My dad rarely wept. He was never ashamed to weep; he just accepted so much so readily, it wasn’t easy to surprise him. I think that surprise is part of pain. I think of my father as something elemental - the birth of a new geometrical shape that perpetuates eternal after the actual cube is gone. I think it is the surprise of his material absence ( Read more... )

10:58 AM
today

viewing on 01/13 and service on 01/14, if you would like to attend

His language reduced to the helpless howl. All he does is sleep and dry weep. He is so light we can lift him together - all 6'4" - though there is nowhere left to lift him to. Too weak of body to stand or sit up, too weak of mind for the bathroom or talk. I sense dimly that we have already lost him, yet there is too much to do to mourn; he is just ( Read more... )

Everything is so painful ( Read more... )

I haven't answered any calls because I don't know what to say. He is home. he is stable. No one knows ANYTHING, which makes it more difficult, which adds to this feeling of limbo, this existence between frames. He is confused. Aren't we all ( Read more... )

flying out to LA tomorrow, early.

my mother just called. I don't know what to do. Gave her back the choice. But either way, I'll regret. I was so happy today, thinking of Christmas, deciding that yes, because it sounded so GOOD, goodness, something like clean warm wood, it would happen, it would have to. I would have at least that. But the world does not take care of you. the world ( Read more... )

Today I got my shit together. Lets hope it is not too late.
I just returned home from school, long walk through the gorgeous Hellish snow, and opened my myspace page to a request from a brunette Fabio type asking me to be his new assistant in his magic routine. Pictures of girls being sawed in half old-school-style in his profile. HA!

Totally.

As I believe that my father is close now, that he may not make it to Christmas, my body is regaining a bit of its earlier efficiency, starting . . . now ( Read more... )

Boston is full of the sagging cold, mist-bled, houses thoughtfully blinking as I stumble and lean. I can tear over particular shades of green or brown-washed shingles ( Read more... )