Uh, it wouldn't be secret and it wouldn't be anonymous, would it?

... to cheer you up. Just finished listening to tracks from "An England Story" (from Dancehall to Grime: 25 Years of the MC in the UK -- 1983-2008). Bonus!

Easy.  "The Amazing Race".  I'd rock that one.

I find it so weird when you see a single shoe on the sidewalk.  WTF?  Wouldn't somebody notice they're missing a shoe???  I know it could've fallen from a bag or something, but it just seems so weird.

I am just about finished Byron in Love by Edna O'Brien.

Phhllpttt to Byron and the other Romantic poets.  They were jerks, pure and simple.  Okay, maybe Shelley was alright, but just barely.  But Byron.  What an asshole.  Geez.

Emily of New Moon.

Well, duh.

In Old San Juan -- we were having a drink on our hotel's rooftop patio. We looked over and saw a lively BBQ on a rooftop a few doors away. The people were beautiful and relaxed. There was music. You could hear glasses clinking together and laughter. You could smell flowers. The sun was setting and the air was humid and tropical. It was like a dream.

God, I'm hungry.

My mother died 22 years ago, May 24.  My brother was killed in a helicopter logging accident, 21 years ago, May 25.  My father was killed in a car accident, skidding wildly on black ice into an oncoming truck, 19 years ago at Christmas.

When do you stop grieving?  When does the hurt stop?

Not yet, not now.

How does it manifest?  A general malaise.  A grumpiness.  A vague feeling of despair.  A "why" that can't be answered.

It's not like I haven't gotten on with my life.  I married, had a child, ran a successful business, oh, all the good, right things.

But do you know what?  No matter how much you try to forge on, the pain and the psychic hurt hunts you down.  I can pretend it isn't there -- and I live a happy and fulfilling life -- but it haunts you.  Not only your dreams, but the corners of your life you don't keep insanely and inanely busy.  Two-plus decades later.

To all those who have loved and lost friends, family, lovers.  I know how it is.  And I squeeze your hand -- from a distance -- but goddamn, it still hurts and it's still tough.

When I was about seven, my father was driving me to school on a cold winter's day.  I was in the backseat of the Impala, idly fiddling with the fringe on my long scarf.  They were in fashion that year -- the longer the better.  I was immensely pleased with mine -- if I can recall correctly, it was wool and acrylic in various shades of blue.  I thought it matched my eyes.

I got out of the car, yelled goodbye to my dad, and grabbed my little knapsack.  Dad started to pull away.

Luckily, something had caught his eye and he was barely accelerating -- good thing too -- my scarf was caught in the closed door and it was tightening like a noose.  Somehow or other, I had the presence of mind to trot along beside the car, banging on the window.  Other kids saw my predicament and were waving and pointing.  My dad stopped the car and looked over his shoulder.  There I was, tears streaming down my face, my hand jammed between my scarf and my neck.

It so could've been a tragedy.

When I was 24 I had my first serious ski accident.  I was at Mount Tremblant in Quebec just after Christmas.  It was the first Christmas without my mom, who had died of a stroke the previous May.  We don't normally go skiing at Christmas but we wanted to do something different that year -- the house was too empty without my mother. 

I had to rent skis that year -- I can't remember why.  Anyway, after a number of good runs I was heading home down Nansen, a beginner's hill riddled with little kids (where Natasha Richardson met her untimely death).  One boy, totally out of control, skiied right over the back of my skis, causing me to fall.  My skis didn't pop off -- they should've though -- and I went flying.  The child skiied on, oblivious.  My knee was a mess -- so much damage for such a middling accident.  I was a year and a half on crutches and endured three major operations.  I was told I'd always have a limp, that I'd never ski again, that sports were finished for me, that there would be a major discrepancy in the length of my legs because of the injury. 

I proved them wrong.

I threw myself into rehab.  Was back on skis two years later.  Got my aerobics' instructor certification.  If anything, my injury forced me to take stock and take better care of myself.  It was a very bittersweet gift.

A little girl, probably about four, walking down the street with her mom. I can hear her sobbing from my office.

"He's mean. MEAN. He's a MEAN BOY. THE MEANEST. MEANER THAN ME!"

Every once in awhile I am filled with inchoate rage.

Then I wonder -- is it just because I think the word "inchoate" is really super cool?