I have been in a very strange place for the past ten days. Questioning the bombardment of stimulus that was Chicago, San Francisco, Detroit and now home. A short story was born however, and it will be yet another attempt to capture the tingling nostalgic anxiety that accompanies the passing of time, people, and places.
Another of my friends died Wednesday, but the paper just printed the story today. I suppose keeping him alive for the 50,000 person circulation for three more days can’t hurt those who were aware of him.
Heart attack on his bike in front of the elementary school he attended. 24 years old. The second virile person I’ve known who has died over the past three weeks.
As we get older we are forced to encounter death more frequently, the question of time demanding our attention. When they start to go away. We smoke more, drink more; try to squeeze our sponge in tight fists until all the art and beauty and meaning is drained. An attempt to find comfort before the moments when we must confront our own cessation, moments that are now, with flowers wilting in my own garden, occurring in my life with a much greater frequency.