22 December 2019

0 it feels like something is ending

the decade is ending, let's clear out the OitC drafts folder...

25 April 2014

it feels like something is ending and i know not what.

i do not know. and yet it's there. this feeling.

it's something to do with returning to america after a five month absence.

something to do with the ending of a season that has been involved a crazy wonderful jackie something nearly every single day.

and the fact that i'm very nearly halfway through.

and the reality that, as of 19 may, this whole jackie business will have officially been TWENTY YEARS LONG.

can it be that twenty years after her death i've finally begun to mourn?

isn't that bizarre? but i kind of think there's some validity to it. i'mma be in new york on the day. twenty years removed from sitting in mrs. watson's science class wearing that green long sleeved shirt and those white shorts, shivering in the AC as the cheerleaders blabbered in the background so that all i could see was the images, i am going to be in new york.

i see stories as kaleidoscopes and time as an accordion. suddenly, within the last day and a half, the accordion has contacted. suddenly my twelve year old self feels SO CLOSE. something about writing on the moon landing and optimism and jackie's 40th birthday, which everybody at the time saw as a new beginning, which i know meant she only had 24 years left to live, somewhere in all of this...

i don't even know how to finish the sentence. only that it makes me sad.

maybe this is what i've been trying to avoid all along by only writing a partial life, only focusing on a specific set of years at mid-life so i wouldn't have to kill her off at the end.

this is personal.

because she freed me.

which sounds bonkers. that an 80-whatever dead woman could do such a thing. but it is her life that i've spent the last 10 years writing, her life that has brought me her. she has done so much for me since i sat on our front lawn, legs propped against The Collie of My Life, reading in time magazine how she handed a surgeon a piece of her brain.

a moment which at once seems SOCLOSE and also light years away.

she has died. that dog has died. i live in london because of her.

in writing about her, i am every single day at once 12 and 32.

on may 19, it will have been 20 years since i heard about her when was 12.

time is an accordion. stories are kaleidoscopes.

the accordion collapses. the particles of the kaleidoscope slide into focus.

for the past 36 hours i have felt something is ending. a season? a story? a phase of this ridiculous adventure?

i know not what.

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