I write to make sense of things, to apply some kind of order to them. I know that it is an illusion, that any order I impose is a false one, artificial, but it helps me. It calms me. Else all is chaos. I want to understand. I always have, though understanding of some things, I admit, I shrink from. Perhaps clarity is a better word. I’m writing in a fug at the moment, and it wobbles me. There is little beauty to it, it’s a mess, unclear and wooly. But maybe it has to be this way for the moment for the clarity to come through.
It is interesting how life works, just as I working on the past, my past, their past, her past, the pictures come. All the way from America. Faded pictures from a stranger’s photo album. Pictures that come second-hand, third hand, fourth hand maybe. It, they, would’ve meant something to her. I suspect she wanted him as a father, not the one she had. He looks so stolid by comparison. A live wire, a warm, good heart, someone whom everyone liked. Handsome. Blond against his darkness, his dourness. I write about what discomforts me. I am delving into uncomfortable rooms but I must so that I can come through to the other side. I hope. I trust. I write for myself. Always. The money must come from other sources. This is important. I believe.
Rest in peace, sweet thing.