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Phineas P. Gage
B. 1823 Lebanon, New Hampshire / D. 5.21.1860 San Francisco
Epileptic Seizures

The worst part of being in love is not what I thought it was
back in those days, deep into those nights of unreturned phone calls and shrill imaginings. Absence turned to cruelty, coldness to rebuke, cruelty to instruction—I remember the sequence and the part where I’d realize she’d done it all
whoever she was, whatever she’d been the ostensible cause of my suffering
thoughtfully, for my sake alone. Warm glows ensued in this the greatest, that is the largest, part of being in love.
The worst part, however, THAT saved itself for the aftermath.
It hid. Only now do I detect it, when I try to recall the program of a single concert, the plot line of a single play among so very many
I know alcohol often danced attendance but it was love, fat love, obstructed my view.
I’d be scanning the rows, thinking, “There’s a couple, and there’s another couple, and that might be a couple there. Oh SHE!"
(whomever "she" happened to be, just never the human being to my left or my right)
"She should be here with me, she should be here with me! And if she were,” at which such inner symphonies and plays and pas de deuxs ensued
I swear it, all else was flicker.
St. Joan at the Huntington Theater, who knows what went on? An impression of red and gold tapestry. At the same theater, a Tom Stoppard play that amazed me
can’t even remember the name.
Not Arcadia.

Consolation Site: Fitful, irreverent, and grossly profane

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