I’ve been slacking off on all writing activities and events because my mother was hospitalized on the 16th and died on the 27th, at the age of 81. My friends kept me from losing my mind for the past three weeks, as she was hospitalized on the 16th. So I’m still here, number and sadder and confused as hell, but I’m gradually getting back to the online journals and events plans I’ve been ignoring, and I’m still pounding the pavement for work — also helped by friends’ job leads. My father died in October, 1980; my maternal grandmother in October, 1994; now my mother in September. It’s getting harder to enjoy the natural gift of New England’s Autumn in the face of losing my favorite gifts ever. Rest in peace, Momma, with Daddy again.
I was bummed to miss Cornel West, etc. on the nasty rainy migrainey day of the festival. Those lovely folks have posted videos of many of the events. Two new memoirs to add to my reading list (West’s Brother West and Mary Gordon’s) and a fascinating discussion too? I love you BBF:
There must be some reason that I always run into D when tired or emotionally exhausted, usually on the T after a long evening turned night at the library. Most Saturday mornings I rush to my writers’ group before zooming toward errands then to the library or bookstore to write, edit, or perform other necessary computing and research. Today, I slowed down, casually called a friend to join me for tea later, then set out to do absolutely nothing for a while simply because I felt like walking alone in the rain instead of ticking off a whole list of other things I ought to be doing. I rushed out into the rain…to be by myself, strolling under an umbrella.
Although I generally see him on the train and at night, there was D, in broad daylight, sauntering down Mass Ave. There I was, feeling vaguely guilty for enjoying the task of doing absolutely nothing, when this friend from high school—the one with the voice, the sound of which calms a person’s nerves even when he is only speaking to her in human tones, not singing as angels must with his baritone gift from God—echoes my usual inner voice. It’s okay, said that heavenly voice, to go walking in the rain without knowing why.