Status Updates From My Clavicle: And Other Mass...

I promise to write everything that needs to be written about my parents while they can still read it… Maybe writing about them like this now is an effort at cryogenic freezing… a way to mitigate anticipated grief. I want to dominate pain as if it were a wild animal. Foreshadowing the yellowing teeth… I’m unsettled by all this sweetness and peace. I can’t enjoy it. Because it always ends.

“I really should censor my obtuse propensity to be bookish one minute and crude the next, although that does essentially define my style. At first, writing is natural, like the smell of moss in a rural winery. Later it starts to reek of commercialism, like slick packaging in a high-end supermarket.”