Fuckup

August

I am at war with this fucking blog, but it's not going to win, by God. It's not going to win. Today I was organizing my entries, trying to put them in some order that makes sense, and I accidentally deleted one. Great. So, I'm going to try to recreate it. I won't be able to, of course, but I can try. It makes me ache to have lost the original language, the freshly birthed words that said how I felt when I first wrote them down. On Friday night, the 14th, I found a Neil Diamond concert on TV and was enjoying it, even smiling, until I had the flash of a thought that Clint would love it. I collapsed onto his side of the bed, clutching his red sweater and convulsing in sobs, keening and wailing like a wounded animal. I wept until the sweater was wet and I thought there were no more tears. When I finally sat up and tried to knit my way through it, the tears came at intervals, out of nowhere. The more Neil sang, the harder I cried. I was physically painful, and I wondered again how I could survive this hell. I hate having half a brain. I really do.