I always wanted to tell her
what I was thinking, and since she was a
writer, I wanted to tell her in a way that had depth,
meaning. She was constantly making references to something she had read, or a person she knew and could be accused of making
cross references in her sleep.
She wanted me to know how important little things were, while admitting that everything was important to her, except permanence.
She wanted to put all of these currents down on paper and had the desire to make her perceptions of the daily breeze tangible for others. Her desire to make the transient, solid matched well with her realtionships, which were always strained and moving from real to past tense. It was like she could not expend the energy in both worlds. Almost as if she could not pour herself into the exercise of making small life events weighty and lasting and at the same time, keep her own world firm and conscious.
"Life gets in the way of words, not the other way around," she would say.
I was left with the other rough drafts, considered, but discarded.