read
write
members
about
account

 

datedatememberrandomsearch

February 16, 2003
On a rainy Sunday afternoon when my body and spirit are as toneless and heavy as the sky over Seattle and thinking is as much an effort as moving, I am soothed by a sibilant concoction of stillness, soup, salad and Schubert that even makes writing enjoyable.

Thinking about the discomfort of death, and how those who don’t let themselves feel their own brand of sad raging miserable relieved forlorn heartbroken abandoned are condemned to keep using other people’s clich├ęs, alienating themselves from their own grief. Sometimes I disappear into a painful memory, but I know exactly where I am.