The clenched purple fist of my own particular heart

I told myself I was going to start writing in here once a day again–even if what I write is that I’m tired and I don’t want to write–so here I am doing it. We’ll see how long I last… Last time I made this resolution it was about a week and a half.

I’m feeling good about it this time though. It’s a good time of life–summer is starting, days are longer, I’m reading more, watching strangers and noticing things.

I started reading The Broom of the System by David Foster Wallace last night. I’m only on page 59 but I’m hooked. He’s hilarious and so fun to read–totally my style so far. I don’t know why I waited so long to read something of his. I’m so very late to the party.

But better late than never I suppose.

Either way, here is a passage from my train ride home to end the night on…

I feel an empty draft and look down and find a hole in my chest and spy, in the open polyurethane purse of Lenore Beadsman, among the aspirins and bars of hotel soap and lottery tickets and the ridiculous books that mean nothing at all, the clenched purple fist of my own particular heart, what am I to say to Rex Metalman and Scarsdale and the sod webworms and the past, except that it does not exist, that it has been obliterated, that footballs never climbed into crisp skies, that my support checks disappear into a black void, that a man can be and is and must be reborn, at some point, perhaps points?


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