wouldn__ _change a _damn _thing _ _Reg _Spiers