Well, there wasn't another fire post. I remembered I don't want to be a news reporter. Since the fire didn't affect me or mine, I had the luxury of thinking of it as a metaphor. I didn't do much of that, though, either. And it's an obvious sort of metaphor, anyway. I wrote a poem once, or started to write a poem once, or thought about writing a poem once, about it seeming to me as if all the physical remnants of my childhood, toys, drawings, school pictures, clothing etc., had been destroyed in an immense conflagration. That's because there are none--except for a few pictures that I can thank myself for keeping.
Had I really existed? Good question. A mere fire didn't seem to fit. I was looking for something more violent, bigger. Conflagration seemed to be the word I needed. Oh yeah, and if I also used the word "fire" I connected it to the word "razed" and that seemed to work well, too. It felt right. Everything was consumed. Mother barely got through the years herself--she couldn't possibly take anything with her.
That's that.
I've been at my sisters since the Friday before Thanksgiving. I didn't plan on being here so long but I got sick and then I had car trouble. I'm in the midst of the car trouble now.
