Is like a hurricane.Accidentally while comparing journal sizes and shapes, thinking of the Stifflexibles and writing to Italy, and Boston, I came upon my 1993-94 journal. This was a period in my life when I lived in Rhode Island, commuted to Boston every day, went through a series of terrible unpassable snow storms and advocated for those infected and affected by HIV/AIDS with funds from the Massachusetts Department of Public Health.
One of the few lighter moments in this draining year was taking a workshop at the Women's Theological. The workshop was held in the same YMCA building as my office so staying the extra few hours was not as difficult as it would have been if I had to transport myself across town or over to Cambridge, although the storms often kept me in town overnight and at Suz' house in that hamlet.
It appears that I wrote some tid-bits, essays, poems and a short biographical sketch on 7 March 94.
The notes also provide some information about what I was reading, the words that captured my imagination and the terror I ignored while so many of those people I worked with, ate with and talked to each day were suffering acute pain, showing signs of death and great spirit.
Occasionally I would go down to the Lyric Stage Theatre balcony and meet a friend who worked at the Boston Living Center. And if my memory serves, somewhere in the maze of papers I have is a story about what we said and how we felt about life and living over a cigarette.
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