I'm at home now for lunch. I've been thinking a lot about this entry that Frances wrote, which will break your heart if it hasn't already.

The last bit she has there, this bit:

Postcard from Todd, after he'd moved to Cleveland,

"English, you know, is the only language I can speak. However, when I listen to songs in Spanish, I feel like that's my native tongue. This, despite the fact that I haven't a clue what's being sung, or what it means. And sometimes the instruments sound oddly tuned, like somehow speaking in Spanish around them affects their timbre. Or maybe it's just the Mexican air that does it. There must be a rational explanation, but I surely don't want to hear it."

This is the last thing I have in my journal from him, and there's nothing else that I can find from June.

I ache each time I read this or think about it.

(Time for some meta-guilt: I hope it's ok that I just quoted that. I know I just linked to the entry up top. I want those words here, too, though. Forgive me, Frances?)

I'm thinking it's all right that I'm feeling blue and funkish today. My life doesn't have the same intensity when I'm feeling good and happy (which, of course OF COURSE is to be preferred to down and out like I am now--I don't want to be a person in love with despair and melancholy and that romantic rot). Sometimes I need to really feel all the sad parts and the worn parts and the wrongness of me and the world.

What did I have to say? I had something I needed to say about listening to songs in Spanish, but I don't know anymore.

In my old journals I never talk about my life. I only wrote about great philosophical crap and I wish I could reach back down to my 20-year-old self and tell her to write down the important things--who did I talk to? Who did I love? What did I do during the day? Those are the parts I can't remember, the parts I miss.