December 26 1969 DD ((Dear Diary)) Everyday seems a memoranda. Drove around applying (?) for jobs too early. Home—started a blouse but there wasn’t enuf material.
Vip called & came over later with his two sisters. Sue is about 21 & a really beautiful person. Vip wanted her to read my palm to see if I had any witch signs (a good thing). They all came & sat in my room about five minutes then had to go. I really felt dumb not being what they thought—but if that’s what I seem to be and I’m not then what am I really? Maybe you don’t need the sign to be mystic or whatever it is. Wow—confusion.
Nite: I went → a show with Corinne & her friends Leslie & Laurie cuz they needed a ride. Locked keys in the car.
December 27th SAD1969DD I will never be what I want or even try to be. I will only be who I am. I don’t think this diary speaks very well. Words are a tyranny in a way. I introspect over things I’ve heard and said and my introgressions lead to my depression—which I do not consciously desire. Yet my total consciousness seems to demand introgressions and in the same way my imaginings are my escape. I realize it is possible for me to see my own reality only and I can change it & try to make it more real but it will never suffice for another.
Nite: out with Jim T. ((sign of Pisces)) Movie ((sign of Cancer)).
December 28th 1969 Today’s January 13th (sorry!) but the last few days of December I remember. I drove Carol’s car to Anaheim. Slept over at Linda W.’s, took a train to San Diego, met Hen, Diane (Diane on the train) & Hair. Stayed at Hen’s. Went to a party, seemed to have fun the whole week. Spent a couple days more in Anaheim, riding horses with Diana after January first. I went to a party in Pasadena the evening of January but was martyrly sick the whole time (I didn’t announce it cuz Hen felt so crummy with her tonsils out. I got to know people better though. . .
I would have written in here sooner but I kept waiting for a convenient time. I didn’t want to write while I was in a mood that wouldn’t let me feel comfortable with myself. This is the closest I’ve come I guess because Hen left for the weekend and there’s no pressure on me to be anything. Still—I might feel the same thing but be in a different mood tomorrow and maybe read like a different person.
I hate to say it but I don’t believe that there is very much of me in this five-year diary. It’s a record of my hang-ups and my illusions. I’ve always been so overwhelmed by other people and influences whom I am over sensitive to, that I have put up defensives. Even in here you can sense that I’ve been afraid to open too often—afraid of overwhelming myself with me.
That is something I’d begin to do now but writing down what I go through everyday is not what I want to do. I reflect too much as it is—I was a walking diary—only a few notes written—never seeing myself whole. Five years of having tiny spaces to write in kind of gets to you. It became an influence on how I think.
I might do a diary of drawings next. Depending on my moods I can express myself better that way. I’m too quiet. Words are incapable of feeling and when I really want to say something it is a feeling, not some intellectual conclusion. This diary is so bare of drawings—I can’t believe it! I’m going to change and open myself a lot more but it’s not going in a diary that has an inch a day. Like this really is the end. Writing is beautiful and free and revealing when it isn’t so structured as this. I hope that I have come through occasionally. Me, Nancy. Yesterday matters to me—so I can matter tomorrow.
My poetry has taken the place of this part of the diary—in case you wondered why I hardly write in here anymore.
