Fragments

I keep seeing his dead body. I don't know how to reconcile the vision of his death with the memories of his life.

He seems so far away. Our life together is lost.

The opening scene of Hiroshima Mon Amour: two bodies entwined, covered in gold dust. Later, the museum where we see displays of twisted metal, shattered stones, patches of hair, a mass of melted bottle caps, like a kind of geode. And the pictures of burnt flesh, scarred bodies. The wound of history.

I think grief needs to be rooted in the body. I don't think we talk enough about the toll that grief takes on the body.

I want you to come back, but you can't come to me and I can't go to you. There is no longer an "us." I am alone. I am barred from you.

In the water is where I am alive and free. Maybe that's why Woolf went into the river.

I had a dream about my father. I said "It's been a while since I've seen you." We embraced.

Our lives are temporary but our tragedies are permanent. Death is forever, it's the forever that lasts our lifetimes. Forever ends when we die. Then, the grief ends.

I give myself to art.

I fear the underside of life, what is beneath the beauty, what brings death.

In an interview about her California films, Agn├Ęs Varda says she wants to "erase borders" between artistic mediums. This is why she is a filmmaker, a photographer, and a visual artist. "In the cinema, I try to erase borders."

Everything begins with the death of my father. I thought it would kill me. Why didn't I die? Maybe that's what I am eternally asking myself: How did I survive?

How to put the beloved back together

The viscera of the past

The dead body of the father

Why do I endure?

What do you do when you are so fundamentally different from the world around you?

Sensitivity might help you as an artist but it hurts you as a person. I'm not thin-skinned. I am skinless. I have no protection. I am a wound.

He is gone and I am left to fend for myself. No one truly feels that but me. No one understands.

Certain hurts diminish, some flash over and burn for a lifetime.

Shame destroys me

This godawful grief

I can't live with the past, and I can't live without it.

I was born from the trauma of his death.

I will always yearn for him

I hold my grief. My grief holds me.

I don't write about certain things because I don't want to remember them. Forgetting allows me to survive.

This house keeps him. But I am also a house, holding his life, his memory, his name.

Loss is not a gift or a blessing or a lesson. By loss I mean the death of the beloved. That loss is and can only ever be atrocity.

I don't search for meaning. I survive in meaning's absence. I survive with the truth that this is life, and death will come and it will all be over.

There are many forms of death. Other ways of dying while one is alive.

When presence is a reminder of absence

We are an accumulation of so many thoughts, memories, and experiences. How can we ever be known?

Maybe the things that make it so hard for me to be in the world--my sensitivity, my deep feelings--are what make me a writer, allowing me to see in a particular way. Or am I trying to feel special? Maybe telling myself that what debilitates me and estranges me from the world allows me to be an artist is the only way I can survive and give my life meaning.

At random moments, I remember he isn't here, that he'll never be here again.

His death has forced me to live deeper

Writing about him helps me to keep living

I've led a tragic life and I don't know what to do with it.

What is there beyond the point of his death? Really, what matters now that he is gone? When a life ends, we die with it.

You contain the silence of your death.

What I've learned since his death: You are on your own in this world.

Home is him, it's a hymn of his voice, his now-silenced breath

I write warm blood

I am tired of bearing this pain and burying my dead

I say your name but it doesn't bring you back

So tired of this cultural obsession with cheerfulness and optimism. Not only must I suffer tragedy, now I'm expected to smile through it.

This world is trying to kill me and it's succeeding.

I keep thinking of a line from The Motorcycle Diaries: "Life is pain."

If I ever write a grief memoir, it will be so sad. It will be an unbearable book.

I write because I have no connection to this world. I write myself--my exiled, marginalized, forgotten, broken self. I do not want to reflect the world. I want to resist it with my words, my mind.

I know why Ophelia sank to the depths: To escape a world that damaged and ruined her. To escape her grief.

I think you truly have to write for yourself. There is no other way to write.

I keep waiting for something good to happen, for the pieces to fall into place, for some kind of peace, but it never comes. Perhaps I have foolishly believed in impossible miracles.

Ten years of struggle. Ten years of losing people I love, living in poverty, sinking into a hole that I can't escape because it deepens under me and pulls me in.

Emptiness underneath emptiness

It's like my life has stopped and I sit here watching everyone move around my stillness.

keep writing keep writing keep writing