Getting there. 29,000 words left to go and now things are getting tight. See, I recently wrote a new script that's been wildly received...or so I like to think, and it's now gotten me into some other trouble, the kind of trouble of stacking projects, good projects...projects that are now being welcomely demanded from me. I could only tell someone I was on sabbatical, off writing a book for so long before those someones start to get pissed off. Right now I'm enjoying this last stretch of the book, but cramming enjoyment because there's a lot of inspiration out there for me right now and I have to grab hold of it. As Team Burn recently wrote, "we're on a very good path right now...let's do the work and see how it turns out." There's lots of work, so much work...and I feel wealthy and overwhelmed by it and so anxious to take it on and mold it and shape it and eat it and fuck it. So onward but in the meantime, I just cleaned up on of Durban's opening passages and wanted to share it...because it's just...it's just.
I’m thinking about what she was thinking at the end, when she knew her end was coming…when it was close. She used to speak about slowing the world, this fantasy of paralyzing our time together so that nothing could touch or divide us. Control. I’m thinking about her end, the moments when her last pieces melted away. Maybe she succeeded, right then, and found that pause...sometime on or around her last breath. I often wonder if I crossed her mind. I wonder what she was thinking, if she thought of herself as the girl who left me behind – the only girl who ever had what it took to stand me on my feet and keep me there. I’m thinking of her crimson blood stretching across that perfect white floor and all I want to know, the only thing I want to know was whether or not she thought of me…because I’m selfish and because I’m a motherfucker and because I feel like I deserve to know. I’d give everything I have.
