January 17, 1983: Bunuel. Spice factory photos. Gas flames heat switches on a snow covered railway. Feeling ill. Cognac. Covering myself with ink.

January 18, 1983: Cold! Listening to a dinnertime drone of discussions. Thinking about individuality and companionship. What about making a soap into a Saturday morning cartoon? I haven’t read much recently. Could that be why this writing is so hard? Why not do something weird? Tie-die hair. Holistic Hippie, a sign of peaceful hope. I should meditate. Om.

January 19, 1983: Colder! Ivan Illych dieing from a fall hanging curtains. Julie looking back and wondering if the last four years were wasted and I’m read for the road. I am on the road now. And sometimes it seems like those hours spent waiting for rides are wasted. But that’s only if you want to get somewhere by sometime. If you’re just there for the traveling then you might as well enjoy the process. The age old struggle between being and striving to be. And with all these struggles, how does one relate to others? “I and Thou”? To much thought for one night.