While I blog, David is watching Jon Stewart, on his iphone! Technology is amazing. My MacBook has a splinter on the edge of the wrist board, a big plastic splinter of plastic grazing against my left wrist, against the tangle of veins and vessels there. Sometimes writing is physically dangerous.
I'm depressed. More depressed than I know. Than I can know. I don't have a lot of time to sit and analyze my depression. But, there it is, my depression. No depression like mine.
My brother Carlos is the executor of my father's trust for his children. This is a big responsibility. It basically means (or at least can be interpreted) that my father trusted Carlos the most. Trusted him to execute his big ideas, for that is what a Trust is -- a legal document outlining a person's wishes and big ideas. And wishes are like fishes: so slippery. My wish is not your wish is not his wish is not her wish. Which is why world peace in general is impossible.
I remember my father criticizing me when I was 17 or 18 for my use of the word wonderful. I had written a cover letter to go along with my resume in which I said, "I think it would be wonderful to talk with you about the opportunities your organization has to offer." I may have said, "offer me." Anyway, my dad stopped reading when he got to that sentence, slapped the letter down on his lap, where he sat on the couch, and said, "WONDERFUL?! Goddammit, Christa! You can't use the word 'wonderful' in a cover letter!"
"I can't?" I said.
"NO!" he yelled, sorta laughing but also seriously yelling. "People will think you're a pussy!"
"Oh," I said.
So I never used the word in a cover letter again.