Though most of my writing has a shadowy undertone, this is probably the darkest piece of all. I think the most disturbing thing about it is its candor, they way it reports the horror as just quotidian. I'm amazed at how detatched I am from it now, like it really was someone else's life.
I was writing a lot about death in my Freshman Writing Seminars. I have four or five essays (depending on what can be called distinct) about my grandfather, his funeral, and the death of the first cat we had when I was growing up, but they're total hack jobs. To read them is like looking at a novice Photoshopper's Web site - you know what the original pictures were and you know what the results are supposed to look like, but the only things you end up seeing are the filters.
The problem is that childhood memories are orphans. As we grow older, we can relate new experiences to old, sort of the way a puzzle piece is easier to place when you already have two or three edges there to connect it to. Kids just have a pile of pieces. Trying to put those back together from ten or fifteen years away ends up making you fill in a lot of the gaps with pieces from other puzzles, or whatever it is you can find lying around. It's cheating. It's peeling off the stickers from Rubik's Cube.
This one works because it's not invented. I wasn't a kid anymore.
I don't have a sweet clue about the context for this last one. All I know is that it was the response to some assignment for English class. It's pretty entertaining, though, with a hilariously thinly veiled reference to Rochelle, my little Persian kitty.
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