I always appreciated that he let me (invite myself) come along to Thanksgiving, although in hindsight I feel embarrassed that I asked you to see if I could also come. I still remember that Thanksgiving, though, and how relieved I was that though he looked ill, he was still here with us. I think he sang "The Mary Ellen Carter" at Begone Dull Care the February after that, and because I'd shared a meal with him at that point, at that event and ever since I've associated that song with preememptive sorrow at his eventual passing. It will make me cry and think of him and think of mortality in general every time.
The emotion of his death hasn't hit me yet, even though I found out yesterday. I'm glad he was in my life, however briefly, and glad that he was in yours much longer and more strongly. I think I will listen to "The Mary Ellen Carter" sometime today, in his memory.
I did the same thing with England. London, not Oxford, and it's dulled a little bit, but yeah. I get it.
Was he from California? Was he in California? I often think that I should be there myself, and it would be good for me, but I feel like everyone I know would never speak to me again if I were to voluntarily move to the US these days. Maybe that's ok, though, maybe I could just have a cat and a little house near the coast and be a weirdo by myself while the western world implodes...
I wonder how many people think about monosyllables in their writing. Imagining other people's process of writing is such an interesting mystery to me, since I never once took any kind of writing class. I wish there were ways of really truly knowing what authors were doing and thinking when they constructed something, but I suppose one of the magics of writing is no one really ever knows, even the ones doing the writing.
I think he was actually born in Brooklyn (?) but he had lived in the Bay Area and always planned to retire there. He never did that because it had become way too expensive and also because I think he liked being near the college where it was easy to see former students.
Sounds like you're thinking of bronze, which is an alloy of copper and tin. Tin does seem like it should be an alloy, but I'm pretty sure I'm thinking of pewter.
When people die we often think we could have said more, showed more, cared more, did more, we do that because the finality of death cuts all our "buts" into ribbons. I know the regret and the heft of the guilt, just last summer I buried my friend, and I failed him on the last lap. He probably didn't think so, and there are chances he had better things to do, but the though returns, "You fucking suck, Emil".
And I probably do, that's a fact, and I'll try to learn from it.
When my father died I e-mailed my friends and told them that he didn't die to make everyone sad, he just died, so don't be sad, he wouldn't want that. I bet your prof wouldn't want you to get into your head.
Look, he made you read poetry, that's what teachers do!
(On the side note, there's a tradition, dunno if anglos have it, too, we call wedding anniversaries by different materials, first ten go: paper, cotton, leather, flower, wood, sugar, wool, bronze, metal and tin.)
lovely
I always appreciated that he let me (invite myself) come along to Thanksgiving, although in hindsight I feel embarrassed that I asked you to see if I could also come. I still remember that Thanksgiving, though, and how relieved I was that though he looked ill, he was still here with us. I think he sang "The Mary Ellen Carter" at Begone Dull Care the February after that, and because I'd shared a meal with him at that point, at that event and ever since I've associated that song with preememptive sorrow at his eventual passing. It will make me cry and think of him and think of mortality in general every time.
The emotion of his death hasn't hit me yet, even though I found out yesterday. I'm glad he was in my life, however briefly, and glad that he was in yours much longer and more strongly. I think I will listen to "The Mary Ellen Carter" sometime today, in his memory.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fhop5VuLDIQ
I did the same thing with England. London, not Oxford, and it's dulled a little bit, but yeah. I get it.
Was he from California? Was he in California? I often think that I should be there myself, and it would be good for me, but I feel like everyone I know would never speak to me again if I were to voluntarily move to the US these days. Maybe that's ok, though, maybe I could just have a cat and a little house near the coast and be a weirdo by myself while the western world implodes...
I wonder how many people think about monosyllables in their writing. Imagining other people's process of writing is such an interesting mystery to me, since I never once took any kind of writing class. I wish there were ways of really truly knowing what authors were doing and thinking when they constructed something, but I suppose one of the magics of writing is no one really ever knows, even the ones doing the writing.
I think he was actually born in Brooklyn (?) but he had lived in the Bay Area and always planned to retire there. He never did that because it had become way too expensive and also because I think he liked being near the college where it was easy to see former students.
Sounds like you're thinking of bronze, which is an alloy of copper and tin. Tin does seem like it should be an alloy, but I'm pretty sure I'm thinking of pewter.
So sorry. I hope you will see it as a way of honoring his memory when I say that this short essay is very well-constructed. Lux perpetua.
When people die we often think we could have said more, showed more, cared more, did more, we do that because the finality of death cuts all our "buts" into ribbons. I know the regret and the heft of the guilt, just last summer I buried my friend, and I failed him on the last lap. He probably didn't think so, and there are chances he had better things to do, but the though returns, "You fucking suck, Emil".
And I probably do, that's a fact, and I'll try to learn from it.
When my father died I e-mailed my friends and told them that he didn't die to make everyone sad, he just died, so don't be sad, he wouldn't want that. I bet your prof wouldn't want you to get into your head.
Look, he made you read poetry, that's what teachers do!
(On the side note, there's a tradition, dunno if anglos have it, too, we call wedding anniversaries by different materials, first ten go: paper, cotton, leather, flower, wood, sugar, wool, bronze, metal and tin.)
I know plenty of people that cause raised eyebrows when I talk about them, but they really are the best people there are. Condolences