Storyless

It’s almost midnight and I am tired but I committed to writing every day. Today I woke up at 4:30 am to talk to four women with four septum rings in Oregon and I have been dragging all day. The conversation made me happy so it was worth it. Some days the pleasures are tiny, just a crumb of good feeling in there amongst the returning grief or heavy questions. Today I smelled the ceanothus.

Always makes me think of walking to the beach near Point Reyes.

But mostly today was bags of rocks.

No mortal could haul these.

I always stop to look at the free books on my interminable and surely soon to be curtailed walks.

Yup, a brand spanking new copy of Camus, there’s got to be a story there.

Grief is like cat dominoes of the heart. One grief, one long trail of falling ivories. And then time passes and they seem stable, they will not tumble. The next grief arrives, looks like mah jong or jenga, all is well in the game of sadness. But now, one grief can awaken another and another and another. Am I sad today for this loss or that one?

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