Ideas

In discussion

“What if…” he paused for a moment to fully gather his notion, “what if we say Kurt Cobain killed himself but made it looklike murder?”

There was some generous laughter round the table. The man chairing the meeting smiled and nodded:

“That’s a twist at least… go on.”

“I mean, there are a number of ambiguous and contested facts around the Death of Kurt Cobain, the heroin dosage, the fingerprints, by which I mean the lack of fingerprints, the letter, and eyewitness reports in the days beforehand. The difficulty is motive, but…” he shrugged, “when has that stopped anybody from working up a theory…? People love a mystery and once they invest in, it will do anything to defend it…”

Someone chipped in.

“There really is no question of motive then?”

“What I’m saying” he replied, “is that we’re dealing with articles of faith. Conspiracism is a belief system in the proper sense of the word. All belief systems are strengthened by mystery… God moves in mysterious ways. Kurt Cobain killed himself for mysterious reasons.”

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On the One-Year Anniversary

On the one-year anniversary of my mother’s death, at the suggestion of my therapist, I sat down to write her a letter. I had a difficult time starting it and I could not understand why? I had written plenty of letters before — love letters, break-up letters, letters about heartache — but for some reason this proved to be more difficult. I had known and experienced heartache before but somehow this heartache, what I was asked to write about, was harder, deeper, and wider than anything that I could wrap my mind around. But, I also knew that the only way for me to work through the depth of my pain was to indeed write the letter.  The writer in me wanted to make it beautiful, make it perfect. But then I realized that the writer in me could not make sense of your death and so what you have below is the rawness, however imperfect, that I felt when I sat down to write this.

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Dear mommy,

I wondered this: what would I have said if I knew that that phone conversation was the last time, the last one. What would I have said if I knew that that would be the last rushed, “I’ll call you back” that I would ever say to you. What would I have said if I new that you would never see the complete production of the one thing that you never talked about — my novel — the one thing that I sat and talked to you about, the one thing that I knew I had in me but was so afraid to push out. I imagined that I was like you as I pursued the publication of my novel — afraid but hopeful.  I imagined that you dreamed along with me, fighting for those dreams even though you were prevented from realizing yours, the faraway sound in your voice indicative of your pain….

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