Feel serene today. Felt crabgrass forming earlier but the drugs trimmed it. Every question seems pitiful to me, the question of one at the end of their abilities. An email from a friend and another correspondence from a surprising blast from the past make me feel like there are people who actually appreciate and like having me in the world. The blast from the past is from a woman I knew in high school and through college, as correspondents only through college. She had boyfriends in high school. We never had anything but I would assert that the potentiality was always present. The possibility. She thought I was cool and I thought she was resilient and impressed with my mental exertions.

Her messages from last night refer to the notes I used to write to her. She commented that they were “intense.” I wonder what that means. I saved no copies of that stuff. Maybe by bringing up the subject she is offering to let me have them back. Why would I want that? Correspondences between two college kids. 

I think she might have been out of college and in the real world a couple of years before me. I do wonder what “intense means” though. I’ve read some old correspondences and I can get pretty strident, and anti-social. Sometimes it’s obviously as a joke but other times not so obvious. I do correspond voluminously, though.  I’ve left an extensive digital trail in the inboxes of the world. How much of it is obliterated?

I was thinking about S this week. S was a barfly love of mine. We never officially dated but might as well have, and we slept together a couple of times. She gave me a set of gimlet glasses, 6 of them. One by the one I break them. Not in rapid sequence. I guess it’s taken over ten years before I’m finally down to the last one. 

The last one shattered in the bathroom. I swept most of the shatterment away but stuffed some of it under the rug. The rug gradually moves with the entropy of being stepped on. As it moves the shatterment of the gimlet glasses resurfaces. I step on the shards. It hurts. I bleed. I feel it as a ritual performed for the memory of S. The way that she died, and the pain she lived with but never acknowledged, it lives on in the shattered remains of her next-to-last gimlet glass, those remains attacking my feet as I  knowingly, ritualistically step onto them, in memory of S.

Another correspondent from the payphone side of things just likes to keep in touch. Says he wants to “hook up” hopefully not knowing what that expression means to some  of us.