I thought it would get better. That I would care. But still I am a leaf floating along the current. No control. I go where the water forces me. "Have you ever contemplated how incredible water is." Yes. I have. And in more than the scientific terms. Yes it drips in ethereal rivulets down the back window, but it also pushes. Demands. But Softly. So you'll never know how much it's taking. I like it here, I really do. There's nothing to complain about. But moving, starting over, it doesn't fix anything. The problems are inside me. They're not the creation of my environment. Unless every environment is the same. I still make the same stupid fucking mistakes. Except they're worse here because I have no one to fall back on. What do you say to someone when you're fighting the flow. Caught on a shelf of a water-wheel. Constantly circling around, every few minutes being plunged back into the freezing depths. The Current. Pulling, but the shelf binding, holding me there. Always separated from the world. Like a veil. Except stronger. "You need to let the world see who you really are. Be your big self. Don't let yourself hide at Willamette." "It seems like you have all this energy, but you're keeping it from us. Let it out. Let yourself engage with other people." Always watching, observing. And yet somehow I am still the spectacle. Why does everyone want to watch the watcher. Just let me be until I figure myself out.

My own words seem insignificant and unworthy. Perhaps someday that will change. But for now I resort to the words of others. Why is it that other people, men long dead, know the secrets of my soul better than myself?

You must treat the days respectfully, you must be a day yourself, and not interrogate it like a college professor. The world is enigmatical- everything said, and everything known or done- and must not be taken literally, but genially. We must be at the top of our condition to understand anything rightly. You must hear the bird's song without attempting to render it into nouns and verbs. Cannot we be a little abstemious and obedient? Cannot we let the morning be?

Ralph Waldo Emerson

ON DEATH

1.
Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
And yet we think the greatest pain's to die.

2.
How strange it is that man on earth should roam,
And lead a life of woe, but not forsake
His rugged path; nor dare he view alone
His future doom which is but to awake.

John Keats

Her feet, now shoeless, opaque and turning blue. Like a stillborn baby's skin.

Cerebral hemorrhage.

Over before it began.

"There's liquid in her lungs, tell them that."

Rest in Peace

I am writing this so that I will remember. Not the big things, because I could never forget those... the little things. The way two of her painted toes had fallen out of her pointy black flats when they dragged her across the floor. The way her brown eyes were open, but blank. The way her head immediately lolled to the side when Broc took his hand away.

The way the people at table four fucking ordered food while she was splayed on the floor by their feet.

The way her shirt was ripped open to expose her chest in preparation for the DF.

The liquids spilled on the floor after they left from the bag attached to her veins.

The way the bag that was forcing her to breathe looked like an inflated bladder.

The woman at the bar guzzling iced tea with strawberry syrup mixed into it. She was a McCain supporter.

38. Two small children. No past medical history... end of a two week trip, out to lunch with her friends/ travelling companions. Goes to bathroom. Never returns. How does that happen? How do you not have any idea.

The little bits of foam left around the right side of her mouth.

The look on Broc's face in response to the taste of her.

The sound of her ribs cracking as Erik pushed one, two, three.

Her friend's cute black heels with the bow on the toe.

One of her male companions holding her large cream purse looking around in a daze.

"Temporarily CLOSED, Sorry for any inconvenience."

Cutting lemons, something I could control. Slicing them perfectly. Have to keep working. Keep busy. Everything so clean from scrubbing.

The empty bathroom afterward... no trace left.

Erik's face when he came back to ask if we knew what had happened. The despair, faint hope, blankness, tension, soft. Sipping his beer. Looking for redemption he knows isn't there.

The way her hand stayed open wide as if she was welcoming someone to her home.

Her pale skin against the red of the stretcher.

Brown hair spread amongst the all of the strong men's hands.

Silverware sprayed across the floor. Disregarded in the rush.

"She DEAD. This no good. She dead."
"Sshhh, you shouldn't say that Shane."

I'm flatlining.... not dying or anything. Not that kind of flatlining. Just nothing is effecting me. That's not true, I'm just very tired all the time. I do things, things happen, I'm mad, I'm happy, I hear crazy news..... and it's all the same. Must sleep. Must become rested.

I'm having to put patches all over my very favorite pants. It's very sad.

how can you be so lonely while surrounded by thousands of people?

i am so sad.