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Everywhere.

All over Lynette DíAmico's Faithful, in this fall's issue of Brevity, and all over the blog post that talks about it:

Like the slipperiness of grief itself—expanding, contracting, laying low, and then wham!  You think you can go to the grocery store and walk by the escarole, the green and purple grapes, and not think of your motherís table?  I couldnít come to a resting place with this piece, not to an end point, but a pause point: stop here for a little while, look around, go for a walk, wash a dish.  Sentences, paragraphs, went on and on.  There would be no end to it.  No relief.  Punctuation marks stabbed me.  The white space on the page was a gaping hole I fell into again and again.  Every time I came to the page my friendís mother, my mother was dying over and over again.


All over me.


[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Giulio Cesare, Santa Marinella]
[domenica 05 ottobre 2014 ore 09:55:15] []

Partly Cloudy.

Last night I dreamt things I cannot remember.  Only a doctor with quiet eyes.  And one dream that I woke up smiling from.  Promised myself I'd remember from.  Don't.

***

This morning is Eva Cassidy and a cup of black tea.  But it's not working as well as last week in the wake of Maryann.  I'm not working as well.

***

You keep trying.  You draw up new schedules.  Because maybe it's all about the combination.  The order.  Maybe if you move working out to later in the day, and writing to right after.  Maybe if you wake up earlier.  Maybe if you skip the second coffee.  And in between there are still some things that hurt in the old places that you thought would be irrelevant.  Old friends can still hurt in the petty places.  New friends can worry you with their words.


[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Giulio Cesare, Santa Marinella]
[domenica 05 ottobre 2014 ore 11:04:04] []

Someone.

It's the fourth again.  Eleven months since this one, and in four days I will be here again, in front of the calendar and the full stop.  All these anniversaries I have walked through without a clue.  Enough that even the days that are left uncircled, the dates that are not dates — I have to wonder about them.  Like that poem by Dennis O'Driscoll:

someone if asked would find nothing remarkable in todayís date


How is it even possible?  But of course there will be more.


[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Giulio Cesare, Santa Marinella]
[sabato 04 ottobre 2014 ore 13:06:05] []