Trip Start Jan 16, 2007
Trip End Mar 01, 2007

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Flag of Cuba  ,
Thursday, February 1, 2007

I wake bewildered, a truck rumbling past my head. Strange walls, heat. Cuba, it suddenly occurs to me.

But in the predawn, it's not the island but dead classmates that occupy me. Mark Crawford, a high school character, died the day we left on our trip. As I packed clothes, blood packed in his head, an aneurysm.

What can you say about someone? Does a catalogue of features, shared experiences, convey anything real?

James Petterson. Enlarged heart, dead ten years now. Here, I have something -- funny moments, ridiculous slices of being idiotic kids: destroying Boston's "More Than A Feeling" in our first rock band; attempting to film a vampire film, without lights, in the dark room beneath the stairs; watching Deep Throat on an 8mm projector in his garage; stoned, walking miles to downtown in search of munchies. Shared experiences. All about me, really.

Roosters are crowing false declarations of dawn. I sit and think about the dead until the cries are true. The rapid day catches me up.

Mark Crawford annoyed me sometimes. Can I write that about someone dead? Is the truth necessary or just hurtful? Do I lack the courage to write things that are real? Mark didn't. That impulse to do what seems right in the moment, even if it might be wrong, he didn't lack. Maybe that's what irritated me sometimes. But whether what rubbed me was his conviction or the result of his actions...? Thoughts for another time, maybe.

The mariposa finch in the courtyard is calling. I can hear the baby waking. Lucy is singing her high-pitched squeals to the new day. Another elusive attempt at writing closes. My apologies to the dead, to Cuba, for how little I can say that is true about you.

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