(11/27/1999)"Caligula," I whispered to my mother through the crack in the bathroom door. I could near her peeing so I had a little time to run. She had told me, according to her will, that for my past wrongs I had to go to jail and then live in a group home and do all the shopping and housework and I said, "Then I get nothing. Take me out of it. I don't want your money. You can't tell me what to do." Her lip started quivering and I couldn't tell if she was hurt, furious or just insane. I thought, very briefly, about going on to jail to shut her up but the thought of living in a group home with grown women I had nothing in common with was unbearable. I wanted a soda. I went to 3 delis--one had dry cleaning all over instead of groceries. Cans of 'easy-off' were in the refrigerator cases. The next deli I went in was filled with ladies clothes on racks. People moved too slow, fingering the fabric in sweaters. I went to the church and slept sound through the sermon. Then they played a very stupid movie that we joked about for days afterward. Marianna was on Houston St. telling me about space 468. Stephen was trying to get closer and closer. Then Marianna was now Eileen and Eileen was holding necklaces very gently and telling what chakras they signified. Dora was behind me. I looked back at her. Eileen was in front. I looked at her and her handful of necklaces--gathered from people. She'd talk about the special qualities of the necklace and then return it to the person. They hung without tangles. There were piles of leaves in the living room. Stacked up against the walls--in the way of the door. John Kaufman had splashed red, green, white, black and pink paint all over himself--over a skin toned body suit. When I'd first hugged him in church I didn't even notice it but later he pointed it out.