So many things go missing. Memory is a bastard peris (that was supposed to be ‘period’) a bastard. Rummaging through hundreds even thousands of old photos photos last night I turned up a squall of images I completely forgot about. Some of the few photos I got of the beautiful woman I knew And loved for 3 years.  I do not let sadness fester, nor regret. Who has time or purpose for that?

But she will always be different to me. Most if not all of the women in my life, while in life, while impossible to forget, I am at least capable of what I call putting them away. Forgetting the sadness and the anger and the incompatibilities thinking thinking only of the good things. Thanks. That really only gets me so far though.

I am walking to the cemetery now. Speaking these words and watching as they magically appear on the screen. Actually I can barely see the screen, so there will be plenty of need for editing I assume. I want to see if the chapel is open. I have sent emails to the cemetery but they ignore me. So I have to spend a good amount of time getting there just to see for myself if the place ever reopened.

I am presently standing in section 1W. Had. Had an interesting encounter with a woman looking for burial sites of her forebears or ancestors. Very friendly, amiable. Yeah amiable. She seemed to recognize at sight what I was doing, going from marker to marker taking photos. She seemed to know without even asking that I was getting photos of random sites to see what stories I could I could find about these people. I got a little high and holy I suppose by saying you never know what story is waiting to be told. Sounded a little pompous but whatever. She seemed to think it was cool so that’s that’s nice.

Now I am walking back. Walking and talking. I actually think that woman wanted to maintain some contact or connection, but I was not feeling that joyful about the encounter. It was just nice to have a friendly face out there. Normally I ignore or stay away from other visitors because they could be out there grieving. They could be out there not to make friends but too Honor their dead. So I’m careful about those kind of things. But she approached me so it’s all good.

At home now and typing this at a keyboard, not screaming and walking and walking and talking. A whole bunch of stuff vanished, the stuff about me walking past the stripper’s house as part of my daily regimen. Where did all that go? I’d bone that stripper again. She was of the same moral fluff as I. Once she hit 40 it was anything goes. For me it was ~50-something, 2 years later. Save for some line breaks I’m not going to edit the raw speech-to-text because the randomness of the speech-to-text splatter is too fun.