"A letter is holy. A story /
is holy hands reaching out into the world /
...Every place / I've been
is on fire with words."
-- from "Being" by Eireann Lorsung
Hello, hello, hello.
I’ve moved from New Orleans to Massachusetts – South Shore for now. It’s surreal to be in New England for the fall -- for nearly 10 years, I’ve had to travel South this time of year: first to VA, then to NOLA.
Moving means revisiting and revising memory: The process of sifting through letters, journals, and photographs. I was brave this time, brave enough to read through my account of the summer of 2008, when my father died (it’s surreal to type this to a semi-public forum, and yet, it’s a fact that he died). The stop of the heart non-fiction -- fact -- the accompanying grief framed by (non) fiction :: I'm far enough now to see that throbbing moment.
I was walking in a daze. How hard I was hurting (and sometimes still hurt)…. It's the emotional equivalent to watching someone walk around with a huge gash in their forehead: The person may not discuss the gaping wound, but it's impossible not to notice.