Damn, Ed. Your personal journals are nearly as dull as mine (were). In fact, about the only thing that raises them up from banality is that they refer sometimes to the state you were in when you wrote great poetry. If I ever write something really good and publish it I might destroy what remains of the evidence of my day to day thoughts. You never know how they might end up.

Your poetry though… your pottery… your prams… so fucking solid.

And the dedications from your friends and exes moved me near to tears.

There is little more boring than pages of shopping lists, to-do lists, chronicles of spiritual and physical woes, and repetitive notes on romantic foibles like does she like me, does she love me, do I love her blah blah, even if the names are changed as you move from one to the next. Jesus, dude, yes you were good enough, yes you were authentic and so on, but maybe you needed to do more to get your head together. The weekly therapy doesn’t seem to have been enough. Maybe that’s just a reflection of the times and our understanding of depression and anxiety has evolved since you recorded all this, but they say nothing changes if nothing changes and you seem to have been stuck in a rut. Bless up, man because I have been there myself but… but what? I don’t know. I wish you had done more with that part. Jumping rope and wheat grass and your weekly therapy visit doesn’t do shit while you’re shooting speed.

So yes, this compilation of your writing made me feel like a voyeur peeking into a slow spiritual decline. I’m happy to move on.