haunting
It's been an intense August. Traveling and living on the fly makes me a little uneasy, but then coming home feels so sweet. I've made it my goal to try out many new home-y things this fall; baking different types of bread, sprouting seeds and grains, transcribing my recipes. It's not that I've stopped writing over the past couple of years, but more that I've been focused on living and constantly adjusting to a new and strange environment. If it's possible to spend three years processing (and I can't begin to describe the internal changes that moving alone to a new country provoke) and then vomit the results onto the page, it looks like that is the direction it's heading in. I'm excited to be more settled. I think the words need to come now.
Last week I learned that an old friend committed suicide. It's a mystery to me. I can't pretend that I've never had passing thoughts of it myself, but to actually carry it out. It's so pathetic, yet so selfish. I'm not close to this man; haven't been for years, but it still hurts to know that he had gotten to the point where that was the only viable option.
It's a very different feeling than when I learned Frank had been shot. That was brutal, violent, infuriating. It was easy to take the unfairness of the situation; the sheer dumb irony of one of the most gentle people on the planet being killed in such a manner and find fuel in the rage. The only time in my life I made it to the top of Negley Avenue hill on my bicycle was the night of his wake. I couldn't drink the feeling away, so I went to the place it had happened and beat up the pavement for awhile.
But this is different. I'm not in a place to know what happened. I'm literally too far away to have been there. I know that this was a troubled man, who for many years engaged in self-destructive behavior. So I'm not surprised. Only shocked.
Last week I learned that an old friend committed suicide. It's a mystery to me. I can't pretend that I've never had passing thoughts of it myself, but to actually carry it out. It's so pathetic, yet so selfish. I'm not close to this man; haven't been for years, but it still hurts to know that he had gotten to the point where that was the only viable option.
It's a very different feeling than when I learned Frank had been shot. That was brutal, violent, infuriating. It was easy to take the unfairness of the situation; the sheer dumb irony of one of the most gentle people on the planet being killed in such a manner and find fuel in the rage. The only time in my life I made it to the top of Negley Avenue hill on my bicycle was the night of his wake. I couldn't drink the feeling away, so I went to the place it had happened and beat up the pavement for awhile.
But this is different. I'm not in a place to know what happened. I'm literally too far away to have been there. I know that this was a troubled man, who for many years engaged in self-destructive behavior. So I'm not surprised. Only shocked.