DIY History | Transcribe | Iowa Women’s Lives: Letters and Diaries | Eve Drewelowe's journals, volumes II-III, 1950s

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Eve Drewelowe's journals, volumes II-III, 1950s

Page 199

To ask for so little is not unreasonable, yet it seems so very, very much beyond the power to give. There is no such thing as peace and suppression of pain on this side of the great void. All that has been mine in response to my plans have been but crumbs of quietude punctuated by a rasping, cleaving, crouching monster in the vital interior. This beast has laid with me day in and day out; night in and night out; year in and year out. it is not a creature of my imagination, but a real force. It's grading has so completely fastened itself upon me that there is no escape, no reprieve, no let-down.
Right now that stomach disrupts rest; disrupts sleep; disrupts painting; disrupts me. It is like being infected with - particularly virulent species of hornets. Every night of my life as I struggle to remain asleep, the pushing; prodding, probing elements scrimmage in the stomach and dig me back to a consciousness aching all over and so desperately tired. I am sick of myself; of my stomach; of my life without painting. Moreover I am shamelessly thankless for all the hell-firing that has been mine. I could do so happily without but the gods forbid. It might be that if I weren't properly tortured and conditioned, I would be unready to serve up next reincarnation. The conditioning that has been mine in this world promises ill for my hereafter. I am unfitted except for the most disconcerting and tormenting life to follow.
In this life, however, since I am permitted no chance, I feel I would rather be this than not at all. Fools that we mortals be in general; and I in particular. We would hang on and suffer, and all to what end? Life isn't kind. It is sort of a steam rotten affair.

Saving...

To ask for so little is not unreasonable, yet it seems so very, very much beyond the power to give. There is no such thing as peace and suppression of pain on this side of the great void. All that has been mine in response to my plans have been but crumbs of quietude punctuated by a rasping, cleaving, crouching monster in the vital interior. This beast has laid with me day in and day out; night in and night out; year in and year out. it is not a creature of my imagination, but a real force. It's grading has so completely fastened itself upon me that there is no escape, no reprieve, no let-down. Right now that stomach disrupts rest; disrupts sleep; disrupts painting; disrupts me. It is like being infected with - particularly virulent species of hornets. Every night of my life as I struggle to remain asleep, the pushing; prodding, probing elements scrimmage in the stomach and dig me back to a consciousness aching all over and so desperately tired. I am sick of myself; of my stomach; of my life without painting. Moreover I am shamelessly thankless for all the hell-firing that has been mine. I could do so happily without but the gods forbid. It might be that if I weren't properly tortured and conditioned, I would be unready to serve up next reincarnation. The conditioning that has been mine in this world promises ill for my hereafter. I am unfitted except for the most disconcerting and tormenting life to follow. In this life, however, since I am permitted no chance, I feel I would rather be this than not at all. Fools that we mortals be in general; and I in particular. We would hang on and suffer, and all to what end? Life isn't kind. It is sort of a steam rotten affair.