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Show 158 I got a postcard from Dublonsky today. Black native girls with baskets on their heads and wearing a lot of stupid jewelry. The message on the back really didn't say anything at all. I threw it in the wastebasket, which is where this dumb journal should go. This last part is Owen's idea. He says I shouldn't throw it away. He says that anything worth starting is worth finishing. I guess he ought to know. He's read everything else here and knows all about Dublonsky, and he says that if I write down this last part I will feel better about the way things have turned out. I already feel better. I started feeling better yesterday, in the afternoon when I found Owen in the cafeteria and he accepted my apology almost as though nothing bad had happened between us at all. "It's okay," he said, "I was just being sensitive like you said I shouldn't be." "I cried all night," I told him. "That's too bad." "And you know what," I said, "now I'm kind of sorry you're leaving. That this is your last day here." "Well now," he said, "that's sweet." And I was sorry too, sorry for myself. I wished that he had another tattoo or two which still needed to be removed. But there was nothing I could do about his going, so I went off myself, to sit in the sun and be lonely all over again. In the evening he came to find me and asked me if I would like |
