Tuesday, August 3, 2010
3 AM. I was dreaming of dad. A very pleasant dream, centering on his cheerfulness. He had so much stuff to be gone through. He was gone and I dreaded to start going through it, drawers full of stuff packed tight, to be emptied out into shopping bags and assorted. But that’s all I remember except realizing how cheerful and helpful he’d been, and how unappreciated.
— I lie in bed and keep thinking of the murder of John F. Kennedy; Dealey Plaza; the crossfire, all that. Why? Does somebody want to talk about that? And if so, what? (And why?)
Nobody? Then why keep me awake?