I am reading May Sarton, trying to get to Mary Daly and wondering what the fuck is different now than it was in 1979. I am still lone-some. I don’t know anything. I feel good in a way and crazy in a way and desperate in a way and pressed in a way and free in a way and all of them together in my head. Drinking Pernod and it’s upsetting my tummy. Wanting to smoke a joint and wanting to be held and wanting some good love/good love/good love.
Is this what the jazz guys mean when they say “nothing changes but the changes?”