"True remorse is never just a regret over consequences; it is a regret over motive." -- Mignon McLaughlin

Looks like I'm due for a trip to Longshuihu village. That's right, boys, on your knees.

This week's COVER STORY in the San Diego Reader is written by ME.

Perhaps even more exciting, is the fact that my photo on my column is now IN COLOR. Okay, maybe it's not that exciting. But my column this week, about my niece bombarding my home, is almost as cute as she is.

The Calendar Event of the Week is the Student Shakespeare Festival, to be held at Balboa Park. Bummer I'm out of town this weekend, I'll miss that and Art Walk.

My week is becoming okay. Tonight I will spend some time with Dad, and I'm looking forward to that, as I always do. Yesterday, I bought some dresses and some hot, very high, patent leather heels. I'll make David take pictures of me this weekend so you can see for yourself.

Tomorrow, we're driving up to Santa Barbara for the weekend. I'm looking forward to it. To getting away, to escaping after such an emotional, sad week. I still have Waltzing Matilda stuck in my head, and I still can't get that last conversation, if you can call it that, with my beloved Uncle Gerry out of my head. I take comfort in my father's sentiment that Uncle Gerry is no longer in pain. Because when I tried to speak with him the night before he died, gasps of pain were the only words I heard.

When I return from Santa Barbara, I'm going to write a column about the amazing, endearing, fun-loving, and totally fucked up guy that was my Uncle Gerry. And how I came to be so close to him. I'm still getting used to the past-tense thing. It's a miserable way to have to correct yourself.

I leave you on this beautiful Thursday afternoon in the week a bad man-turned good went to sleep forever with a stanza from Tori Amos's song "China," that has been waltzing in my head right along with Matilda:

China, all the way to New York, I can feel the distance getting close. You're right next to me, But I need an airplane, I can feel the distance as you breathe.

I never said I wasn't a sentimental sap.

-Barbarella

previous | next