No bounds

I was going to spend this morning writing about the rites of passage I attended over the weekend (entailing sevteen hours of driving, to Los Angeles and back and to San Francisco and back). But the world is apparently a very bad and cruel place in which people like Octavia Butler die ridiculously young. I didn't realize she was so very young, actually: when I saw her speak she had so much gravitas I felt like a child in her presence, but in a good way, not a diminished way.

But, so, now, I'm diminished. I always wanted to put a book of mine next to hers, and be able to say to her face that she was a major reason why I could write it.

I did dance to "Wonderful World" (my father's theme song of the last few months) at my aunt Bati's 50th wedding anniversary and sing "True and Trembling Brakeman" with my brother at my father's memorial. John Spier said we should have sung "The Wabash Cannonball" and I assured him I sang that to my father in the hospital.

Luis used to sing that song to us for a lullaby, or a car song, when he was a brakeman.