I�m slowly remembering this morning that I talked last night to my brother Dan. I think I must have been half asleep through the whole conversation. I have, once again, reversed my position on answering middle-of-the-night phone calls (I do it now) because I have decided that I would rather have Dan on the phone with me, drunk and nonsensical, than doing whatever else might occur to him.

So I was on the phone with him and I think he spent the entire conversation apologizing to me, which broke my heart a little bit more. I know the deep dark where he seems to live now. I�ve visited there�that well of horror and shame and despair that comes with too much alcohol too often. I remember the exact moment of the exact day that I quit drinking hard liquor because of that deep dark. And I know, too, that once you visit there it�s so much easier to go back and that my depressions have, ever since that moment, taken on more corporeal form, are more frightening and consuming. I want to pull him out. I told him that he has nothing at all to apologize for, that he shouldn�t feel bad about calling me, that I always want to talk to him. Of course none of this helped. I said, are you ok? And he then put on the fakest phoniest, �yeah! Of course I�m ok!� that I ever heard.

He�s nervous about the coming holidays. He said, �something evil is coming.� He said he didn�t want to come home but he would because he wants to see everyone except Oliver. Me too. It�s never been so clear a storm brewing. I�m nervous too. I told him I would be heartbroken if he didn�t come home. He changed the subject.

Every time we ventured up to a little bit of reality, he said, �Let�s not talk about that, that�s too real.� So we nattered on about things we�re reading and writing (he still writes for hours every day, even with this drinking) and he told me he finally read the Ted Chiang story I sent him and he gushed about how great it was and how happy he was that I read that story and thought it�d be one that he�d like (it�s a great story that I think anyone would like but it also has all this great linguistic stuff in it (his major, along with philosophy, minor=Korean) and it�s a science fiction story and he�s recently been writing science fiction stories). This is why I think he was so grateful: people treat him like all he is, is a drunk, a bundle of problems, a train wreck. He started to cry thinking about how happy he was that I sent him that story. Ok. That was probably the alcohol. Right. Got it.

I forgot when I woke up this morning that I�d talked to him. I forgot until just now, but I�ve been so washed in anxious worry and sadness. His slurred, drunk voice soaked my dreams.

I have to teach The Glass Menagerie today. I can�t bear the idea of teaching today. I just want to curl up and cry with the dogs.