May 16: One Week Later

It's a strange place to be.  One week after my brother's death.  Life is supposed to be returning to normal.  Back to work.  Back to blogging.  Back to church.  No more tears.  No more sadness.

I was at my parents' house this evening.  I watched my father get into an argument with one of my sisters over the stupidest thing in the world.  It got really heated and lasted for a few minutes.  It ended with my father storming downstairs.  I know he wasn't really pissed about the yarn sitting on the dining room table.  He's pissed because he's just lost his 58-year-old son.

It's a strange place.  An angry place.  A sad and lonely place.

Saint Marty is in some stage of grief.  Maybe the keep-your-hands-off-my-fucking-chocolate stage.

I'm in here somewhere

March 12: Always Nostalgic, Always Worried, Always Cleaning

...Before he even reached his teens, he was worrying about how to make a living after he graduated from high school into the scary world of adulthood, marriage, and profession.  Worry haunted his days.  He was never abused but always anxious, never deprived but somehow always nostalgic...

The more I read about E. B. White, the more I believe I may be E. B. White reincarnated, even though he died in 1985, the year I graduated from high school  (I'll wait while you do the math.)  I remember being worried about adulthood when I was young.  I've always wanted to be a writer, but I also always knew that writing for a living is a dream within a rainbow within a unicorn.  Whatever the hell that means.


I find myself in a strange place right now.  I'm still doing what I've been doing for the past 15 or 16 years.  Working at the medical office.  Teaching at the university.  Yet, I know the clock is ticking on this part of my life.  In a couple of months, whether I like it or not, my life will be very different.  And I'm already nostalgic for the life I'm still living.  It's a weird predicament, like being a ghost in a crowded room.

This evening, I couldn't shake that haunted feeling.  I was doing what I always do on Wednesday nights.  Cleaning.  I cleaned the bathroom and vacuumed the rugs.  While I scrubbing the sink and shower and toilet, I was even getting nostalgic about cleaning, and I don't know why.  I'm standing on a precipice, and I can't see what's in front of me.

I'm not frightened.  Not yet, anyway.  But I'm missing something I haven't lost yet.

And Saint Marty isn't quite ready to let it go.

Writing is something like this...