"Renaissance" now up at 101 Fiction

Mr. Xero hosts a teacup-sized Renaissance over at 101 Fiction. Thank you, John, for allowing my wisp of a... story to parade about on your stage.

It's strange how things work. I had forgotten the date for Renaissance was to appear, and on the day it does, we are waiting for my grandfather to die. I am waiting for a phone call this morning, as I have the last several.

Real life intrudes in its graceless way upon our fiction. It's almost rude, in the way it reminds us that the words we write are nothing compared to the truth of the moments at our heels, a present that never stops being -- except in those moments when we write. When we escape into the vortex, there is no sound but our own voices. How I love that. I write things that sweeten and smooth out life for me. It's a comfort. Is there a theatre when we die? Are we the only one in line for the show, will we be shown in by a barker in a striped suit, arm on our shoulder, welcoming us warmly? Will we find our seat and then see ourselves on the stage, in the rafters, behind the lights?

No. It's a nice little story I told myself there, some months ago. Before my grandfather, my favorite person in the world, fell and broke his collarbone and then there was this downward spiral of health which had already started outperforming itself in terms of sheer dignity-stripping velocity. Not before, mind you, my mother had died -- that when I was twelve, so you would think I would write about death with a bit more... knowledge? Clarity?

All I know is that today, I couldn't write Renaissance if I tried. There would be more heartbreak. More gross, appalling hurt. No theatre, not even a small film. If this is a lesson, then universe, I am listening, but perhaps you won't mind if, just for a little while, I tune you out while I sip my tea and write something else this morning, because I am goddamned sick of death.