Thursday afternoon

My earliest memory is one of rage. My father chased us to bed by swinging his belt. At the top of the steps I took off my belt and started to swing back and he laid it in to me with stinging blows. I finally took off. I could not defeat the dragon. It was my fault, I was a coward, I had run away. As I said earlier I am a self blamer. Even now, when I know of my illness, I tend to still self blame. Mom was no help with the beatings. By God, her children would mind. Not me. My woman friend spoke the other night of the Oedipal phase as something that all boys go thru. I don't know--such stuff smacks of psychobabble to me. But there were times when I wanted to kill the son of a bitch. And times I loved him. Enough. I'm back from the library where, as I often do, peruse an old collection of women poets. I was in the "K's". Maxine Kumin seems to be the only who may be in the stacks. Tomorrow I will find her. Tomorrrow I will take a picture of my woman friend's lump. I prayed for her and for my doctor yesterday and will pray again later. For myself I just meditate.