My friend Eric posted this link on Twitter: A Holocaust Survivor’s Hardboiled Science Fiction

Lem is probably best known in the United States for his novel “Solaris” (1961)—the basis for sombre, eerie movies by Andrei Tarkovsky and Steven Soderbergh—about a distant planet where a sentient ocean confronts human visitors with a manifestation of a person whose memory they can’t get over.

Emphasis mine.

It struck me because I thought about the past month or more and how the memory of Edna Voegele seems to have faded, blacked out of my memory. A year or so ago, the memory was remarkably vivid. Part of me fears for my memory, yet another part of me is celebrating the belief I have excised her from my memory much like Lacuna removed memories of Clementine from Joel's mind.

I earnestly hope it's the latter.

monday night

Monday was a bad head day for me. For most of the day I had a low-grade headache which exascerbated my feelings of hopelessness and depression. Work was easy, went food shopping I was home early, and my day was wrapped up around six p.m. Rather than hitting the sack early, I went to Johnny Mac's in Asbury to drink pineapple juice and write.
First writing was about getting my life in order, assuring myself that it's only been seven months, and what needs to be done. After that I ruminated upon a situation with one of my friends that I don't know if it needs to be addressed or not. I could hear my therapist in my head saying, basically, "It's your choice, Chris. You know what is right." As I wrote in my notebook that's why I know I have a good therapist, but it's also extremely annoying. Finally I spent about an hour writing seven pages of a story that's been banging around in my skull for some time. Kinda realized I can dovetail this story with two other stories which pleased me. Also I downloaded a PDF of words from the Leni Lenape language, pulled out some interesting terms, then found an article about the history of the Jersey Devil which intersected with my interests and set about writing. Reckon Calliope was with me, but I wasn't raping her like Erasmus Fry nor Richard Madoc. After this writing jag, I understood how writing is a process and it can't all be perfect in the first draft.
Especially if there isn't a first draft yet.
But it's all about revision, revision, and revision.

Also writing.

I'm home now. I think tonight helped me, but I dunno if I'll feel like spending $6 on three pineapple juices tomorrow. Maybe I'll just close the laptop, stow it away, and try to write here.

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