the project has moved



The Fifth Post


I don't know how much more I can write, and post, of this. It seems like I'm only looking out for the next bad thing that will happen.

I get a package from home and it's full of wet books and paperwork. Something inside is leaking.


One of the teachers where I work is leaving and they have a cake for him. He says he is going to travel around Eastern Europe for a while. I tell him when he's in Prague to go to the top of Petr'i'n hill, where lovers meet, and drink at the monastery there. "Best beer in the world," I say. I know he will not remember this. I stop myself from saying, "Have a good life," when I go home.


I drive over to pick up Cathreen. On the way back we make a U-turn I think is unnecessary. I am unreasonably angry about this.

We both know who will win the next one thousand fights.


I wake up at 3:00 in the afternoon. There is feces to pick up on the floor--the dogs have no respect. Sometimes after Cathreen and I make up I think about the woman in Grace Paley's "Wants." (Hello, my life.) How sad.


We eat together. I will stop writing now. It is time for Cathreen's medicine. Later her stomach will hurt as much, it seems, as her hand, though I know this can't be true.

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