Taken at Grand Anse Beach where Saurabh and I always go for massages. I like that the clouds were pregnant with rain (and it poured shortly after). Who says beaches are only beautiful on sunny days anyway.Wednesday, August 02, 2006; 2:51 a.m.
Dear Reader,
How are you? I'm beat, and it's late again. It's been quite a day, partly good but mostly just plain long.
My stomach's in knots and lodged in my throat. I opted not to write a paper for my American Lit class but rather to write a parody. I'm parodying not one novel but rather, a transposition of two. I'm describing the character through the eyes and words of another character, as told by another author, as told by me. I'm calling it "Forty Two" (the next chapter in the book), as my mind thrashes to suppress memories of you. And her. You and her.
I built its framework at Literati Cafe tonight, drowning in the buzz of the people and noises around me. It's all I can recall as the people and conversations of the past 2 weeks blur together in my mind.
I've got this project. And a Milton final. And some meetings in between. But then it's a night out, a celebration of the end of it all. And then it really will be the end of it all. How bittersweet.
Dear Reader, I want you to savor this moment. And this. And this. And this. I want you to pull them off your clothesline of seconds and bottle them. Send them to me some years later so I'll remember you once cared what I thought, so I'll remember our lives crossed once. Even if just briefly. Like now. And now. And now ..
