Letters to Donna/from 7-22-06

7-22-06

Happy Birthday My Love –

You’d have been 62 today, and not happy about it, declaring how you didn’t want any attention paid — we

should all ignore the occasion — and then waiting for the cards and presents and whatever else we could

manage today, depending on how you felt. Dinner? A movie? If you could. And you’d reward me with your

delight and reciprocal love.

I love you and miss you, my beloved. My world is darker with its light gone.

For reasons I don’t understand, my poker site has decided to exclude players from the US and Japan, among

others. Since half their players were American, the logic escapes me, though there seems to be some kind

of international gambling-site regs involved. Signed up for Full Tilt, got a grand, lost it, and can’t get any

more for now. You’re talking to one frustrated poker player.

The car is now inspected. Got my tires yesterday ($240. — jesus!); no problem today. The problem came

afterwards. I crossed the road to KFC to get potato wedges and cole slaw; got it; and on my way back to the

car stepped on one of those hoops — the bane of my walking — from lampshades. Down I went, pretty

hard, messing up both knees, both arms and one hand. Not serious, just infuriating. All cleaned and

alcoholed now.

Long talk with Lisa last night. Now that things aren’t going well generally (the break-in, the accident, and

the job in limbo) she’s very bleak about everything, including latest beau. Before, everything was sunny….

Do believe she’s bipolar to some extent. And beau may either be too tangled up with his ex, and may be  

more interested in orgasms than Lisa, though I’m not sure she’s being fair to him, and I counselled her to

explore what she’s really afraid of, so she can articulate it better to beau and find out whether he’s just in a

tough spot or just having a good time screwing. She really needs on-going therapy.

Letters to Donna/from 7-14-06

7-14-06

Hi My Love –

I love you!

Had a rough evening, am having a roughish morning.

Ran some errands after work, as I told you before: getting stuff for the picnic, picking up laundry. Stopped

off at home, had Jimmy check the phone connections — and, by god, I now have my phone back! Then

started off for Framingham.

Over the Tobin the car slipped out of gear twice. More problems on Storrow. Figured it might be low on

transmission fluid but decided to play it safe and go home. Indeed, I was down a pint….But was blue and

distracted all evening.

Woke up back sore and heartsore. To my huge surprise, it’s seeing Tom that’s upsetting me. He, you and I

go way back, and I haven’t had to deal with such a person since shortly after you died. It’s making me hurt

all over again, get weepy, the whole nine yards. And that, I think, was the underlying reason I turned back

last night.

Other, related matters:

Christy invited me to a farewell supper on Sunday, Aug. 13. Good food, open bar at a place in Cambridge.

I accepted, but felt wrong about it. Andy C. will be there, maybe, but otherwise I’ll be among strangers,

young strangers. And they’ll be celebrating Christy and Thomas’ union, which I cannot do. And there’s

always the danger of Christy coercing (while inebriated) men into performing tricks for her amusement,

something she loves to do and which I detest. So today I begged off, thanked her for having a kind soul

(I know it was out of pity that I was invited) and will try to say nothing more.

And I wonder — am beginning to believe — that while I may have been young at heart fairly recently,

I may be old at heart now.

7-15-06

Good Morning Beloved –

The picnic is, happily, behind me. I thought of you, missed you, wept for you (and me) and was grateful to

limp home. I’d have given a lot to have said, “Gotta go — Donna awaits!” Couldn’t. Cried.

I pick up Tom at 4 in Copley. He’s got a Van Dyke beard, unkempt. A bit thicker in the bod. Hair all grey.

scar on the knee horrendous. But he’s running now, very slowly, but running. Had good PT and put in the

work. Kids OK. Usha had suicidal/self-mutilating behaviors, did a stint in-patient, is in therapy now and

seems to be improving. Bhumika will be going to cosmetology school as part of her senior high school

year curriculum. Binita wants to start at the local community college later this year. Anna has a new job.

Same old same old. Tom seemed less anxious about the future, perhaps because the end’s in sight as far

as the kids’ basic education is concerned. They’re breaking even because they rent. If they’d bought the

place they live in, they’d be paying for mortgage twice what they pay in rent. But he’s resigned to being in

California for the decade, perhaps longer.

They’re down to eight cats. No rabbit.

Am home briefly from Janet, who suffers in the heat a bit like you did, and momentarily am going into town

to pick up Tom. Message when I got in: Lisa was in an accident, says she’s OK, got slammed as she left a

parking lot. Car probably totalled, and Lisa cited for some kind of illegal manouver leaving the lot. New

beau being helpful. Left a message for her, will try again later. Bad time for that to happen (as if there’s

ever a good time!). Talk to you later, my beloved.

7-16-06

Good Morning My Love –

God, I miss you so much! Am just back from dropping Tom off at Back Bay, where he’ll take the commuter

train to his sister’s. Very nice visit, but you should know, since you were a presence through much of it.

Let’s start with a thank you. Years ago you got a bed in a bag we didn’t need with money we could’ve

spent on something else. Last night that bed inflated as designed, quickly and easily, and gave Tom a good

night’s sleep. And it deflated easily and is now tucked back in the utility closet. Donna was right, thank

you Donna! So still, you take care of me. God bless Donna Boyce, the love of my life.

And of course, no matter what Tom and I talked about, you were there. He did a lot of stuff on the laptop,

good stuff I hope. He loved your system, liked Avant Browser, complimented your choices. And I was

thinking, she’d sure be sceptical of what he’s doing, probably wouldn’t let him anywhere near the system,

and would look askance at what he did. I’ll try to summarize what he did, as soon as I figure it out.

And when we talked about writing you were there too. And the past. Everything. After I dropped him off I

needed to talk to you so damn much and of course couldn’t, and cried very hard as I drove through the

Back Bay. Crying now.

Tom and “everybody” thinks I’m doing OK, did OK, considering. I told him I’d been anticipating your death

even before the MRI and death sentence, knew I’d have to make major changes and quickly, knew in general

terms what I’d have to do, and how. Then I refused to think it out much further so I could focus on you and

not make myself miserable.  But I was as ready as I could be on Sept. 20. That kept me busy — and I

stayed busy — which was, in retrospect, an enormous help. And I’d been mentally preparing to live alone

long before. Finally I was keeping house by myself and spending more time inside my own head, sharing as

much as I thought you could (or should have to) handle and keeping the rest to myself. So I trained for this

stage, I guess you could say.

But, baby, you cannot be replaced. I could prepare/train forever but nothing could fill the huge gaps in my

time, thought and particularly emotions. Only you. And since you can no longer fill them, all I can do is try

to avoid dwelling on them. And sometimes, such as lately, I can’t.

I’m grateful, in retrospect, that I wasn’t like Linda: stunned, saying, “What am I gonna do?” I knew what I

had to do.

7-17-06

My love, I am going to be old without you. I’m entering into this stage feeling almost like a kid going out

on his own. I leave a life behind and start another one, and have no idea how I’ll occupy my time,  nor

what my emotional life will be like. I need interaction, but on what level? Will I need intimacy? My feelings

when I sense I’m giving Janet emotional support tell me I still need to be needed. But do I need it enough to

enter into a new intimate relationships, or will “friendships” be enough?

Believe it or not, I stay in training to live with a woman. I keep the toilet seat down. I say “please” and

“thank you” to inanimate objects. I continue to resist the urge to become a slob again. But it’s conversation

and negotiation, underpinned by regard, concern, respect and observation, that keep live-in (and most

other) relationships alive and healthy, and for that one cannot really prepare. And how I might go from

where I am now to any ongoing intimacy is almost incomprehensible to me. Baby, you trained me well how

to live with a woman. So did Jane. Not just with a woman, but with an intelligent, willful, talented, troubled,

challenging, needy, sensational woman. It seems almost sinful that such an education shaped by pain and

time and joy, should not be used again.

But it doesn’t work that way. It’s not like a job skill, smoothly transferred to a new position. It has to work

for me, inside; I have to get something, I suspect, more than just — as I do with Janet — a feeling of doing

something good. Remember, you healed me, by loving me so well and fully, and challenging me, as much

as I healed you. (Better, since I now continue on, healed, whereas you couldn’t be healed, at least

physically. I did what I could, baby, but I couldn’t do that.) I think that means I now need a full, complete

relationship that allows me to do what I’ve learned to do well, and that your love prepared me for.

I see another path, not as good, but perhaps more likely. I see myself older, smaller, sadder, alone, a

quirky codger who lives in very narrow parameters, limited by lack of money and basic personal

conservatism, who talks to himself and his dead beloved, reads, writes, plays poker, fades slowly, dies,

disappears. A pitiful, ridiculous figure. You remember that I always imagined myself as the kind of old

man who walks the streets muttering to himself, acting odd but not actually crazy, being abused by small

children and dogs.

So what will it be?

Choices I make will affect how it turns out. But I don’t know in what form those choices will present

themselves. You could say, go out, try everything, never turn down an invite, you never know. But, as you

are well aware of, I cringe at most social situations, almost always want to leave, almost always wish I

hadn’t come. I’ve told Lisa for years to give serendipity a chance, but am very reluctant to take my own

advice. Being cheap — and having to be cheap — doesn’t help.

I could volunteer for certain things that might put me in serendipity’s way. But I need to keep my time free

just now, until I have enough work to be really self-supporting.

7-19-06

Good Afternoon Beloved –

When I told Tony the T yesterday that I was growing a bit snappish, he reminded me that, a year ago when I

first went to him, I described my behavior as “snappishness” — a coincidence he couldn’t pass over. So we

talked about anger (“snappish” is to “anger” as “scuffle” is to “fight”) and he made the reasonable assump-

tion that I must be mad at you, on some level, for having left me.

But try as I might, I don’t seem to feel that way. You fought for every day and left me with the greatest

reluctance. If it was up to you, we’d still be together. I’m angry at God –oh yes! Angry at the medical

establishment a bit, individual doctors yes, myself….Hey, I’m always pissed at myself. But if anything, you

fought too hard to stay alive, extending our suffering, individually and collectively, longer than perhaps

was wise, as if you really had a choice. I recall much more relief than anger at your passing. Next time (two

weeks) I’ll ask how I can find that anger, if it’s actually there.

Perhaps I’m angry at you for the financial fix I’m in, though that was in my hands and I chose to spend the

way I spent. Your fault? A little, but it sure wasn’t your fault that I bought all those frogs after you died.

Perhaps I’m angry at being sad and lonesome so much. Maybe that’s the back door into my anger house.

But how can that be your fault? I stay away from people by preference; in fact, that’s always been my

preference, from before I even met you.

First time Tony and I haven’t been on the same page.

By the way, the US consulate in China is keeping Tony in limbo. They have to cough up the appropriate

paperwork for the little girl, and they haven’t, and Tony can’t even book his flight. “My Government, the

Fuck-Up.”

Expressed to Tony my prejudice toward Muslims. Suprised him a bit. Surprises me too.

Stayed home yesterday. Gloomy, didn’t want to deal with upper 90s heat, had just enough diarrhea to

provide me slender justification. Back at it today, though, which is 15 degrees cooler.

7-20-06

Good Evening My Love –

Ten months gone. Two days till your birthday. Love you still.

Worked hard today — stock orders and two skids of music — and for my reward, my poker site is off-line.

Sigh….

Lisa thinks I was angry because I couldn’t trust your thought processes toward the end. True: scared, very

scared, frantically, hysterically angry. Then the MRI. After that your thinking improved in a sense. It simpli-

fied, stopped worrying about the extraneous or trying to work ut things now beyond it. So you made sense

more.

Lisa also ascribed to me her jealousy of the underservedly lucky. We all have a bit of it, but Lisa expresses

her arrogance by this subtle “Why me?” (when underserving people prosper). It doesn’t matter in the context

of our day-to-day struggles, plus the story’s still being written. She’ll figure the last out first. (Had to say

that!) I say “arrogance” because Lisa assumes herself to be more deserving than someone else. Understand

it, share it to some extent, but disagree with it. Too much we don’t know about how things are inside

someone else, or how things turn out in the long run.

Anyway, how could I be angry at that wonderful smile that I can keep the rest of my life? Am I angry

because the literal smile is gone? Sad yes, oh my god sad, but I still can’t find the anger. To be angry I

would have to have forgotten how much you suffered, how part of me prayed it would end, albeit only

the right way.

I may be angry — as I’ve been much of my life, child and adult — that there’s really no one to be angry 

at. Somebody must have done this to me, right? But no, there’s nobody. Nobody gave you MS or glia-

blastoma, and we all tried our best and couldn’t do a thing, ultimately, and that makes me angry, but I’ve

only got God left to be angry at, and I’ve already pled guilty to that one.

Yes, we all made mistakes, but none of them made you sick or made you die. Not even mine. So I’ll grant

that I’m angry, but there’s just no one I can chastise, and so it comes out in annoyance. Snappishness.

Potentially, irrational outbursts.

Sounds like I need a therapist.

I love you, Donna. No, I’m not angry at you. I just…wish you were here.

                                                                      L. 

 

 

 

Letters to Donna/from 7-7-06

7-7-06

Good Afternoon My Best Baby –

Finally got my cholesterol blood test done, feeling like a zombie until I got my first cuppa joe in me.

Back is sore today, but not too bad. Heat helped last night; not having quite as many cartons to shlep helps

today. That 100 cartons I referred to before is more like 300, whn you realize that in the ECS system the

shipper lifts each box at least three times, usually more. The vast majority of this week’s boxes have

weighed 40-60 lbs., so you figure it out. When put like that my back’s in pretty good shape.

Christy says she and Thomas are getting a marriage license Tuesday. Such folly makes me smile, as they’re

both very immature for their ages, and marriage is tough enough for grownups.

This would’ve been a perfect day for you to be on the balcony. Warm, bright, breezy day. High of 80,

flowering trees tossing their perfume into the air. All those kids, still ecstatic over summer vacation,

having a ball. Our geraniums all around you, coffee or diet Coke by your side, plus cigarettes. You,

enjoying every moment, every sound, sight, smell in that astounding way you had of getting 110% of the

pleasure out of an exprience. Oh, god, do I miss you!

7-8=06

Good Afternoon Beloved –

As I drove up to see Janet I thought of those July 4ths when we’d go up on Judy’s roof with Roger and Ollie.

Tough to get you up and down those stairs but it was fun once you were there. Haven’t contacted Judy

lately; may do so. Got a UNH/Merrimack Valley newsletter, and the only name I recognized from almost

30 years ago was, of course, Ted’s, who for some reason is doing a project about N.H. native Americans.

 Is there nobody better qualified in the state for that task? Has to be….

Also saw Tina – from 250 Broadway — over by the Lantern Rd. “projects”. Rail-thin and facially almost

masklike, schmoozing with a guy of course. So sad. Had been thinking about Dawn earlier, a little girl

infinitely more mature than her mother. Hope she and her siblings are OK since Tina abandoned them. That

was a special kid, under horrible circumstances.

7-10-06

Good Morning My Love –

Lisa called and in the course of describing the goings-on re: big bank gobbling up her smaller bank,

revealed that she’s had meetings with her former employer (another bank) and is considering returning

there. She’s referred to this in emails but I missed it because I never thought in a million years she’d give

any thought at all to going back there. Like stepping back into the darker parts of her marriage. It’ll do her

dirty emotionally. Hope she seriously reconsiders.

Tom will be arriving Wednesday, staying over Saturday night. Look forward to it. Friday is ECS picnic, as I

told you a while ago. Will bring desserts.

Walked in the early evening ($2.65). As I walked I rethought the migraine sketch, again. Have decided to

begin/frame sketch with the contrast between the worlds of the streets — full of noise, change, motion

and sponteneity — and of Jane’s apartment — full of silence and control. Outside is the kids’ world,

inside the grownups’. Noise and acting grown up dealing with grownups become the sketch’s issues.

Think it’ll work well now.

Also intend to tell the tale of your month at the BI/Spaulding pretty straightforwardly, focussing on your

relationship with Lowney (and mine) and how it led to “The Mistake” – his not responding to your

allergic reactions, and how, after a great ordeal for all of us, he at least partly redeemed himself. Of couse,

it’s also about you, and us. We passed into a new phase of our relationship during that period. MS had

been bad but not life-threatening. After that incident we’d had a taste of how bad it could get, and my

commitment to you deepened. I fought for your life during that month.

I must confess that this Iraq war, as much as I detest it and want to see us gone, has brought out the

strongest prejudice in me I’ve felt since my early Vietnamese-hating days in 1967. I want nothing good to

happen to any Muslim, particularly those in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Chechnea, Iraq, Iran, Syria, Palestine,

Yemen, Saudi Arabia, UAE and the black Muslim states of Aftrica (the white Muslim Africans — Morocco,

Algeria, and Lybia — have shown, rarely, touches of sanity, as has Turkey, but I’m prepared to hate them

too.) When I hear or read of them slaughering each other, a small part of me is glad. I want us out of there

so they can go on kiilling each other, as they have from the second Mohammed breathed his last, and will

continue to do so, because they’re insane. If we could nuke ‘em all with impugnity I’d seriously consider it.

The day they run out of oil is the day we can consign them all to hell. I know there are innocents in those

places but I almost feel that any living Muslim is a potentially fanatic Muslim. I hope to see the day when,

oil-less, the sheiks and imams and ayatollash and all the paternalistic pricks who now strut upon the world

stage are totally ignored. And a terrorist attack is answered with massive bombings of every Muslim

country that harbors terrorists, i.e., every Muslim country.

When I see Muslim women traditionally dressed or hear Arabic spoken, I want to tell them to go home, that

they don’t deserve to be here. Failing that I fantasize about dropping a dime on them or, in extreme

moments, giving them a taste of their own terrorism. It bothers me greatly to feel this way, that I’m

becoming more like them, but I can’t seem to help it.

You know, it’s July 10th, and I haven’t seen a god-damn butterfly yet!

7-11-06

Good Morning My Love –

You’d be freaking out today, were you alive….

Last night a section of the roof of the feeder tunnel from the end of the ‘Pike to the Ted Williams Tunnel to

Logan and East Boston, collapsed, killing an unfortunate woman. You would want me to stay home today,

and if I insisted on going in, to call upon arrival, and frequestly thereafter.

As usual with me, I can’t make decisions based on factors I can’t control, otherwise I’d certainly never

drive, and probably wouldn’t do anything. If I happen by when a device holding up a roof panel decides to

give way — or when the drunk suddenly veers into my lane or the old lady has her heart attack behind the

wheel, or the trucker has the blowout — so be it. If you’re right about these things, I’d see you very soon,

and I’d gladly leave life. If I was sure that’d happen.

Can’t help but think of Wilder’s “The Bridge of San Luis Rey.” I wonder if now — or later — is the right time

to die. I have loved and cared for you almost as well as I could, kept my promises and commitment to you

to the very end. I have helped Lisa through her crises (this one, anyway) and may have finally written

something worthy. I have not yet squandered the integrity I built up during our years together. OK, I

haven’t written the lyrics to your song. (May work on that with Tom.) Otherwise, if I go now, I’m OK with it.

Not suicidal, just accepting. I know I can still accomplish things in the years ahead, but maybe sooner

rather than later would be better, before I have a chance to seriously screw up again.

7-12-06

Good Afternoon My Darling –

Suddenly, am busy.

Came home last night to find the phone not functioning; it still wasn’t this morning. We’d had some

thunderstorms (baseball-sized hail in N.H., twisters in western Mass.); Jimmy’s always doing stuff to the

house; either could’ve caused the problem. Called Verizon, which couldn’t detrmine where the problem

was; I set up an appointment for Monday morning. Was able to reach my own number and leave myself a

message, so the problem may be solved.

Tried to get the car inspected. No dice. Need two front tires. Will do it next week. The urn will have to wait.

And will drop off laundry, and dust, and change the bed, tonight.

Tomorrow: BU Bookstore is holding a job fair from 1-4. OK, I’ve already applied, but I got an email so I’m

taking that as a response. Will also: pick up laundry, get desserts from Luberto’s (creme brulee, macaroons)

and Pizza Conna (brownies) for the picnic on Friday. Then will go to Framingham for dinner with Tom and

Robert. Will bring beer, probably.

Friday: company picnic. Shop afterwards for groceries, do kitchen and bathroom floors.

Saturday: Janet, Tom and Robert in the evening.

Sunday: recovery.

Monday: Phone? Tires? Inspection? Art class.

Tuesday: Tony the T.

Humid today. Left hip is complaining about it.

Christy got married yesterday. Ah well. Maybe it’s one of those mistakes you have to get out of your system

so you can do it right next time.

In thinking about it, I realize I now live a spectacularly dull life, due to:

–being a dull person

–being functionally poor

–not wanting to go places by myself, even if I could afford them

–being, still, depressed.

So I generally come home, crawl into my hole and stay there till the following day when I creep out again.

And even simple, cost-free things: how can I walk on the beach without you there? Not to mention

something like the Topsfield Fair. Without your delight, all that’s left is a void where you once were, so

forget the Fair. I see the ads for the Butterfly Place, but will never go there again. Etc. If I ever go to a play or

a movie or concert again, it’ll be something you’d never want to see. Otherwise, half my pleasure — your

enjoyment — will be missing.

7-13-06

Good Afternoon My Love –

Went to the BU Bookstore job fair, and am confident I’ve improved my chances of being hired (at $7.25 @

hour!) by as much as 2%. I was the oldest applicant there by at least 30 years. They aren’t hiring part-time

right now….Don’t call us….Ah well….

Dinner at Robert’s, with Tom in attendance. Not looking forward to it. Between the tolls and the 6-pack of

beer it’ll cost me more than a dinner I’d buy. Ditto tomorrow’s picnic. Ah well redux…

Aftermath of the tunnel collapse, for me at least: drive in is quicker by ten minutes, drive home is slower by

fifteen minutes. Ah well tripled….

Back and hip sore but bearable. Heating pad helping but not making it go away. Ah well forever….

 

 

 

 

Letters to Donna/from 6-29-06

6-29-06

Good Morning My Baby –

Bad start to the day — nauseous and constipated. Lay down, felt less yucky, got to work by 9. Semi-OK.

Lisa is better than semi-OK. Had her car broken into — busted window, smash and grab — while

exercising at the gym, and then she learned that her employer is being gobbled up by a bigger fish (she’d

been warned of this before she even took the job), but she remains upbeat. Nothing important was taken

because the important stuff she wisely kept in the trunk) and the windshield was promptly replaced; plus,

she’d gotten indications that not only is she likely to survive the takeover but may even improve her

position. Plus she’s going away with her new beau, to a place she wanted to go with her ex, except her ex 

wouldn’t because the rooms have no TVs, and ex couldn’t think of anything else to do in a motel room

besideds watch TV. No wonder she’s upbeat.

6-30-06

Good Morning My Love –

Am feeling somewhat better. Slight GI problem. But this is two weeks of problems off and on. It keeps up

and I’ll have to see Dr. G….

…whom I saw last night to get some med samples. Got a month’s worth of Lipitor, saved $25. He got on my

case for not doing my cholesterol blood test. Promised him I’d do it next week.

Tony says that self-inflicted grief is a common, obsessive and ultimately destructive behavior, that is

best dealt with by distraction, aka doing something else. I’d pretty much figured that. Tony unfortunately

(for me) will almost certainly be in China Sept. 20, getting Sophie, his 1 1/2 year old daughter, and I’ll have

to make do with his boss if I need help. I’m not happy about it but nothing can be done. Strange that

something this important to me should be affected by, of all things, the Chinese government.

I did email J. about the Sox, got a quick reply asking how I was; wrote right back asking her if she was

moving to N.C. Haven’t heard from her since.

And I know you don’t care, but last night the Sox played as good a game as I’ve ever seen them play,

especially defensively, winning 4-2 for their twelfth straight. They don’t hit quite as well as the ‘04

champs and their pitching isn’t as deep — which may keep them from winning it all — but they’re the best

defensive Sox team I’ve ever seen, having tied a major league record for 18 straight errorless games. A

pleasure to watch baseball played at its highest level.

I’ve decided to redo the Jane’s Migraine sketch in the lighter, sitcom vein I described earlier. Don’t need to

complicate the story with too many indications of the dark side of Jane’s and my relationship. It will be

delved into enough later, I suspect. There are plent of dark undertones in the migraine per se and the

mother-and-child-on-their-own situation. I may add some abuse references, since Jane with a migraine

wasn’t going to do much hitting, giving the child a chance to help her when she’s helpless, thus offering

a contrast the the usual threat-filled disciplinary environment she usually maintained. The child does what

he does because he sincerely wants to help, not because he’s afraid of getting the crap beaten out of him.

7-1-06

Good Afternoon Beloved –

Well, I finally heard from you, in a way. Of course, I had to sign for you at the P.O.: your ashes came,

surprisingly heavy, in a plastic bag inside a fairly nice-looking cadboard box with appropriate labels. I

stopped off at Salvation Army to see if they had something that would do for a lidded urn, but no luck.

Would like something with butterflies on it….Might try ebay for the hell of it. Odd feeling. It was you, and

it wasn’t. What made you you was in your head and heart and came out in what you did and said, and what

I’ve got is you in its least relevant form.

I did tell Lisa it had come, and that if we all did get together I’d do the Marlboro ash bit, as promised: we

each take a puff and flick the ash into the urn.

Wanted to say something to Janet, but thought it might depress her; besides, she never asks about my life

or you. Perhaps she’s too self-involved, or afraid of sadness, or both.

7-2-06

Good Afternoon My Darling –

Have gone over “The Haircut”, will type it up and send it out later. Can’t help but feel it’s good. We’ll see.

If it is it’s a little heartbreaker.

Heard from Sindy — via phone message — who sounded better and has more help, at least for the

moment. Will call maybe Tuesday the 4th. Lisa OK. She’s learning more about her new beau’s relation-

ship with his ex, which inevitably is problematic. Wrote a long fatherly letter, suitable to be ignored.

It was humid and rainy this morning, so I’ll try a walk later.

Checked out urns on ebay. Want a cloisonne one with butterflies, but will wait to get it until my finances

improve.

Have been a goodish doogie, exercising and vacuuming. Walking and typing up the sketch will gain me

sainthood, revokable at midnight.

7-3-06

Good Morning My Love –

I’ve found myself irritable lately, angry/annoyed over small things: Christy spending her first hour at ECS

making personal calls, doing email and web searches, and talking non-stop; customers who have our

catalogs but call on the 800 line (our dime) to ask us for prices; procrastinators who wait too late to call

for rental info, then blame us because C.S. is away; drivers doing their insane things. Don’t know why my

milk-of-human-kindness phase has soured. Hope it returns. I could negate some good will if it doesn’t.

Did walk some yesterday evening — found exactly a buck — and did OK. Hot, but dry and breezy. Then in

the evening I did my stupidest PC trick: I shut the computer down with my draft of “A Haircut” half typed.

Brain cramp. I’d gotten tired, lain down without turning off the computer, then forgot I had the thing half-

done and shut it down later. DUMB!! Go ahead — laugh at the Un-Geek!

Waiting for art class. Large hot room on the top floor of one of Brookline H.S.’s buildings. several totally

ineffective fans going.

Really don’t feel like art class tonight. I think the combination of writing “A Haircut” and getting your

ashes has made me a tad too depressed. Am having to fight irritability and keep the sarcasm down. Really

want to tell people off but mustn’t. Try to remind myself that it doesn’t really matter and that I’m not

exactly perfect myself. Throw in some frustrating poker and some ordinary aches and pains and I’m in a

funk. Perhaps you could stop by and we’ll have a late dinner…for the late, great Donna Boyce.

And part of my funk, a small part I hope, is the thought that tomorrow I’ll have no one. Partly my own

antisocial fault, but the matter of fire works keeps coming up, and fireworks, for me, was all about you

and your delight in them and, increasingly, your problems seeing them. How can I enjoy fireworks without

you? Hell, how can I enjoy anything you delighted in, without you? You made stupid things like that

special. You had that wonderful child in you that seized things with both hands and wrung everything good

out of them. Joy is rare, but you sure gave me a lot. I should be grateful — I am grateful. Just miss you so

much — and your 62nd birthday is coming , and I don’t need to get you anything but god I wish I did. To

see your wonderful reactions to the cards and gifts — you made me feel like a king, baby.

The universe is a flatter, greyer place without you.

As I write there happens to be a mirror in front of me, and as I glance at myself, sans glasses, I see a face

in repose except for the eyes, which to me look stricken. They’ve looked that way to me since the day you

died, especially the right eye. Don’t know why. Don’t even know if I’m accurate. And if I don’t get myself

together soon, don’t even know if I can stay here.

At least work kept me busy.

One of the perils of a funk is dangerous questions, the sort that push you into deeper funks if you let

them. The “who cares/what does it matter/what’s the point?” questions. The “I won’t ever be loved again,

will I?” questions. The “Is this what it’ll be like till I die?” questions. Thank god I can still find great purpose

and meaning in our life together, and there’s been a carryover of pride from that, but it’s starting to fade –

not my appreciation of what you were, what we were, but the pride. It’s like my life’s work is done and

nothing is likely to have that meaning, urgency, specialness again. For me such an irresistable combination

of your remarkable personality and your great need. That combination dragged my reluctant best from its

deep hiding place and forced it into action. Now it stands there feeling useless, like Superman with no one

to save.

Right now I feel forever trapped in Clark Kent.

7-4-06

Happy 4th, My Love –

Not happy for me, though, my beloved, since the fireworks will go off without you to enjoy them. What

pleasure I got out of them was mainly your delight. No delight today.

Got through art class OK. Worked on different kinds of line. Not glad, not bothered that I stuck it out.

Teach referred us the Van Gogh’s landscapes, drawings on the ‘net; I checked them out and they’re

impressive in their variety and control, even to some extent their economy. Perspective terrific too. I’m

having problems sight-measuring objects; keep screwing it up. I end up with a decent-looking result,

except the proportions of what I’ve sketched resemble the actual subject not at all.

Will type up “A Haircut” today.

Typed it up. Sent it out to Tom, Lisa, Tony the T and me (at ECS so I can print it off). God, I want it to be

good! Keep fantasizing about people’s reactions — just setting myself up. I honestly see much good

writing in it, but that won’t matter if I can’t draw the reader into this couple — us — seen through other

eyes, and make him care, and share pain and situation. And the end, where we cry, has to work. No idea

if it does. Guess I’ll find out….

J. finally wrote, a nice long letter. She complains about Northeastern, Susan, the work; is threatening 

retirement, preparing for her trip to England — in other words, same-old, same-old. More talk of going to

N.c. — or Amherst, for some reason. Wrote back at length. Don’t expect to hear from her again till I decide

to make contact. 

Have heard a bit from John, who’s gotten around to reading State Boys’ Rebellion, and is moved. Good. Let

him admire someone worth admiring.

And had a nice talk with Lisa. Right now she sounds very good. Her thinking’s good; she’s acknowledging

her anxieties but controlling them. When she describes an incident with latest beau and I extract more

details, I find this relationship very promising. Had written her a long letter about his relationship with his

ex and child, how if he’s a good man it’ll be problematic, as was mine with Ginger and Lisa, or yours with

Mark and John . If Lisa and beau work out, his relationships become hers (and vice versa) and she’d better

understand that now and try to figure a way of handling it long term. I think the letter helped her

understand that we all come into our mid-30s messy, with pieces of our past intruding through our

present into our future. It’s how we handle the mess, not whether we have it, that reveals our character.

I’ll talk more about this later — or simply forward the letter, copy it and append it. I can do that with such a

letter because Stan, who goes through the email at work, puts such things in my folder without reading

them.

All around outside  the backyard, fireworks are going off, making all kinds of bangs, sizzles and cracks.

Much more than at 250 Broadway. A bit unsettling; there’ll be a lull and I’ll forget about them, and then they

start up again, and I jump a bit. Worst moment was when a plane came over and I thought it was some kind

of rocket, and started praying it wouldn’t hit the house. You wouldn’t like it here because it’s a basement,

and you culdn’t see anything that gave you pleasure. But as you know, I’m a burrowing animal, trying to be

unnoticed and out of sight until I want to emerge.

Miss you, baby.

I love you Donna–

7-5-06

Good Morning My Love –

Feel better today, emotionally. Having typed up “A Haircut” and sent it out, anxieties and all, has lifted a

weight off me. Didn’t realize its power as it sat in my mind, waiting. Glad it’s done.

Bad afternoon. l discovered I’d made mistakes at work, mixing up orders; almost didn’t catch them and

much extra work to (I hope!) straighten things out. More mental mistakes, the scary kind. Then, after

picking up dinner, clipped a curb with the car and flattened it. AAA just finished putting the donut on. I

may be able to get air back in the tire; will try tomorrow.

Stupid.

Doesn’t look like anyone will read “A Haircut” soon. Tom is coming back east next week and may stay

over, if I can inflate the bed-in-a-bag. But he’s got a lot to do in anticipation of leaving.

And Lisa haas begun the process of negotiating her position, if any, in the new bank that gobbled up her

old bank. I have no doubt she’ll land on her feet and may even improve her situation, but it may take a

while: meetings, interview et al. Plus the new beau, occupying most of her spare time….

7-6-06

Good Morning Beloved –

Had AAA change the tire last night; it’s at Goodyear today. The AAA guy said the old tire might still be OK;

just hope the Goodyear guys are honest and cut me a break. Will have to accept what they say either way.

This month I must have the car inpected; Patrick told me I needed two new tires (the old ones are getting

like Patrick and me: bald!), so I may as well do it all now. Will inspect next week.

Another of my little brain cramps involved my losing the sheet with my upcoming appointments with Tony

the T. Called and got ‘em, but HATE these mental mistakes, and fear them.

It’s been a good week for the GI tract — good thing, since I’ve had a lot of carton work, 100 heavy at least

– and my back by now is expressing its displeasure. Will have to give it heat, love and sympathy this

evening. (If you showed up, I’d give you the same three things — so, how ’bout it? Hmm??)

Your impending birthday is bothering me, I confess. It shouldn’t but it does. Old urgings keep saying,

whacha gonna get her? Why haven’t you gotten any cards yet? And I tell myself, she’s gone, she won’t miss

having birthdays except for what you’d give her. Well, baby, as the song goes, I can’t give you anything but

love, and you’ll have that — as you’ve had it — every single damn day.

Just have to ride the day out, like all the monthaversaries, like — god help me — I’ll have to ride out

Sept. 20 and the days surrounding.

I may have caught a break re: the tires. Goodyear says they were able to repair the tire, and that my tires

might pass inspection. Goodyear suggested the Shell station down the street — wink wink nod nod — and

I’ll give it a shot next week; it’d be nice to have the inspection over with. If I don’t have to lay out $200 or

so for tires, I’ll try to get  your urn on ebay. Deal? Call it, god forbid, a birthday present.