KC walking to California State University, Northridge (aka CSUN) circa 1976

KC's story continued in a bound blue journal (with gold decorations) starting about two weeks after she'd finished writing her "40 pages" (July 22, 1975 - September 28, 1975).

She organized this "Blue & Gold" Journal into three parts, or "Books".  

Book I ends on Oct. 26, 1976, and Book II spans June 15, 1977 to Oct. 19, 1977.

   Peter woke me up this morning in the midst of bad dreams.  After he left I fell back asleep and must've worked out some heroic solution since I slept quite late and woke up more cheerfully than I have in weeks. 

   I walked out to the kitchen which was filled with a strange glowing light due to the fact that I'd pulled the outer curtains against the cold last night.   Usually they're open and the light comes flooding in but not this morning.  Peter brought in the stone lion with its spiky plant set into its back and set it among the rocks we collected at Boron.  With the slanting, mysterious glow haloing it, the lion looked sphinx-like and very alive, and I expected him to grumble some message of wisdom, or chide me for getting up so late.  

   Like the Victorians it has never been hard for me to assign life to inanimate objects.  Disney also had this talent, to a frightening degree.  Scientists often discuss the activities of atoms with the same sort of creativity, assigning them personalities, societies, and wayward behavior — as with all such fantastic worlds, a microcosm of our own. 

   The cycles did continue for the past 7 months or so — there were many rather shameful episodes — some quite bad.  (...) 

      I think, however, that I've made some progress in the past year: the immense pride I suffer from is becoming apparent to me at last — it certainly underlies much of what I've written here already — and how embarrassed I am by it all. 

   Book I marks the transition from adolescence to adulthood — I finally see myself as a woman, an adult, now.   Maturity seems to have a lot to do with realizing one's limitations with honesty — not false modesty.   How wrong we've been in this country to venerate youth! 

I don't doubt that much of my spiritual enlightenment of the past several years has indeed been genuine — unfortunately I was woefully unprepared for almost all of it.  Why God should waste His time on such an ingrate is beyond me.  (I would like to stress that the only reason I can believe in my "Voice" is because it never counseled me to do a bad deed, and encouraged my better self to action.  But what sad material it had, and has, to work with.  How deeply ashamed I feel – but not nearly as much as I think I should feel.). 

   I picture our future with God as a grand adventure — perhaps we can be to other parts of the universe as Christ is to us — perhaps there are other worlds for us to join and bring love to — but certainly we are not ready yet. 

   The love and experience of God (which are really one and the same thing, since to know Him is to love Him) do not still the sense of adventure, of exploration that typify man the "scientist."   In fact, in me it spurs on a sense of quest of creation. 

   Every time I feel possessed by this fantastic, immeasurable love I feel such an enormous longing to challenge myself, throw off my shackles, and leap into that infinity of joyful creativity that our Lord is. 

   Perhaps it takes an artist, albeit a sporadic, immature artist, to tell the world that Heaven shall not be boring — rather it will be more exciting than our wildest dreams. 

   Once again, my experience of God does not produce what I call "statis".   Quite the opposite.   I become feverish to act, to explore, to run, to dance, to sing, to paint, to play music.   This is just the beginning of Heaven, where every act shall be a prayer glorifying the greatness of our Father. 

   I think what bothers me the most is impatience to get on with all I feel compelled to do — the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.  

   My own laziness and selfishness hinders me every step of the way.   That which I long most to do I end up doing the least about — how wrong, how upside down this is.  

   This contradicts what I just said about the experience of God.   It is not God's fault that I linger, that I hesitate — that I take a few dance steps and then sit down.   I am inherently lazy and fearful of the whirling dance that makes me take leave of my senses, that makes me a fool with joy.  

   We are afraid of pure gifts because then we shall have to respond in kind.  

   Right now my heart aches — my God is so beautiful — what wonder is in the merest glimpse of Him — how astonishing He is.   Why does he torment me by coming so close?   And listen to me beg Him to come yet closer — why, so I shall be burned alive?  

   There is the greatest delight in humility — my greatest gift is in my growing sense of self-destruction — or "decreation".   Simone Weil's word is better.   Every step I retreat the Lord steps one further into my heart, my mind, my body.  

   Why is He willing to do this? 

   He has nothing to gain and I everything — yet He is the one that pursues me.   Which is actually Him doing my pursuit for me.   What a wonderful friend to give me an equality I could never obtain by my own efforts. 

   I hope I can give my life to Him — not just in one grand finale but everyday. 

   My Lord called me His little coward, His thorn, not His rose.   But as He pointed out, one burns thorns, not roses, for light and warmth.   So I have the consolation of being for use, not beauty — knowing I shall be consumed by a greater than myself and therefore obtain my value.  

   Nor shall my death offend God — for the person who casts a thorn plant on the fire is only doing right, whereas he who casts a rose such as Jeanne D'Arc upon the fire, commits a grave sin.  

   One really cannot pick and choose what sort of a saint one shall be — that is God's gift.   If one is a saint at all it is because God has made one so and therefore it is up to Him what position one holds.  

   Then He moves away leaving one destitute of spiritual currency — one is a lost soul — hot, tired, hungry, and irritable.   The desert stretches interminably before one — but I am beginning to accept this — blessed are the poor in spirit for they shall see God. 

   I can almost welcome the dryness, the dullness of these times — my God is generous with me.  

   When I was very small I fell in love with Christ and yet I always had these cycles — from joy to darkness — over and over, until recently I began to understand — the darkness is the operation removing the disease and the joy is the knowledge that I live.  

   So, my earliest years started me on this path — at three or four I prayed to the crucifix that I might someday take His place there — my arms hesitantly outstretched on my white cotton bedspread — scarcely aware of what moved me.   But I was desperately in love.   I remember once having a scene over pair of socks that hurt my feet — I remember starting to cry and my parents being very anxious as to what was wrong?  I was crying because I was torn — my vanity and hurt feet detesting the hated socks — and my objective self hating the vanity.   And I felt the awful futility at trying to explain this confusion.   It is so clear in my memory.   Perhaps I started out as an adult and shall end up as a child.  

   I still encounter that self-hatred but now I don't let it blind me to God's forgiveness — In fact I almost welcome my weaknesses so I may have the pleasure of being forgiven — or, to put it better, I welcome the awareness of my weaknesses, which before I hated to admit.   I am beginning to discover the joy of being forgiven. 

   My life is so dull — there is very little to tell.   I work 40 hours a week — forty days in the desert, really.   And I write and paint.   My dream is to buy a piano because playing music is the highest form of prayer that I know of.   Being carried out of myself is really not my prayer — it is God doing my praying for me — I myself am incapable of such objectivity — only He can lift me out of myself — my own prayer is as ridiculous as Baron von Munchausen lifting himself out of the quagmire by his own hair.  

   Not such a bad life, you say.   Yes, I question it myself — I definitely own too much — spiritually and physically.   My voice said I would be very wealthy and then give it all away, so I know I am moving towards that.   My voice today said that there are many in Heaven who were thought not suited, or fit, to be there and that someday I would live with joy among them.   He added, "As I do myself."  

   Which struck me as funny, because certainly He was considered unfit for Heaven, never mind to be King of Heaven, by the cognoscenti of His time.    This is the irony — one becomes extremely egotistical about joining the world's outcasts.   Because by doing so, one joins the elite.   And, as your point of reference shifts, and one values spiritual things more and more, one finds a whole new "social" ladder to climb, or descend, as it were.  

   But the trick is to look neither up nor down but to live each moment for the present — one is where one is — and this is the beginning of self-death and Eternity.   One has neither past nor future, so there is no point in establishing any sense of "place."   Once again, the God who is good is doing the climbing, or descending, for one, through one — you merit nothing for yourself.   It is much harder to stay good than become good.   Stillness — being carried — is harder for us to achieve than running about of our own volition.  

   But stillness, acceptance — is the only possible way we can move an inch.  To me this is what faith is all about.  

   For the dark moments we have hope to aid us, and for the joyful ones we have love.   Faith is the acceptance of being carried by God.   In a terrible way it is accepting the fact that we are Christ's cross — we are planks of dead wood.   It is only by His use of us that we can achieve any significance in this world.   I don't think anything can humble spiritual pride better than this notion.  

   There is a certain problem with too much self-examination of the sort where one looks for every sin, no matter how small.   The net result of a steady fare of this sort of thing is that evil becomes one's closest associate.   One becomes very depressed and courage doesn't spring from melancholy; it springs from joy.   Worst, perhaps, one tends to lose one's sense of humor.  

   I think it is here that I place the value of confession — it releases one from nitpicking.  

   What of those depressions I said I value?   But these are of a somewhat different nature — or are they?   I hadn't given it much thought.  

   Sometimes they stem from the feeling I get that God has abandoned me, out of disgust or boredom. 

   Sometimes they come after I get a sudden flash of insight into how awful I am — the links forming a chain that suddenly tightens. 

   Still other times I get depressed over the world and my place in it — everything seems dark until my Lord returns and with Him the light of morning. 

   But He cannot speak to me every minute, or every day. 

   But this is boring.   I must amend what I've said by saying that it would be better to err on the side of too much examination of conscience rather than not enough.   But you can get so caught up in your interior life that you forget to thank God for the Resurrection and the forgiveness of sins. 

   A heart joyful at the sight of God, man, and nature is not very apt to fall prey to the devil. 

   Who is the devil by the way?   I believe it quite possible that he was indeed a higher being who fell into disgrace by his pride.   Why should we find this so hard to believe when it happens to people every day is difficult to comprehend.   Certainly the devil has a stake in our not believing in him.   Cancer and heart disease would do so much better at wiping us out if we ascribed them to figments of the imagination.   The devil is in the same position.   In my mind he has a great deal to do with the terrible power death has.   Death has no favorites and neither has the devil: he's willing to visit anyone, even Christ.   The audacity of the devil in regard to the latter as recorded in the Gospels has always fascinated me.   Christ's human nature must of been as vulnerable in some regards as our own or else the devil wouldn't have wasted his time.   Fortunately for us he didn't stand a chance and was told where to go. 

   The summer passed quickly this year.   My parents came out to visit us and I saw them as real people for the first time — as neither gods nor monsters. 

   This weekend we went up to the Sierra's and such a strong impression of home at this time of year filled me that I got very sad.   I wanted to pray but everything was numb and so I was mostly silent, like the trees. 

   Yet I felt closer to God than I have in several months and very glad to be near Him.   My life was meant for Him, my whole being demands Him. 

   I look at myself and see enormous flaws.   Over and over again I fail.   And yet I cannot stop loving God and I always sense His love for me. 

   I hate my irritability so much.   And my lack of will.   Being close to people causes me great pain because I'm too sensitive. 

   There are other things… exposure every day to very attractive men can be a strain — I questioned for a while how wrong adultery was — and I've come to the conclusion that it's a waste of time — an adult delusion.   I questioned hypocrisy — how bad was it in a place where it's taken for granted?   It's bad, I decided, because your day doesn't end at 8 o'clock and pick up again at 5. 

   My answers sound so quick and assured here, but I've spent many torturous months dealing with these things — vacillating between "anything goes" and the rigidity of my Catholic upbringing. 

   I guess I can say that I discovered the core of truth — the persistent strength of  Christianity — that helped me deal with these problems. 

   Of course, I was not brave — I often longed to call out to the enemy, 

   "I'm here, I'm ready, I'm yours now." 

   In little ways I often did just that, and circumstances alone often saved me from doing myself great damage. 

   Yesterday was my father's birthday and I am sitting here in the tub writing, like Marat-Sade.   Peter has even placed a board on the edges of the tub. 

   I just did a whole series of exercises — I do them in the morning, too. 

   Kasper Hauser said he was happiest in bed. 

   What I cannot understand is why I am working when my natural inclination is to be completely irresponsible.  My creativity doesn't feed on rich soil and perhaps that is the key.  My desire for certain things. A house. Privacy. 

   I am suffering these days because of the loss of a friend.   I have always treasured friendship and so rarely had it — probably in part because of the difficulty of my character. 

   Right now I need a lot of help — I'm questioning a lot of things.  Sometimes I'm assailed by doubts — about my Voice, my faith, my life — what a torture.   Nothing is easy. 

   I am so tired of hearing the misery people create for themselves.   People say I care too much, which is true — but how do I stop?   Is this the suffering Christ asked us to accept? 

   I do believe in Jesus and that He speaks to me after a fashion.   And I love Him very, very much.   But why should He speak directly to me and step into my life so completely — why His total surrender?   Perhaps He is showing me the way. 

   I don't know.   Perhaps I am just another Catholic hysteric. 

   In a few hours I shall be 24 years old.   I cut my finger badly today on an Exacto blade.  It made an exacto cut — very painful. 

   We are thinking of buying a small dog — a Shetland sheep dog.   Of course, it's ridiculous…  

   How absurd pain is. 

   I'm very tired — why did I start to write?   The worst thing in this world is the sense of "not-rightness" that we all share in varying degrees.   Learning how to live with that handicap is one of our greatest problems.   That fine edge upon which we balance.   How wrong it is. 

   But perhaps it is better than smugness — a cocoon.

   I am beginning to dis__ 

   I forgot what I was going to write! 

   Oh — yes.   Being a vehicle of healing.   My Voice said I would have the gift of healing, especially things stemming from anxiety, nerves, etc. Modern maladies? 

   Remarkable— but the least thing I pray for has been granted to me.   I am not remarkable at all - but this is. 

   I mean… not miracles – rather a restoring to rightness.   It's been very noticeable lately. 

   I saw "Juliet of the Spirits" recently and loved it.   I feel just like that character — except I have Peter.   It was a very pro-woman picture.   I mean, it dealt with this dumpy little woman, this little elf with the beautiful, overbearing mother and sisters. 

      Up until now I tried to record the purely spiritual — and failed, I'm afraid, to sound anything other than inane.   So perhaps this marks the end of Book 2.   The last four months have marked a transition for me — away from the abstract, Catholic void.   "Void" is a harsh word but it is apt.   I'm more interested now in expressing ideas by means of connected images.   In my early years, one image was enough.   When this no longer sufficed for me emotionally and intellectually, my art began to deteriorate. 

      Now I feel as though I have discovered a mode of expression that will probably stand valid for the rest of my life, for the difference is as between one dimension and three.