i sort of have this feeling i could write. right now. but i'm terrified of it. of writing, of the feeling like i could. what if i try and i fail? what if i DO write something, then tomorrow i'm back to what's lately been "normal," the extended power writer's block of this millennium. i'm not going to try. i'll just do my normal thing here and write what i can.

i went to the gravestone today. at the memorial gardens. i didn't feel like i was going to cry when i pulled up, but i always cry at the memorial gardens, sitting next to that impersonal gravestone marked Edward E. Schorstein, who's my dad, but how can it possibly symbolize reality? reality: he's gone. he's dead. he's not coming back tomorrow, or next week, or when i'm 50. that's the real and terrifying kicker... he's gone forever.

that's all i have for now.