You’ll forgive me, I think, for leaving the blog to the better blogger. I’ve been spending my days in the cellar of my Los Angeles home, sifting through articles and love letters and yearbook inscriptions — spending time with passions and possibilities that have long expired. I don’t know what I’m looking for in my family’s past. Maybe proof that we are all ultimately different; maybe that we are the same. I don’t know which I prefer. The spiders — the frightening, gray spiders — are everywhere, and they are all crunchy and dead. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
After a few hours in the cellar, I’m covered in sweat. The dust has clogged up my mouth and nose, has become a part of me. And I get the feeling that history is in me, killing me, defiling me, condemning me to a past version of myself that isn’t me.