Time is almost up. I’m a big pile of resignation and distant smiles. I feel very much as though something needs to be said here, but I have no idea just what. I don’t feel at all interested in Roman Jakobsen and linguistic analysis right now, but that’s what I’m trying to write a paper on.
Key West. That’s where the other guy in my department from the University of Utah — the buddhist monk — is going. He said he’s going to take a page out of my book and spend the summer writing. He’s going to go down there and see if he can put together a volume of stories — stories of running away from something, stories of running toward something, stories of being there for a while, stories of leaving but not wanting to go.
My book? I need to take a page out of his book.
Speaking of, I just got a message from Harmir about things that are gone forever… about the little sensations that made you who you are and that then at some point, almost without your realizing it, left you… left you to wander around on your own without them, for however long you still draw breath.
Everyone’s always gushing about “building memories,” but memories are just the things you want that you can’t have anymore. Memories taste like whisky and cigarettes. Memories taste like the regret bound up in your tears.