Ahoy there chums:
From the depths of night I cry out to thee.
I have to work. I'm on deadline and brought this beastly magazine feature home to finish up. I have spent the last precious hours avoiding the task like a plague of boils. I have to write about natural gas explosions. While ordinarily I wear the stripes of a "Grin and Bear It" sort, I am having a moment weakness. I don't want to write this fucking article, as it gapes at me from the screen, half-unfinished, mocking me.
An elderly woman died because her phone rang during a gas leak in her home. A tiny spark went off inside the phone. A whole family was wiped out when a drive-by shooter's bullet chipped a gas pipe while the mom was making toast. Makes me think, not about mortality. But about the tremendous impact for good or ill the most seemingly insignificant of our gestures can make.
The friend of a coworker shot himself this morning. My coworker, and good friend, was in utter shock, uncertain what to do or how to feel. I have lost many friends, and some family, a few to suicide. At the risk of sounding pretensious, I am on intimate terms with death. Still, I didn't know what to say to her. I did my best to offer comfort. She couldn't understand why he would do such a thing. He had just become engaged. I never met this chap, so I had little insight. All I could offer was that those who seek their own deaths do not necessarily want to die, but they feel trapped and death seems their only way out. She seemed to understand, but I don't know if I helped or hurt. It is so hard to tell sometimes.
Instead of writing about gas explosions I am collecting some old poems for my friend Magdalena. She is magnificent, adorable, and married. It is a long time since someone asked to see my personal writing (as opposed to the writing I do for work) Most of the poems are somewhat old. I have been less prolific of late, trying to focus on prose. In one way, I am eager to have her read them, and I am definitely flattered beyond measure that she asked to. On the other hand, the prospect is kind of frightening. I shall be quite exposed, me beauties.
I suppose I can no longer stave off the inevitable and must indeed finish the article. I think I may be getting sick. I have been coughing a bit. I wish sometimes that I could sleep.
LunaMaya today was generous enough to join my fledging band of SG friends. Welcome aboard!
Take care of yourselves ...
From the depths of night I cry out to thee.
I have to work. I'm on deadline and brought this beastly magazine feature home to finish up. I have spent the last precious hours avoiding the task like a plague of boils. I have to write about natural gas explosions. While ordinarily I wear the stripes of a "Grin and Bear It" sort, I am having a moment weakness. I don't want to write this fucking article, as it gapes at me from the screen, half-unfinished, mocking me.
An elderly woman died because her phone rang during a gas leak in her home. A tiny spark went off inside the phone. A whole family was wiped out when a drive-by shooter's bullet chipped a gas pipe while the mom was making toast. Makes me think, not about mortality. But about the tremendous impact for good or ill the most seemingly insignificant of our gestures can make.
The friend of a coworker shot himself this morning. My coworker, and good friend, was in utter shock, uncertain what to do or how to feel. I have lost many friends, and some family, a few to suicide. At the risk of sounding pretensious, I am on intimate terms with death. Still, I didn't know what to say to her. I did my best to offer comfort. She couldn't understand why he would do such a thing. He had just become engaged. I never met this chap, so I had little insight. All I could offer was that those who seek their own deaths do not necessarily want to die, but they feel trapped and death seems their only way out. She seemed to understand, but I don't know if I helped or hurt. It is so hard to tell sometimes.
Instead of writing about gas explosions I am collecting some old poems for my friend Magdalena. She is magnificent, adorable, and married. It is a long time since someone asked to see my personal writing (as opposed to the writing I do for work) Most of the poems are somewhat old. I have been less prolific of late, trying to focus on prose. In one way, I am eager to have her read them, and I am definitely flattered beyond measure that she asked to. On the other hand, the prospect is kind of frightening. I shall be quite exposed, me beauties.
I suppose I can no longer stave off the inevitable and must indeed finish the article. I think I may be getting sick. I have been coughing a bit. I wish sometimes that I could sleep.
LunaMaya today was generous enough to join my fledging band of SG friends. Welcome aboard!
Take care of yourselves ...