"Radical bears in the forest delicious."

DOWNFALL

"We. Featuring the words of Arundhati Roy." (Revisited.)

The grief is still deep. The rage still sharp. The tears have not dried. And a strange, deadly war is raging around the world. Yet, each person who has lost a loved one surely knows secretly, deeply, that no war, no act of revenge, no daisy-cutters dropped on someone else's loved ones or someone else's children, will blunt the edges of their pain or bring their own loved ones back. War cannot avenge those who have died. War is only a brutal desecration of their memory.
...
It's not a clever-enough subject to speak of from a public platform, but what I would really love to talk to you about is loss. Loss and losing. Grief, failure, brokenness, numbness, uncertainty, fear, the death of feeling, the death of dreaming. The absolute relentless, endless, habitual, unfairness of the world. What does loss mean to individuals? What does it mean to whole cultures, whole people who have learned to live with it as a constant companion?
...
Another world is not only possible, she's on her way. Maybe many of us won't be here to greet her, but on a quiet day, if I listen very carefully, I can hear her breathing.

(From Come September, by Arundhati Roy.)

http//www.weroy.org

Just in case you missed it the first time.

-L (11/10/12)

10/10/12

Sister,

Two years today.  Two years too late.  "I'm sorry but you missed her, Mr. Mystery to me.  How lost you seem to be."  This year, like last year.  None like the year before.  Everything, being changed now - and then what happened next.

Rather than fading or dulling or making sense, my missing you has become an empty thing, hungry like nothing living is.  No memories seem able to fill it.  And how limited they are, from the very get go.  Sometimes I have to not look at them at all, knowing this well that they do not look back.

I'm sorry that I'm not lighter by now.  I'm sorry that I've yet to let your sweet life make up for your bitter death, here in my own broken heart.  So many things have happened that I'd like to share with you.  But also, no time has passed at all.  It's like you took it with you.

Every day I love you more.  Everything feels exactly the same, and is altogether different.

"Still here.  Still loving you more than life."

<3, -Sister

Fuck forgetting.

http://www.katiesuewest.com

...for the day before her birthday.

-L (4/26/12)

"We. Featuring the words of Arundhati Roy."

I feel like I ought to post this link once every six months for the rest of my life.

http//www.weroy.org

So there's once, at least.

-L (1/1/12)

10/10/11

Sister,

A year ago today a light went out that has left the world dimmer. The days stopped counting themselves. The past year has been a blink; an indefinite pause between infinite shades of darkness.

Today we'll send firelight into the night sky to pay tribute to the light we've lost in you. An indistinct signal from so far away, but with any luck you'll recognize it.

How every day we love you more. How this is how you changed the world.

Still here.  Still loving you more than life.

<3, -Sister

Balloon Release

"Hi everyone,

On Sunday October 9th 2011, at 5pm PST, we're inviting our family and friends to honor and remember our beloved Katie Sue by releasing a balloon decorated with a note, picture, or message for her, or inspired by her.

We welcome you all to join us at Tri City Park to share a potluck picnic prior to the balloon release, in the company of people who will be thinking of Katie on that momentous day. For those of you who can't make it, as we realize that many of her closest friends and family members don't currently live in California, one of the most unique qualities for a ritual such as this one is that each of us can participate no matter where we are or in what time zone.

We appreciate your presence, your contribution, your love & thoughts, and especially the singular role you each played in Katie's life -- for with these things there'll always be threads braiding between your lives and ours. Please let me know if you'll be able to come, or if not, feel free to contact me if you have any questions, comments, or suggestions. We'll bring the balloons, markers, helium, and a few snacks; you bring your memories, messages, and a dish or drinks to share, if you're able.

All our love,
-Laura (Katie's lucky-ass Sister) & the West Clan

P.S.: Latex balloons are biodegradable and legal to release in California; metallic balloons are not. See these websites for more information if you're curious or otherwise concerned: 1) http://www.balloonrelease.com/faqs.htm or 2) http://www.balloonhq.com/faq/deco_rules.html#california"

[5]

[My beautiful baby sister was in a stupid car accident last weekend that stole her life. She died on 10-10-10, at 4:27pm, which was the date of her birthday.]

[It's no secret that she was my favorite person in the world. My only sister and best fucking friend. Strong beyond imagination, beautiful beyond words, and a veritable inspiration who managed to fit an entire, consummate life--utterly free from regret--into a measly 21 years, 5 months, and 13 days. She was gypped and so were we, as there was clearly an irremediable clerical error out there somewhere in the universe.]

[In any case, the shape of her life was that type of masterpiece which marvels each witness with every passing glance. Words are deeply inadequate; this sudden reality, profoundly unjust. And if any of us knows what's good for us, we'll live out the rest of our days aspiring to earn a fraction of the love that now follows her into the dark.]

[We'll never stop missing you, my beautiful Katie Sue.]

www.katiesuewest.com
http://1000memories.com/katiesuewest
katiesue.info

[-L (10/15/10)]

Y Teulu

mi esposo, James Arthur

mi mama, Mary Ann

mi papa, James Ivan

mi hermano mayor, Jacob Richard

mi hermano mayor, Robert Joseph

mi hermano menor, Alex James

mi hermana hermosa, Katie Sue

...

I read a book that reminded me of fragility and i don't remember when I stopped crying. A broken boy beats his chained dog with a bat and then gets on his hands and knees just out of reach of the chain. Soon the boy's soft, breaking voice soothes the dog's growls into whimpers and when the boy crawls to it, the dog licks his face weakly. Through sobs, the little boy is whispering to the dog, "I know, I know."

I only know just how fucking powerless I am to prevent such things. But I've started volunteering at a women's shelter anyway. What's the difference?

-Talthea (8/1/06)

"Existence is futile!" (Wait...is that right!?)

"The importance of fixed residence to a complex society explains why missionaries and governments, whenever they make first contact with previously uncontacted nomadic tribes or bands in New Guinea or the Amazon, universally have two immediate goals. One goal, of course, is the obvious one of 'pacifying' the nomads: that is, dissuading them from killing missionaries, bureaucrats, or each other. The other goal is to induce the nomads to settle in villages, so that the missionaries and bureaucrats can find the nomads, bring them services such as medical care and schools, and proselytize and control them." -J.D. Muahahahaha?!?!

(I suppose slitting my wrists would smack of melodrama.)

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (7/25/06)

Omigod!!! (Sorry.)

I've got a library book due today.

Okay so, get this. I was studying in front of a coffee shop (this is before the righteous torrents of rain had commenced) and a middle-aged homeless man hits me up for some company. Of course I oblige. He's wearing a Lakers hat after all (as if that means something to me) and a silver ring on his right middle finger of a lion's head with red eyes, and seeing how i'm rereading the Chronicles of Narnia these days...

So down he comes into the chair across from me. Suggestive remarks and empty compliments roll off his tongue as if his only available vocabulary, and the smell of cheap beer suddenly drenching me made this probably the case, but somewhere in between all that silliness he offered to recite some of his poetry. I accepted because at least he'd never broken eye contact.

I could barely hear what he was saying most of the time but his presence was something like mesmerizing. He'd periodically rise slowly and fall back into his chair or pound his fist on the table or switch between a low, almost-whisper to an angry growl, all the while his eyes remaining consistent with each momentary conviction. It was like there was an underlying poem even beneath his words, dictating these perfectly coordinated movements, as though he practiced for his reflection in some flawless mirror as it hung on the backside of a tired building in one of the alleys he claimed to be running away from. I told him he should perform live someplace; he told me i didn't even know.

By the end of those three poems there were some newly arrived cops lounging about that made my temporary companion nervous and defiant. Lapsing back into his former gibberish, but now louder and more obscene for the sake of his perceived audience, the last straw was when a super pretty girl walked by with her probably boyfriend and he shouted out something like, "WHO LET YOU OUTTA THE CAGE TONIGHT, BABY, WOOHOO!" (Yeah, it was bad, pure silliness the whole lot of it.) I think i laughed incredulously and said to him quietly, to defend against his sheer volume, "Man, you can't just say stuff like that." He was monumentally worked up by then and shouted out to no one that he could say whatever the goddamn fuck he wanted to, but then he sat back and whispered to me fervently that he'd bring me copies of all his poems if I wanted, and would I be here for another fifteen minutes?

Of course the cops got around to it right about then and started addressing my poet by his first name with all the condescension they could muster, saying things like, "Hey now James, why don't you come take a walk with us. I see you've got nice taste in the ladies but come on over here now. You know you're not wanted around here, so why do you keep coming back?" One thing's for sure, those two cops didn't meet my eyes once. I'm trying to make something of the comparison, but I don't really expect to.

Later one of the girls that worked in the coffee shop came out to apologize, but crazy James didn't come back with his poems.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (11/29/05)

I advise you not to click on this button:

'Tis my first attempt at publication. It's very bad, let me assure you. I certainly wouldn't have bought a copy were I not the author. There are at least three pages with quite shameful typos. But hey, for a good idea of what not to do...

A Bright Sort of Dread & some poems.

To be fair, my dog Sierra liked it when I read it to her. Though not so much as the Spanish dictionary I've spent many an hour reciting. I have nothing more to say for myself.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (12/2/06)

4:32 am is way too something or other.

I should make sleep a constant. Though i won't.

If i could only make it a habit i might not succumb to such tempting imaginings at all, but as of yet it remains as one more thing escaping me.

But yes: tired i am. I really can't focus on anything else. Oh yeah...

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (7/3/04)

An abundant supply of self-delusion may not be better than nothing.

I couldn't tell you why I'm sitting here glaring at the screen as if there's anything to say. Something about the state I'm in has the word 'empty' pervading my thoughts. But I'm still here.

I have to go close my eyes now.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/17/04)