Rising in Grady was an ungovernable laughter, a joyous agitation which made the white summer stretching before her seem like an unrolling canvas on which she might draw those first rude pure strokes that are free. Then, too, and with a straight face, she was laughing because there was so little they suspected, nothing. The light quivering against the table silver seemed to at once encourage her excitement and to flash a warning signal: careful, dear. But elsewhere something said…
My pen actually ran out of ink today. I’m still writing down thoughts first thought on the island, and sometimes get carried away. Sarge bought me a red Moleskine Daily Planner that I am using as a journal. I need the lined paper. Or else my writing runs away with itself. It does that even on lined paper. And even though I ‘need’ the lines, I still find myself running out of ink on envelopes and bank statements. And envelopes…
I spent all day Saturday looking for a particular piece I wrote on September 11th, 2001. I couldn’t find it, but in the search I found all my old journals and other writing that goes back pretty far. Some things are the same. A lot is different. I want to give that kid/younger twenty-something a hug, and tell her to stop worrying. We’re not in Back to the Future, so I can’t. But I can do this: Dear you, Relax. …
