I'm not writing. I've been having these ideas in my sleep, or, rather, just before (or after?) I fall into sleep... and they are lost somewhere in there between waking and sleeping. They seem like good, narrative ideas for my book and I always think I should write these down because I will never remember. But I don't and so I don't. I owe a publisher a short story and a damn novel. I actually told him I'd write a novel. By April. It's January and I'm not writing. Kelley is at a funeral (why does funeral start with "fun"?) today. A friend of hers killed herself last week by jumping off the Manhattan Beach pier in the middle of the night. She left a note in her car saying something to the effect of "the world will be better off without me." She was a middle-aged musician who played first bassoon for the Carson Symphony. For a few years, Kelley played right beside her as 2nd bassoon. From what Kelley told me, she was a talented, very kind and humble woman who would help her out when she needed it. Offer advice on playing a certain part. Her brother also played in the symphony. She was married without children. A heavier black woman. She took care of her immediate family, because, as it turns out, she was the responsible one. She threw herself off the pier. Her body wasn't found for 2 days. I can't help but think of the effect her death has on everyone touched by the circumstances of it. Her husband, her brother, Kelley, the other musicians, the family that she cared for, the person(s) who found her bloated, lifeless body — no longer a talented, very kind and humble woman, but something scary floating in the water, a story for some people to tell for the rest of their lives and maybe even the lives of their grandchildren. "I long time ago, my grandmother found a dead body floating over there." "You're kidding?" "No, really just over there." Kelley's been crying a lot lately and last night she told me how confused she felt. That nothing made sense and the only things holding her together were Emmet and I. Why do we work so hard? Why did we even try to do anything? What can we do that makes sense? Why didn't she ask for help? I didn't have any answers. I just squeezed her hand hard. And I thought of the troubled souls around me. Yesterday a person I've just only recently met, Rick McCrank, told me and a couple of other friends over lunch, that last year was the year of the snake — a bad luck year. That this year would be better because it belonged to the horse... We all sat quietly for a few seconds then agreed that last year was bad and sighed that this year would be better. I looked at Rick and he seemed to really mean it. But I'm still not writing. —Andy, 1/15/02