Falling In Love Happens So Suddenly That

In That Six Months, So Much Happened That Death Seemed, Primarily, Inconvenient. The Trial Period Was Extended. I Seem To Keep Extending It. There Are Many Things To Do. There Are Books To Write And Naps To Take. There Are Movies To See And Scrambled Eggs To Eat. Life Is Essentially Trivial. You Either Decide You Will Take The Trite Business Of Life And Give Yourself The Option Of Doing Something Really Cool, Or You Decide You Will Opt For The Grand Epic Of Eating Disorders And Dedicate Your Life To Being Seriously Trivial.

For A Long Time I Believed The Opposite Of Passion Was Death. I Was Wrong. Passion And Death Are Implicit, One In The Other. Past The Border Of A Fiery Life Lies The Netherworld. I Can Trace This Road, Which Took Me Through Places So Hot The Very Air Burned The Lungs. I Did Not Turn Back. I Pressed On, And Eventually Passed Over The Border, Beyond Which Lies A Place That Is Wordless And Cold, So Cold That It, Like Mercury, Burns A Freezing Blue Flame.

It's Really Interesting To Me How All Of Us Can Experience The Exact Same Event, And Yet Come Away With Wildly Disparate Interpretations Of What Happened. We Each Have Totally Different Ideas Of What Was Said, What Was Intended, And What Really Took Place.

I Do Not Remember Very Many Things From The Inside Out. I Do Not Remember What It Felt Like To Touch Things, Or How Bathwater Traveled Over My Skin. I Did Not Like To Be Touched, But It Was A Strange Dislike. I Did Not Like To Be Touched Because I Craved It Too Much. I Wanted To Be Held Very Tight So I Would Not Break. Even Now, When People Lean Down To Touch Me, Or Hug Me, Or Put A Hand On My Shoulder, I Hold My Breath. I Turn My Face. I Want To Cry.

When You're Teaching Creative Nonfiction, It Helps To Have Written About Your Life In A Very Open Way, Because You Can Say, 'look, How Much Are You Willing To Risk Emotionally To Write? How Careful Can You Be With The Other People You're Writing About?