Today is Selwyn's fifth birthday. He's five.
I have to try and fucking write this afternoon. I've lost half a month and then some, three weeks at the least, between the trip and the confusion and grief and shitty weather that has followed the trip. But, at the very least, I have to tend to the digest, to a story for No. 136. I have in mind "Untitled Psychiatrist No. 3." Back in December, when I wrote "Untitled Psychiatrist No. 1" for Sirenia Digest No. 131, I saw it as the first of three stories connected only by the narrative device of consisting of therapy sessions. And this would be the last of the three. Next month, I may try to write a new Cherry Creek story for the digest, though that's something I swore I'd never do again, back when I wrote "Goggles (c. 1910)" in March 2012. But my promises rarely hold water for more than five years.
I left the house yesterday – Eastside Market, Rumford Pet Center, the downtown branch of the Providence Public Library. Defying the bitter weather.
Spooky just told me that Powers Boothe has died.
I feel thin as vellum.
"Pain or damage don't end the world. Or despair, or fucking beatings. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man...and give some back." ~ Al Swearengen
12:55 p.m. (I remember real cars, made in America and from steel.)