Dear San Diego,
Stuck in clouds down the valley, thin rain, stingers of autumn. I am a live fire exercise; thumb the pages of A Farewell To Arms, coffee, spots of the news.
I think about her less and less. Still surrounded by all her things, a museum of was, but no curator. I spend more time than I should anguishing over whether I did the right thing with her ashes.
I think of laughter a lot. Of how people laugh. I study them when I'm over at The Mountain. Tiny photographs of falsity, a projector casting light onto a blank screen of want for the sake of it.
Parker laughed with her entire self. Rare, but authentic when it happened. Never to placate socially, never at anything beneath her.
If there's one thing she taught me in life it's that people are terrified of themselves. Just ordinary people, well away from anyone with an actual reason to be. And that it's all fake - the self, all this chasing of the wind and the moon. There's just this and no right way to go about it.
Figure that out and you're a person. Don't and you're just taking up space.