The greatest things ever known to man have been lost

I’ve been so happy. My housemates came down with me to spend a long weekend at my mom and stepdad’s place, I saw my sister’s brilliant show at the DC fringe, and just wrapped up a party celebrating her successes.

And yet, one thing I’ve struggled with lately is memory loss. I know there are things I’ve forgotten, and there are many things that I experience regularly that I know will disappear to me in a short period. I remember things said to me, but not by whom. I remember some events, but not who was there. Maybe on some fundamental level I recognize that, as humans, we are transients. If I have ever forgotten you, forgive me. And know I love you as dearly as my own self.

I know that I won’t remember most of the details from this trip. But I’ll remember something of my state of my mind, such as my peace and happiness. For those of you who filled it, thank you.

Writing this, I know I”ll lose it. I’ll have only this minor record.

Is this how one feels–at the very end?

And what else has been lost to us all– to mankind, in our totality?

Aren’t those the fragments we wash up against daily? Some thoughts feel like my own, and others feel thought for me.

Friendship = Yay = Cupcake = Mango

I’m with my friend Tim this morning on a study hall date. We get together once a week and do dissertation-y type work. He’s up against a tight deadline, and I’m up against my poor work habits. I’m also full of poundcake, which doesn’t help the brain. Boo.

Lovely Stan put up a post with some of the poems that were shared at my book release. I LOVE the poems. And not just because they were written for me. Check it out here.

There was an article in the New York Times online today about how widows tend to be better at maintaining relationships and therefore don’t feel the need to remarry. It’s kind of a sad statement on masculinity that men are far more likely to kill themselves. But, talking with my significant other and other guy friends I have, this is not a phenomenon limited to old age. Many of my male friends seem fairly emotionally isolated, though they have friends.

If I didn’t have friends, I think I’d be a very strange person. I’d probably talk to myself a lot.


The buzz buzz around Michael Jackson’s death isn’t going to stop any time soon. I’ve been fascinated for a long while with how celebrity works to transform simple mortals into these global gods of the public sphere. It’s easy to forget the psychological toll for those folks, even as we wait to see when they’ll a) drop a baby, b) shave their head, c) be arrested for something else, d) etc. The isolation these people must feel in their delusional bubbles is probably stifling. I’m no celebrity, and I have a hard enough time sleeping in the dark by myself sometimes! So sad.

My thoughts mostly circulate around Kim Jong-Il in this regard, and what will happen when he finally passes on. I can’t help but think of his political maneuverings as these distraught love letters, these efforts to reach out to us for some human contact. It probably sounds crazy, but not much crazier perhaps than what’s really at work behind these missile tests and posturing.

Who can withstand that sort of judgement?

It’s all the things I think to write down.

I was biking up Cecil B with my friends Caro and Stan when this woman shouted at us–“Michael Jackson’s dead!”

We didn’t know what to think. I sat with Caro on the bus for 45 minutes as we headed up to Germantown. Some people were talking about it in front of us. We were exhausted and sweaty. It turned out to be true. So long, Michael! Some people seem like they’ll never die, but keep going on and on into a strange eternity.

Thinking: chicken wings. No no.

About to read: Race and the Avant Garde by Timothy Yu. Waiting for Chris and Melanie to show up. Concocted some sangria with cinnamon sticks and vanilla bean.

Foot status: heels still hurt. Grrrrr.