Chuck Wachtel Gives Me Some Props for The Amnesia of Junebugs

Yo, I'm so happy. i want these words framed and put above my bed. this is what chuck wachtel, the associate professor of fiction at NYU who judged this year's sparks prize entry wrote about my submission:

Selecting this submissions as the first prize winner was easy. i was quickly engaged in the fast-paced cinematic prose, the humor, the vigorous motion of the plot. the narrator tells the story in a scatter-shot through controlled voice that at times brought junot diaz's stories to mind, at times, the earlier novels of lois-ann yamanaka. there is a surprising emotional accuracy, thus a genuine pathos: the work of this young author is already possessed of a genuine fictional beauty.

Every time i'm sad, discouraged, uninspired, self-destructive, professionally lost, creatively mercurial or just feeling like shit, i'm gonna re-read that quote and remember that for one moment, someone saw my writing exactly as i was trying to write it: cinematically, beautifully, with bursts of controlled intensity reminiscent of junot diaz. for one single second, i felt like a shorty that just met a man who understood her perfectly. if it's possible to be in love with the critical remarks of a stranger, then surely i am. in a continous flash flood of rejections, jeers and insults, it's good to have these little islands to gather strength from.

Winning the Sparks Prize

I can't fucking believe it. I won the sparks prize. i really did, i won it. i keep telling myself this over and over again cuz i don't really believe it. for those of you not at notre dame (i.e., the rest of the civilized world), the sparks prize is a competition open to 2nd year MFA students in notre dame's creative writing program and the winner gets 20k and has no comittments except one public reading of his bip (book-in-progress). it's the sweetest deal ever and i never thought i'd really win it cuz it's so unpredictable.

Unofficially, i'm planning on moving back to chicago, and coming down for some of the Lula readings, some of the guest fiction readings, and some of the football games. i most def. want to have a stronger presence on campus than the past 2 winners--no disrespect to them at all. and i think chicago is a perfect compromise: it's close enough for me to still be part of notre dame but far enough that i get breathe in urban culture, eat thai food more often, and--imagine this--possibly date again.

Perhaps even cooler than this prize, is just the love and encouragement from my fellow writers and friends. when coleen called me, i thought i was having an out-of-body experience. no, for real. i think i almost stepped out of my body i was so stoked. coleen's excitement was so touching, i almost started crying right there. and then when some of my peeps wrote me, and told me "jackson, you deserve this," god man, that moved me so much, that almost meant more than anything else. i mean, if they approve of the prize in any way, then i feel like, hey, maybe i do deserve this as much as anyone else.

Today is the literal antithesis of yesterday: yesterday, it was 73, i was wearing a t-shirt, and i found out the JET program rejected me. today, i was wearing my winter coat, it was 37 degrees, and i found out i won the sparks prize--the complete reciprocal image of yesterday in every possible way. wednesday has always been the day of change for me, a period of transition between energy fields. but i never expected it to work out THIS way. not in a million years. a humdulilah.

::

In the next couple of weeks, i'm gonna write up a daily schedule for the next year that includes some or all of these things:

yoga and meditation
exercise (e.g. biking and or jogging)
read 2 hours of fiction, non-fiction and poetry every day, both journals and books
write AT LEAST one piece of flash fiction each and every day
submit manuscripts every single week to journals, both online and print
research and attend at least 2 conferences (one of which, should be AWP)
find an agent if Lynn Nesbit doesn't bite
write for at least 4 hours everyday
try to publish 10 new stories in the next academic calender year

Well, that's just the beginning, but that's the basic idea. i'm totally gonna take this prize seriously and give it the honor and respect and hard work it deserves, otherwise, i don't deserve it.

No Rice for You

You know, i can deal with this. i mean, i'm still kinda shocked and i think it's kinda ridiculous i didn't get a JET assignment. But honestly, tangibly, constructively, what the fuck can I do now, except:

give
keep writing
travel when i can
devote myself to becoming a better fiction writer
publish my novel
love
help people
yadda yadda

I know it doesn't look like it right now since i've gotten nothing but rejections since the year started, but 2007 is gonna be a good year, i just know it. i'm just waiting for the universe to agree with me.

Who Is Zis Man?

I just had the strangest interaction. i got this email on my notre dame account from eduardo corral--hi eduardo, como estás?--that said, i've been reading your live journal entries and i totally feel what you're going through. at first i was like, who? who is this guy? turns out, he's a talented latino poet. . . i did some research, found a rad poem of his about frida kahlo on a web del sol chapbook. he has this one image of the curtains moving like honey in a jar, and i was like, yo, this guy's got it going on. he's a really good writer. so far, so good. but there is where it gets weird: yesterday, i got my rejection letter from colgate, and the painfully generic reject letter said: Our fellowship in creative writing for 2007-2008 has just been awarded to the poet. . . you guessed it. . . eduardo fucking corral. okay, they didn't swear, but i'm gonna. what are the odds? the person who randomly emails me is the same dude who ends up winning the colgate fellowship, and i get BOTH letters on the same fucking day. mathematically, let me just say, that's uncanny.

And then the hits just keep coming. i decide to do a little counter e-stalking if you will, and learn more about this Eduardo Corral: turns out, he has degrees from iowa and arizona state, he's been published in some decent journals, and he's a talented, emerging latino poet. then, once i find HIS blog, i find out, not only did he win the colgate fellowship, but he also recently received a goddamn YADDO RESIDENCY. basically, this guy is doing almost everything i wanted to do this year, except, maybe, write reviews about judy garland. amazing stuff.

::

I walked to the post office today to send my ninth letter submission to juan, the non fiction editor who's slowly becoming a friend of mine since we met at awp. i revised my lyrical essay and now i hope he likes it enough to take a bite.

As i was about to walk back, it started raining and i kinda loved it. i mean, i just stood there under the awning of the post office, waiting for the rain to stop, held captive by that perfect moment, forced, willingly, to stand there and just count the streaks in the sky. it was like waking up in the desert, forced to count the shades of blue until the sun eats away at the constellations: the mistake was more beautiful than the intention, that's what was so great about it.

Post-MFA Crisis Really Begins

Well, my rejection list is almost complete. no's from:

the george bennett fiction fellowship
yaddo corporation
and recently, the colgate creative writing fellowship.

This leaves:

the sparks prize
the JET program
emory university fiction fellowship

at this point, any of those would do. but if not, i'll figure something else out. i'm still kinda keen on chicago or osaka though, personally. on verra. . .

Ladies and Gentleman, Hassan Is Dead

It makes me sad, real sad. i actually cried as i was finishing this chapter, i got so wrapped into the moment and i just felt Assis's anguish. i know how much he loves Hassan.

I realized as i washing the dishes today that none of my characters have a strong/positive/good relationship with their fathers. Brianna's father joined a cult, Jean-boy's father cheats on his mom, Winnie Yu and Ginger Lin both lost their dads, Suzanne loves her dad, but we don't see them interacting (except maybe at the end of the novel), and though Assis loves his father, they don't talk to each other at all and Hassan is clearly his surrogate father. in summary: 2 dead fathers, 1 cheating father, and 3 missing, aloof, detached or uninvolved fathers. man, do i have an issues with father figures or what?

Bummer: No Yaddo Fellowship This Year

Man, i'm kinda depressed right now. i just got my rejection letter from yaddo, and that was one of the fellowships i wanted the most for so many different reasons--the solitude, the beauty of saratoga springs, the productivity, the presitge--and now i have nothing worked out for the summer. it's amazing how one letter can change your status from hopeful and mysterious to despondent and chaotic.

I don't know how, but sometimes i forget how much rejection there is in writing, how on every level of this process--the mfa program, the literary journal, the agent, the publishing house, the fellowship, the grant--rejection is actually the rule, and acceptance, the anomaly. i keep on forgetting. . . i keep getting these outlandidsh hopes, i keep feeding my insatiable dreamlife, and then yaddo rejects me and i realize how quixotic i really am. it's humbling and it hurts. . .

i just knew by the size of the envelope that yaddo had rejected me, so, before i opened the letter, i took a bunch of pictures of myself in my mod squad look when i still felt talented and hopeful. that way, they couldn't take it away.

25 Things I Totally Didn't Need to Number But Did Anyway, because It Looks Cleaner

Wow, the world really is coming to an end:

1. kpg and d split up--well, for now anyway--and i'm still in shock and disbelief about it.

2. hassan, one of my fave novel characters, is about to be killed. yes, it's capital punishment time at the bliss house. sad times.

3. i think about erika alot, and i've only gone on one date with her and i'm trying to understand what that means, especially in light of the fact that em and i are so magical together, and kelly and i hit it off so well. i have my theories about this, but i'll think about them more first before i syndicate them to the world.

4. ND lost to fucking WINTHROP in the first round of the NCAA tournament. ah, like i really care.

5. i haven't gotten a single new story published in 2007 and i'm starting to freak out a little bit. i mean, 2006 was pretty good for me: blazevox, syntax, right hand pointing, the pittsburgh review, 3:am magazine, soma literary review, the taj majal review--i think, writer advice, ink collective. . . but so far, for 2007: nothing, zilp, zilch, nada, rien, nanimo! man, i hope that changes soon. I'd like to add to my meagre publishing history. i mean, as far as i'm concerned, i haven't done shit yet.

6. in two months, i'm pretty much on my own again, and i'm headed either to chicago, atlanta, new york, japan, or possibily to a free-love cult where you do nothing but smoke pot and sleep with hippy twins all day.

7. after seeing kelly's 2 new tattoos, i'm fucking envious. i want another tattoo.

8. i haven't had sex since october. . . at the end of march--if i have to wait that long--it will be 5 months. god, how depressing.

9. related to #8, i'm absolutely, positively, dreadfully sick of porn.

10. part of me wants to move to morocco and work at an orphanage. not joking.

but, i do have faith that ONE or more of the following things will work out:

1. dave eggers will pick up one of my stories, or at least write me one nice sentence i can hang on the wall, right above my bed. hey, look at that, i'll say to my next lover, dave eggers wrote that, i'll say, it says "sorry," she says, i know that, i say, but dave eggers wrote that, i'll explain

2. blood lotus, contrary magazine, tarpaulin sky, wordiot, diagram, narrative, quickfiction, pindeldyboz, the new yorker, miranda literary review, void and lost magazine, hayden's ferry review, greensboro review, indiana review, nimrod, another chicago magazine, puerto del sol, smokelong quarterly, verbsap or the furnace review could pick up one or more of my stories, which would make me feel alot better about the world at large

3. 9th letter might pick up my memoir, if jms likes my story, and that would be awesome

4. 1/4 after 8 could pick up "blank sheet of paper." i mean, it could happen

5. april might be the month that i find out i won the playboy, atlantic or vanity fair contests. . . well, i'm just saying, you never know

6. one of many of my other fave lit journals could surpirse me and pick up a story i just assumed they'd lost, or used as surrogate plates for their annual spring barbecue

7. michael martone could surprise me and say, jackson, this story is so good, i think i've found a home for it. hey, it could happen

8. i could either win the sparks prize, get the colgate writer-in-residence fellowship, get the emory fiction fellowship, or move to japan, maybe osaka, and that would be something to write in my blog.

9. i might get a new tattoo

10. i could get a yaddo fellowship

11. lynn nesbit could finally put me out of my misery and take me on as her agent.

12. i could be getting laid a month from now, or be madly in love.

13. kpg could be getting laid a month from now, or be madly in love, this time, with a gorgeous woman.

14. kpg and i could be roomates, possibly, if we both moved to chicago.

15. the weather will get warmer

Yes, it occurs to me that maybe only #9, #13and #15 will happen, but i still have faith in the other numbers, in my life, and in this universe. even so: come on other numbers! you can do it! every number gets a fair chance in my book, you hear me? i want EVERY number to be a winner!

Chicago + SoBe

First, i finally saw emily wednesday in chicago. we talked for awhile at cafe ennui, where the second male barista was power-tripping my ass. are you using that, he asked, pointing to my g4 that was plugged into the outlet, no right now, i said, it's recharging, but are you using it? he asked, yes, i said, well then can you unplug it please? it was bizarre. i just didn't his point. i didn't get his issue. okay, i said, laughing, i don't understand why, i added, but fine, whatever man. . . so we left that place. fuck that dude. sometimes, guys get really bitter when you're a cute dude and you're with a really attractive shorty. that's not my problem though.

Anyway, em decided to boycott cafe I'm-so-bored after that guy went all judge-Kafka on me. so then we walked, picked up eithiopian food to go at the Ethiopian diamond and hopped on the el.

--We have 5 stops, she said.
--Okay, quickly, tell me everything, I said.

We talked until the lawrence stop, and then she kissed me on the lips to say good bye, and i kissed her back, slowly lingering between her lips before she stood up to leave.

--i love you, she says. and then she was gone, just like that.
Yup, everytime i see em, it's magical.

::

So i've been procrastinating writing assis's 3rd chapter in my novel. i really don't want to write this chapter cuz this is where Hassan dies. i wish he didn't have to die, but i've known for months now that he has to go. it's the only way i can show the random abuse of power that les flics have in france, particularly over arabs. but still, it breaks my heart that i have to kill one of my fave characters. i've given him all the time in the world to say his last prayers. i hope he has.

::

I ran into t and colby at the cambodian joint last night. it was nice seeing them. we talked about our plans afterwards, lamented about the sparks prize and the vague criteria, then we speculated about shero's sexuality, took apart the department and talked about living in leland someday. t is the first man i've ever seen who basically ordered, and took down, 3 separate thai soups for dinner, before nibbling on colby's chicken pad thai. one of the soups was technically curry, but still . . .he drank it like soup.

::

Even though i've only hung out with erika once, i think about her all the time. i really need to see her again. i really want to know if she could be my next chemical inbalance, my next maze, my next exercise in simple present. but i won't know until i talk to her again. i won't figure out how i feel until i know how her tongue tastes in my mouth.

Sparks Prize Deconstructed

I've broken down the sparks prize enough to know that it:

1. Does not necessarily decide which writer is the most talented

2. Does not which writer necessarily works the hardest (though I think I'm undoubtedly one of the hardest working writers in our program, that much I will say)

So, i shouldn't trip if i don't get it, which is a very definite possibility

It's a prize that's based on the judge's perception of which manuscript is the most publishable, and as we all know, a lot of complete shit gets published, and a lot of amazing writing gets rejected continuously, and then, sometimes, good writing slips through the cracks too, and then, on top of everything, even if i don't win the sparks prize, i still think i'll get my book published in the next couple of years, and i've already been published. so there.

It's just that the sparks prize is 20k with NO COMITTMENT EXCEPT ONE PUBLIC READING.

All things considered, i guess winning the sparks prize would really be the perfect way to end my MFA and spend time in Chicago again with my brother, friends and family and i know i'd work really hard and write all the fucking time to honor that prize and the privilege of having a year to develop my career, but those are rational reasons, and rationalism doesn't trump subjectivity or art, and honestly, it's not supposed to. i really loved interpreter of maladies, but do i think it was the best book in 2003? god no, absolutely not the best, but certainly one of the best books that year. and ditto with salman rushdie and the nobel prize in literature. just cuz he deserves it doesn't mean he's going to win it. and thought these might be lofty self-juxtapositions, i find comfort in them.

I guess i have to for now since next month is judgment day, and, ultimately, i have to accept the fact that even if i think i'm one of the most talented fiction writers in this program, and one of the hardest working ones too, that doesn't mean shit for this award. the beauty and the brutality of the sparks prize is that it's given completely out of context, which means the best writer could win it, or just as easily, the biggest poser of all time could win it too. in 30 pages, you can fake almost anything.


Okay. End of sparks prize lamentation

Café Boredom Is Not A Sartre Play

I'm now sitting, sipping hella yum green tea and just existing at another one of my fave chicago cafes. cafe ennui. it should be noted, however, that i'm anything but painfully bored with my existence. what good is l'être et le néant if all it does is make you shudder? jean-paul sartre, with his gibblet chin, platonic relationship with simone de beauvoir and thinly schematized characters, is hardly the poster child for joie de vivre. i think i'd make a much better existentialist. it's just that whole life is absurd thing i can't seem to stomach.

Yo, the social make-up of this cafe is totally different now. it used to be the exclusive haunt of ailing college students, angsty à la carte poets, and pathological chess players. now, it's older, alot more gay, and more cultural and racially diverse than i remember it being: not that i'm counting or anything--but ok, i am--there's two arab guys talking. Lebanese, i think. there's a black woman kicking it over there. i see two people with gray, thing, stringy hair near the sandwich sign, several Loyola students, grad students, i think, working on papers, and to my right, one middle-aged woman is filling out papers, and another is drawing colorful looking symmetrical designs that remind me of compasses. and then there's a fair share of intense looking gay guys, some of whom are checking me out right now. . . it must be the lip ring. i guess it's hard not to sexualize people when they're so good at hurting themselves. when you're a little self-destructive, you're always partially erotic, because your pleasure is connected to the imminent loss of life, to your mortality, to your fear and loathing, and,i mean, what IS eros without emptiness, pain and loss? and what is a lip ring if not those very things? i mean, could i fetishize myself anymore than i already have? i deserve all the unwanted intense gay male attention i get basically, even if i don't like it.

On a more uplifting note, it feels so good being back in Chicago. did i mention that already? i'm sure i did. yesterday, chicas came out in droves on Michigan Avenue. It was a short skirt parade. . .

Talking to my brother, i have to say, it's confirmed a feeling i've been having for awhile, which is, that though i know i'll humbly accept my next assignment from the universe, wherever it takes me, there is a larger and larger part of me that really wants to move back to Chicago in a couple of months. but in order to do that, i have to either find temporary adjunct teaching positions here in chicago--which is doubtful but possible, or win the sparks prize--1:7 chance, depending on the aesthetic biases of the judge, mood and temperament when s/he reads my manuscript.

::

I stayed at my brother's apartment last night. it was the first time i slept right NEXT to a bale of hay. i'm serious. there was a huge brick the size of a large chest, of fucking HAY inside my brother's apartment, right next to my his "bed," which was basically some blankets on the floor. and then, my brother showed me his compost bucket, RIGHT NEXT TO HIS REFRIGERATOR, which just happened to be right next to his WORM BUCKET, i'm not joking, my brother has a plastic bin full of second stage compost that he feeds to worms. oh, that's fun, i thought. while other people have cats, my bro has WORMS. after i helped him cut his hair last night, i saw him dumping some of his old hair into the worm bin. what are you doing? i ask. oh, he said, they like hair.

Everytime i stay with my brother, it's like i'm transported into the third world again. there's no food in the fridge, there's no toilet paper, there are piles of clothes, little or no furniture, no snacks, but dammit, there's lots of soil, lots of dirt, there's cob balls on the altar, there's a bale of hay, and there's compost, decaying fruit, old hair and worms. god bless this boy. he hasn't lived in the gambia since 1997 and yet he STILL lives like a peace corps volunteer. who forgot to return to civilization.

Okay, it's time to get back to my novel.

Ah, Chicago

I'm just kicking it one of my fave cafes of all time, kopi cafe, in andersonville. there's batik prints, tibetan prayer flags, plants, african masks, clocks for cities around the world, thangkas, colored glass shapes hanging from the lights, short japanese table tops, exposed air vents, globes, mountains of lonely planets, and lots of great veggie food.

They also serve the best drink of all time. it's called a peppermint patty, and it's soy milk, girandelli hot chocolate, and peppermint torani syrup, mixed and blended into one perfect cup of wonder. everytime i come here, my sips shift into small moments of awe, like, how can one drink taste so perfect?

And all of this, after eating pad kee mao at my fave thai restaurant in all of chicago with my brother? my god, this day has been perfect. not to mention, it was in the 70's today, and i was walking around in a t-shirt. and i bought some new cologne. b delicious. and now, all the shorties are gonna shout hay-ay jackson, cuz i'm gonna smell, what's the word, yummy? yeah, that's it. most yum. ah, happy day.

And if i haven't mentioned recently how much i love my lip ring, let me just say, yes, everything you've heard is true, i do love it, and it's starting to love me back.

I love this city with all my being. and as today's theme continues like a graceful little leitmotif, Chicago loves me back, mothafuckas.

Peace and blessings.

AWP Conference in Atlanta + Cave Canem

Busy week, man.

I spent 3 days in Atlanta for the AWP convention where i also:

Became friends with the editors at one story, one of my fave lit journals

Became friends with the non-fiction editor at 9th letter

Became friends with the crew at newpages.com where i might become their online journal critic

Hung out with Tony d'Souza who i admire for his Chicago connections, his impressive work ethic, even if he IS a complete and absolute hustler

Talked to the editors of at least 10 different journals that i have pending submissions at

Became friends with some of the mfa students at alabama

Went and heard Robert Olen Butler read

Met utahna faith in a flash fiction panel discussion, the editor that published my story, "City Lunch" in the fantastic international online journal, 3:AM Magazine

Listened to Lily and the other Chiasmus Press writers (including Lance Olsen) give an awesome joint reading (+ free mimosas, a def bribe for such an early morning reading).

Went to michael martone and john barth's reading in the crystal ballroom of the Hilton Hotel--mm stole the show, man. I bought 2 of mm's novels and chatted with him at the book signing. he even sent me 2-3 emails in the past week. He's a good guy that way.

Talked to one of the poetry editors at Tin House--jc was his name, i think

Played air hockey and won (Holla!) against Pei-Lin Lue, the Managing Editor at One Story

Met Atina, one of the fiction editors at red hen press, one of the better indie presses, this one, out of LA

Met fred ramney, one of the publisher's at unbridled press, who gave me his card after i told him about my novel and the interest that publishing luminaries like Lynn Nesbit has shown the manuscript so far.
--And we take agented and unagented fiction, he explained.

Picked up something like 25 free lit journals from the AWP Book Fair

Smoked 3 cigarettes (bad Jackson!) and drank lots of Heineken--all of which tasted fantastic

I submitted stories to:

agni
Michael Martone
quick fiction
the greensboro review
mid-american review
missouri review
9th letter
nimrod
mcsweeney's
dave eggers
cream city review
tarpaulin sky
colorado review
smokelong quarterly
blood lotus
miranda literary review
blackbird
narrrative
word riot

Also, i went and heard Cornelius and Yusef Komunyakaa read tonight at the Cave Canem conference reading.

Lucky Charms

Today feels very lucky charms if you know what i mean. i turned in my thesis--all 220 pages of it, but it's missing section 3 and the concluding chapter that i'm gonna be working on in the next 2 months before i turn the entire novel in in late april. it's such an amazing weight off my shoulders. it's magically delicious.

And i got a copy of ink collective in the mail today, and i most def. love it. it's small, tight, beautifully produced, the art and the cartoons are great. and there's something so satisfying about seeing your name in print. sweeter than purple horse shoes and green pots of gold and sweet gray milk.

The Day I Met Dave Eggers

Today i met Dave Eggers,

And he was hella cool. the Q and A session was interesting. i asked him about the literary value of entertainment versus craft, commercial versus literary in his writing and he said that it was really important for his writing to be entertaining, that he liked contemporary writers like barthelme, david foster wallace and rick moody alot, that experimentalist do wonderful, smart things with form, but they don't have a sense of humor. . . which is often so true . . and he wanted that in his writing.

And then tonight, at the book signing, i talked to dave and valentino for maybe 5 minutes or so, i told dave how i volunteered in west africa.

--where were you in africa? Dave asked.
--burkina faso.
--oh, really?
--yeah, i said, and what's crazy is, when i moved to portland, i end up translating for this mauritanian refugee at his political asylum interview at the INS because i speak french and i'm used to the africa french accent, and it was there that i realized how powerful language can really be.
--yeah, totally, dave said.
Valentino nodded.
then i told dave how i just recently sent a story to McSweeney's and asked him if he might consider taking a look at it.
--sure, he said, i've love to. you'll want to resend it because it's already in the machine, but i'd love to take a look, especially if it's about burkina faso. just tell the editors i asked you to send it to me.
--cool, i said,
--what's your name? he asked.
--jackson bliss.
--jackson BLISS? he said incredulously.
--yeah, i said.
--okay.
--and oh valentino, i went on, i want you to know that i wrote my congressmen several years ago on behalf of darfur and he was one of the congressmen who helped passed legislation.
--the sudan act.
--yeah, that's the one, i said.
--thank you.

I shook valentino's hand, dave shook mine, jackson was very very stoked.

When i came home, i read what dave eggeres had written. In:


He Wrote:

Jackson. [picture of a strange blob] <-----Robert, IV


In:


He Wrote:

JACKSON!

so good to know you're here.

Of course, Dave Eggers is being a smart-ass and he writes random stuff like this in everyone's book, but i appreciate the evolution between the first lower case jackson with a period and the second uppercase jackson with an exclamation point. pathetic, i know, but these little things matter when you're an emerging writer. and until dave eggers and me are sharing the same stage or interviewing each other for TIN HOUSE magazine, i'll take this small little moment of writerly connection.

Sad Times in Snow Country

I submitted a short memoir about my grandmama to brevity journal. i would LOVE it if they would pick it up. it's perfect for them. and it's a homage made with so much love and adoration. it's strange, when someone you love dies, you sometimes find that you love them more once they're gone, or at least, you love them with more honesty and less restraint. only cuz you didn't really understand what they meant to you when they were alive, cuz you were blinded by routine, weighed down by baggage, cuz you were afraid of losing them, which meant losing the part of you that is part of them. but once they're gone, you don't have a choice anymore. sometimes you just love them because you're not afraid anymore. i've written about my sobo a few times. i just don't know another way to show her my love except by putting a picture of her on my altar, and using language to capture the things that have slipped through my fingers.