I am made to think, not for the first time, that in my writing I have plunged ahead head on, heedlessly one might say - or even fearlessly - into my own future: this time of utter raw anguish. And I am finally starting to understand why all my recent fantasies are about tragic loss. Because even though I may have had, since adolescence, a kind of anti-hero journey, I had in fact not experienced much. At least not when it comes to the inevitable realities of life. Age, illness, the deaths of my loved ones have escaped me as of yet. I am ill-prepared, so every conjuration of such circumstance keeps me battle ready. The saying goes, that we play at paste until qualified for pearl. So I brace myself, so I am sturdy for when, with the violence of a door slammed shut by wind rushing through a house, life catches up with me.
