Journal Entry, November 1980
The servants of Death have taken over the ship.
To live in the center of the storm, surrounded by violence, as though the violence does not concern us, is a kind of madness. We live in a slaughterhouse while the slaughter goes on, the dead hanging thick as leaves from the branches above us. To live we
must shed blood. To be of service, we must live. The madness we would change penetrates us, we enter into it that we may live, and that we may be the instruments of its transformation. What terrible clarity is required. What an impossible balancing act.
March 1, 1981
That which is most intensely felt must be returned. The sharp, always startling intrusion of beauty never fails to waken a profound loneliness--and the need to overcome it. What is to be done with the gift?
We are accountable even for our wonder.