I'm driving to Squash right now, trying to talk into the phone. It hurts to know that I've written all this stuff since April. It feels like a three or four books worth. I keep scrapping it because it doesn't seem to cohere with the story of my parents that is both. It's a beautiful and tragic at the same time. My attempt to deal with it or at least to make sense of it or to turn it into a story is becoming an endeavor all in its own. I keep getting weak. I keep losing confidence. I keep thinking that the story itself will not hold any weight and that I've been the one holding it. I've been the one feeling like it's heavy my entire life. But in some ways, every attempt that I've made to write it is perhaps a vein from which a vein around the organ of the story itself and it sees the process of understanding it from a different perspective or perhaps from a different mode or function. There's no real reason why I can't say it sometimes. I keep every precious pristine thing he can find so that the trauma of destruction and death never plays itself out again. I mean right now I'm twang with the idea of what to do with the professor and peasant girl perspective. Does that hold any weight? What does that represent? If I hold on to it, how can I use it so that it works? Done.