Judith Lautner (judith) wrote,
Judith Lautner


I feel such frustration. I wait for others. I feel imprisoned sometimes. I know sometimes the cages are of my own making but they spring up when I least want them around. Today I have to myself - but I don't. Joey left with his dad at about nine, I was tired, napped, read, did Kathy, took a shower. I called Elaine at a little before twelve, she called back at about noon, had just woken up. She said she would shower and come over. It is now after two and she still isn't here and I wait.

I look at the food and want to eat it. I almost opened the cookie jar to remove a cookie that had bent corners. something about the bending. I was going to save it? I don't know. But I left it there. I have certainly had enough this morning, very little of it healthy.

I finished the book I was reading, "S.", by John Updike, and now I have started reading the diaries of John Cheever. There is some thing interesting here, or maybe not so much, that he doubts his ability, despairs that the work he has done is not worth anything, compares himself to others like Mailer and is found wanting. I do the same.

He also often speaks of himself in the third person. I think - at this time of his life, in the forties and fifties - it was not uncommon to write this way. But even in his journal. Seems odd to me.

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