about.
“He’d be home by now,” I say finally.
“You should call him.”
“Yes,” I say without conviction. I feel like I could call the prime minister of India but not my son. “My brother Graham was constantly getting concussions,” I say. “He rode his bike likea kamikaze. Eventually he fell off a building. He was all right.”
“The voice of compassion!” Joanne says. “The conscience of the nation!”
I click on the screen.
Los Angeles Times –
nothing.
Christian Science Monitor –
nothing.
The Independent –
nothing.
Joanne is right of course. I need to get out of this chair. I should do some animals. Take a walk. Call my son. Write a letter to my wife.
Dear Maryse. Dear Maryse. Words and words and words together. Down the page. One thought after another. My dear Maryse. I have loved you so much and so badly. My dear. Dear Maryse. Dear wife. Dear. My wife. I have meant to write. I have meant to start. So many times I’ve started this letter. Dear Maryse. Do you know when I started writing this letter? I wrote this letter in the molecules in the air when I was stuck in the lower regions of hell. I had a way out and it was through this letter. My dear Maryse. For so long the sound of your name was my mantra. Ages upon lifetimes. Maryse. My dear Maryse. The sound of your name was sweet nourishment in the very worst moments of my life. Maryse. The very worst? Who could predict? The worst would fall away as I stepped off the plateau and headed for the abyss. And still falling. Maryse. My dear wife. I wish to God I could let you go and know that somewhere, at least, far above in the bright blue sky, someone is flying. My dear. Dear Maryse
.
CP has nothing, although I do get sidetracked by a story about a gigantic Canadian weather balloon that has gone astray and is now threatening commercial airspace over the Atlantic. Canadian fighter jets pumped over a thousand rounds into the balloon but couldn’t bring it down. Perhaps this could add a new chapter to aviation history: intercontinental ballistic balloons. Don’t tell India or Pakistan.
My dear Maryse. Just a few thoughts I meant to share. We have journeyed so far into bitterness and yet are still both standing. I am
sorry for it and yet somewhat in awe, too, of what we can do to one another. In the name of love? Survival? I keep moving my house back from the edge but then more parts of me fall away. Is that sick or what? My leg jerks up and I get up and walk around. I sit down again until it jerks up once more. I talk on the phone and send off letters and wait and wait to hear – about what? About the country that returned the empty skin to you saying it’s okay, it’s still your husband, here he is, just bring him back to life
.
Tell your son I’m sorry. Tell him to wear a helmet. Keep his head up. Some people bounce and some people don’t
.
At ten-fifteen a flurry of new stories is posted:
SULI STALEMATE CONTINUES
24 August 1998
Dorut Kul
The stand-off between unarmed supporters of Freedom Party leader Suli Nylioko and armed factions supporting Armed Forces Chief Mende Kul and self-proclaimed President Tinto Delapango continued into the heat of the day today on Kalindas Boulevard in downtown Santa Irene.
Temperatures reached 42°C and several civilians were taken to hospital with heat exhaustion. A row of tanks supporting Kul parted to allow
tritos
to transport civilians to Kolios and Wengata hospitals. It was a tense moment: soldiers at first refused to allow the
tritos
to pass, but relented finally when Suli herself arrived to plead on their behalf.
Tinto publicly called on Kul to stand down his troops and disband his “rebellion.” Kul, on the other hand, announced through Island Radio that Tinto’s declaration of martial lawwas unconstitutional and that Third Battalion soldiers were only protecting the country. The Freedom Party supporters and civilians who flocked to Kalindas Boulevard early this morning were technically in
“He’d be home by now,” I say finally.
“You should call him.”
“Yes,” I say without conviction. I feel like I could call the prime minister of India but not my son. “My brother Graham was constantly getting concussions,” I say. “He rode his bike likea kamikaze. Eventually he fell off a building. He was all right.”
“The voice of compassion!” Joanne says. “The conscience of the nation!”
I click on the screen.
Los Angeles Times –
nothing.
Christian Science Monitor –
nothing.
The Independent –
nothing.
Joanne is right of course. I need to get out of this chair. I should do some animals. Take a walk. Call my son. Write a letter to my wife.
Dear Maryse. Dear Maryse. Words and words and words together. Down the page. One thought after another. My dear Maryse. I have loved you so much and so badly. My dear. Dear Maryse. Dear wife. Dear. My wife. I have meant to write. I have meant to start. So many times I’ve started this letter. Dear Maryse. Do you know when I started writing this letter? I wrote this letter in the molecules in the air when I was stuck in the lower regions of hell. I had a way out and it was through this letter. My dear Maryse. For so long the sound of your name was my mantra. Ages upon lifetimes. Maryse. My dear Maryse. The sound of your name was sweet nourishment in the very worst moments of my life. Maryse. The very worst? Who could predict? The worst would fall away as I stepped off the plateau and headed for the abyss. And still falling. Maryse. My dear wife. I wish to God I could let you go and know that somewhere, at least, far above in the bright blue sky, someone is flying. My dear. Dear Maryse
.
CP has nothing, although I do get sidetracked by a story about a gigantic Canadian weather balloon that has gone astray and is now threatening commercial airspace over the Atlantic. Canadian fighter jets pumped over a thousand rounds into the balloon but couldn’t bring it down. Perhaps this could add a new chapter to aviation history: intercontinental ballistic balloons. Don’t tell India or Pakistan.
My dear Maryse. Just a few thoughts I meant to share. We have journeyed so far into bitterness and yet are still both standing. I am
sorry for it and yet somewhat in awe, too, of what we can do to one another. In the name of love? Survival? I keep moving my house back from the edge but then more parts of me fall away. Is that sick or what? My leg jerks up and I get up and walk around. I sit down again until it jerks up once more. I talk on the phone and send off letters and wait and wait to hear – about what? About the country that returned the empty skin to you saying it’s okay, it’s still your husband, here he is, just bring him back to life
.
Tell your son I’m sorry. Tell him to wear a helmet. Keep his head up. Some people bounce and some people don’t
.
At ten-fifteen a flurry of new stories is posted:
SULI STALEMATE CONTINUES
24 August 1998
Dorut Kul
The stand-off between unarmed supporters of Freedom Party leader Suli Nylioko and armed factions supporting Armed Forces Chief Mende Kul and self-proclaimed President Tinto Delapango continued into the heat of the day today on Kalindas Boulevard in downtown Santa Irene.
Temperatures reached 42°C and several civilians were taken to hospital with heat exhaustion. A row of tanks supporting Kul parted to allow
tritos
to transport civilians to Kolios and Wengata hospitals. It was a tense moment: soldiers at first refused to allow the
tritos
to pass, but relented finally when Suli herself arrived to plead on their behalf.
Tinto publicly called on Kul to stand down his troops and disband his “rebellion.” Kul, on the other hand, announced through Island Radio that Tinto’s declaration of martial lawwas unconstitutional and that Third Battalion soldiers were only protecting the country. The Freedom Party supporters and civilians who flocked to Kalindas Boulevard early this morning were technically in
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