Subject: RE: sorry
Date: Thu, 13 Jan 2005 01:02:07 +000013 Jan 2005 01:03:05.0074 (UTC)
Wow, people can never get a hold of me by phone either. Actually I didn't have a phone for about 2 years there...drove my parent’s nuts. I'd always call em from public telephones but they couldn't always have a way to get a hold of me. I had to laugh when you said people are usually pretty mad by the time they get you on the phone...sounds familiar. Anyway when it comes to talking about Sabrina well it's kind of been a strange experience. She was 18 and we used to canoe together in the summers, she'd just started college that semester and she was planning to do green/biodynamic engineering. I don't know. She always seemed so strong and happy and well put together. I was a little jealous of her, or more like I just really really wanted to be her in a way. There's really a part of me that can't accept it, that still believes she's got to be alive. I can't imagine a Sabrina-shaped hole in the world. They read pieces of her note at the funeral...most loving suicide note you could imagine, too, about how her last few hours she spent thinking about the people she cared about, and then she said she’d lived a good life and when she died she wanted to be a guardian angel for the people she cared about. Some weird stuff happened, too. There was a girl who'd met Sabrina once at a family dinner, this girlfriend of a friend of the family, and this girl had a bipolar breakdown and just went completely crazy 2 days after Sabrina died (even though she didn't know what had happened), and then when her boyfriend went to visit her in the hospital this girl was saying over and over "Sabrina saved me, Sabrina saved me." I kind of had a psychotic episode too the night she died. I was planning to stay up till about 11 or so to finish a short paper, it was only supposed to be about 3 pages long, and then around midnight I had this manic burst and started writing feverishly, and at 2:49 in the morning I had this series of really strong waking visions of the rivers and lakes up north. It was pretty emotional, but I can't remember how or why, what it felt like. I sort of became convinced that night that I was postmodernism (that was how it felt), and then I looked down at my hands and realized I really didn't exist. My paper turned into 9 pages of utter madness. This went on until about 5 in the morning. I forced myself to go to bed but I couldn't sleep for a long time. At noon, the time her body finally died, I woke up feeling normal. So then ever since I've kind of been feeling her around me from time to time. My reaction to the whole thing doesn't strictly make sense...I'm sad, sure, but I've also been cured from despair, which was a defining feature of my life for the past 10 years, and there's no reason for that to have happened except I say from time to time I think it was her, and I've had this really strong will to survive, to live, deeply and fully, my senses are all hypersensitive and my skin's always tingly now and even the colors I see are brighter. It's not a normal way at all to react to somebody's suicide. But then that's life. Never normal. Oh yeah, Grandpa Tree is on the Boston side of the bridge, across the bridge from MIT. If you're on the bridge leaving MIT you turn left and walk a little ways, and there's kind of a spit of land that goes out from the bank, it has a walking path on it and a couple trees. Grandpa Tree is the really big one with one giant arm resting on the ground. There may well be a candle or flask of Bacardi at the base. Oh yeah, and someone also lopped off a chunk of bark the size of your palm, and wrote an epitaph to Dana Murry, 1982-2002, RIP. I don't know. I'm sort of starting to see this gathering, though I have no idea what it's towards. I'm writing about it, sort of. It's this series of monologues, voices from whatever the hell it is that's going on. Anyway I must go, I have to get dinner on the table.
Pickles and Onions!
Rachel
P.S. What's the project you're working on? Your response to the world?
Date: Thu, 13 Jan 2005 01:02:07 +000013 Jan 2005 01:03:05.0074 (UTC)
Wow, people can never get a hold of me by phone either. Actually I didn't have a phone for about 2 years there...drove my parent’s nuts. I'd always call em from public telephones but they couldn't always have a way to get a hold of me. I had to laugh when you said people are usually pretty mad by the time they get you on the phone...sounds familiar. Anyway when it comes to talking about Sabrina well it's kind of been a strange experience. She was 18 and we used to canoe together in the summers, she'd just started college that semester and she was planning to do green/biodynamic engineering. I don't know. She always seemed so strong and happy and well put together. I was a little jealous of her, or more like I just really really wanted to be her in a way. There's really a part of me that can't accept it, that still believes she's got to be alive. I can't imagine a Sabrina-shaped hole in the world. They read pieces of her note at the funeral...most loving suicide note you could imagine, too, about how her last few hours she spent thinking about the people she cared about, and then she said she’d lived a good life and when she died she wanted to be a guardian angel for the people she cared about. Some weird stuff happened, too. There was a girl who'd met Sabrina once at a family dinner, this girlfriend of a friend of the family, and this girl had a bipolar breakdown and just went completely crazy 2 days after Sabrina died (even though she didn't know what had happened), and then when her boyfriend went to visit her in the hospital this girl was saying over and over "Sabrina saved me, Sabrina saved me." I kind of had a psychotic episode too the night she died. I was planning to stay up till about 11 or so to finish a short paper, it was only supposed to be about 3 pages long, and then around midnight I had this manic burst and started writing feverishly, and at 2:49 in the morning I had this series of really strong waking visions of the rivers and lakes up north. It was pretty emotional, but I can't remember how or why, what it felt like. I sort of became convinced that night that I was postmodernism (that was how it felt), and then I looked down at my hands and realized I really didn't exist. My paper turned into 9 pages of utter madness. This went on until about 5 in the morning. I forced myself to go to bed but I couldn't sleep for a long time. At noon, the time her body finally died, I woke up feeling normal. So then ever since I've kind of been feeling her around me from time to time. My reaction to the whole thing doesn't strictly make sense...I'm sad, sure, but I've also been cured from despair, which was a defining feature of my life for the past 10 years, and there's no reason for that to have happened except I say from time to time I think it was her, and I've had this really strong will to survive, to live, deeply and fully, my senses are all hypersensitive and my skin's always tingly now and even the colors I see are brighter. It's not a normal way at all to react to somebody's suicide. But then that's life. Never normal. Oh yeah, Grandpa Tree is on the Boston side of the bridge, across the bridge from MIT. If you're on the bridge leaving MIT you turn left and walk a little ways, and there's kind of a spit of land that goes out from the bank, it has a walking path on it and a couple trees. Grandpa Tree is the really big one with one giant arm resting on the ground. There may well be a candle or flask of Bacardi at the base. Oh yeah, and someone also lopped off a chunk of bark the size of your palm, and wrote an epitaph to Dana Murry, 1982-2002, RIP. I don't know. I'm sort of starting to see this gathering, though I have no idea what it's towards. I'm writing about it, sort of. It's this series of monologues, voices from whatever the hell it is that's going on. Anyway I must go, I have to get dinner on the table.
Pickles and Onions!
Rachel
P.S. What's the project you're working on? Your response to the world?
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