I once dated a writer. Given so many circumstances, the word "dated" feels very small, but words are small, so there you go.
In any case, when I was with him, I would tell him all kinds of things--things joyous, things terrible. And sometimes, before I could finish an entire story, I could sense him making structural decisions.
Should it break on
I used to find it unnerving, frankly. But today I am too tired to be unnerved. Today I know we all die, and then there's nothing left, unless there are words, and why shouldn't there be?
The girls' sixth birthday was yesterday, and all day I thought, I should be happy.
I also thought, My daughter is still in diapers. My daughter is still not talking.
I rubbed my daughter's back as we fell asleep and when I was so tired, I could barely think of anything, I thought: My daughter.
In the morning, her seizing wouldn't stop and the ambulance came and D got in and I stayed.
She hates her IV, D reports.
The fact is, she can't use her left arm very well but she's trying if it means she might be able to pull the IV out of her right.
On the phone I sing goodnight to her. It's 8:30: Goodnight, goodnight. Goodnight, goodnight.
D comes back on. "Not responding."
Later, I feel really lonely. It is possible for so many things to be one person's fault. Not even an evil person. Even when you don't want to believe this, it's true. I write my friend to tell him.
L--I wish I could talk to you. I have made so many bad choices, Rake. I can't begin to tell you. Sometimes I feel like everything I touch is on a fast track to Pain City.
R--You can't blame yourself for that. You can't, and hey, I am not in Pain at all, I'm in Cincinnati. I know there are others, too.
L--I am stupid. It is really depressing though. Maybe even more depressing that after 20 years you're the only friend I can tell without trying to be okay with it? I am not okay with it.