“It’s just life,” you said, well kind of said, but rather text messaged, and you are right. I would never argue with that. We are born dying. Sooner or later it comes for all of us. But this was different because she was in her early 40s. This one was different because she knew about it for less than two months. This one is different because one day she was at work and the next day she was not. She spent that day finding out that she had stage 4 ovarian cancer, and then she began dying faster than she had ever done in her life. And the very next day we would all find out at work. And then we would slowly start to realize that there are no more happy hours with Diane. There’s no more of the rye humor, the cutting scowl and the big smile. There would be no more feminist editorials or parties out on the farm. It’s also different because she was just about to finish the process for adopting a child when she found out she was rotting on the inside. The news today settled like heavy, dark dust all over the newsroom. We still did our jobs but the conversation on the elevator didn’t even take on the normal mindless chatter about the weather etc. I saw my friend Mark out front of the building and he said, “It sucks when they take one of the good ones.” I said, “Especially the good ones.” Then he surprised me and said, “Maybe she will come back.” I said, “Maybe.” I don’t know...
Haven’t really written here in a while. Don’t know when/if you check. Was disturbed a little by your text message tonight. Hope you are okay and not too emotional, but you tend to get that way this time of the summer. Was also worried that you assumed that my wanting to talk to you would likely be the introduction of new drama into your life. I guess I have caused lots of drama for you in the past, but I would say that is not the case for the last couple of years most of the time. If that indeed is how you view me, then you don’t really need that in your life. I will not contact you until I hear from you that it is okay. Not mad or really sad or anything really, just don’t want to be a Jenny to you if that’s what I am. Of course, you may not think of me like that at all, which, if true, makes this whole paragraph moot. I have been dealing with a little health scare this weekend that I believe will be a simple thing and thus I am not thinking the worst. I awoke on Friday with a sore collar bone and when investigating I found a lump on my collar bone. Apparently it is in the area where we have one lymph node. I think it is a swollen lymph node which could be caused by lots of different things. You can imagine what the worst is but I believe mine is likely to be related to an insect bite and consequent skin...
It’s the summer of the wine cooler, of hiding something in a way that someone specific will find it, and the summer of keeping a secret that you will carry to your grave. It’s the summer of the dead wrestler and his dead family, and the summer that you stopped watching wrestling, and that we finally lost the rest of our childlike innocence, and that we found other childlike innocence, and the summer that we stopped and started talking, and that the heat rose from the street and straight up my trousers and took us all a little closer to the stars when it was night, and the clouds when it was day. It’s the summer of the homeless woman on a pre-paid roundtrip to Chicago, and the summer in which the Cubs may make it to the post-season, and the summer of baseball in general, and the summer in which I will gain and lose 20 pounds. It’s the summer in which the dreams will not stop, painting dreams, and fluorescent light tube dreams, and dreams of a conspiracy of women, and of multi-million dollar contracts. It’s the summer of the hyphen, and the end of history. It’s the summer of rapture, and rapturous living, and dangerous life, and winning when you didn’t even try. It’s the summer of saying goodbye. It’s the summer of the witness, and death penalty, and heart sinking, and rising, and sinking, and rising. It’s the summer of cordial women, and turning Muslim, and wanting more, and being Zen, and indie rock, and Canada. It’s the summer that Rick Bass began, the summer...
Despite what you think or what you said, I have now read the Reynolds Price story you suggested and the Carson McCullers (reminded me of Paris, Texas in some ways) and am now going to bed with Truman Capote (let Donny deal with that one). I would love to visit you this weekend if you would have it. Would you have...
So this is the real summer in this city. There is not the solitude that allows for the solitude. That allows for introspection every night. There’s the crazy summerness of the Southern existence, like Carson McCullers, Flannery O’Conner, and other crazy heat-stricken ladies with various talents. I have spent the night praying to clothing and the lack of and the way that clothing makes certain things and can ruin others. This is the nature of the city. Nothing is laid bare, nothing is truthful on the surface. Everything takes an extra level of interpretation. In Summer, in this place, things turn rotten. Corpses rise from the depths of bodies of water and surface and create a narrative that will change this city a little for a few moments. Desire overcomes us boys in the city at this time of the year, and we know not where to aim our compasses. There’s nothing that pulls completely. There’s just the Summer. There’s just the crazy lumpy ladies. There’s just desire. And it burns hotter than summer. It burns hotter than expectation. It gets under your skin and we’ll take your mind away from all that you need to get done in this pre-Independence Day heat. Play a Sousa tune and light a Roman candle. Tonight is lonely and secure and will come to be a good memory for me if I allow myself to...
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