imaginarycircus

I just got home from the wedding in Martha's Vineyard. It rained all weekend, but not during the ceremony (which was outside.) The bride was the loveliest I have ever seen. She looked like a 30s movie star. The groom choked up when he saw her. Then I choked up because they are so sweet together. I clutched poor David's hand half to death.

I didn't write at all, which makes me anxious. I didn't read much, which makes me antsy. And I had not internet, which makes me feel disconnected. We saw enough TV to learn that the hurricane was bad, but not as bad as it could have been.

I got home and rolled on the floor with Wooster cat who was so happy to see us. And I loaded the NYTimes and WTF?! David Foster Wallace killed himself?! He was 46 years old. While I don't always love his prose and sometimes just want him to get to the fucking point--I respected him. He was incredibly smart and talented. What a fucking waste. I feel kind of ill.