September 11 has come and gone. i hope there is a beautiful afterlife for everyone who deserves it, who believes in grace.
Two years ago today i sat on the Brooklyn Borough Hall steps and watched the book festival go by and smoked a cigarette (my last until this weekend) and cried with something between loneliness and expectation, and then my brother called and said David Foster Wallace, who basically told me not to kill myself, had killed himself. Today i sat on the Brooklyn Borough Hall steps and watched the book festival go by, and cried because i miss the past and i'm frightened of the future, and DFW is still dead.
And my frontal lobe is working, so i am able to moderate panic and control my(still inexplicable) rage - directed at the wrong things! not at starvation and selfish politics and imprisonments of conscience and the disappearing environment, but at my silly grief and loneliness and laziness and the fact that it's so mother$^)(ing hot or it's raining or i am just tired of spending all this money to live in this heartless city with so many memories in it.
right now i am living vicariously through my little sister, who is at university and doing so well. seriously. i stay alive for that kid.