Magi Loucks

Letters: left behind

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Treading water
within the mundane
hypnotized by the lulls
the familiar
I   feel     you

a dewdrop in an ocean
the familiar!

I float!


LetterstoDGL: six months, cont cont

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God my head hurts. So little sleep – so much thought – 

death of all

We’re all dying – slowly, viciously, ripped apart, with the minimal requirements for sustainment of existence

hussling, re-configuring, jerry-rigging parts to prolong it all.

Hatred? Not for God.

Minimal for those who could carry out such – no words here

Bafflement. Absence of understanding.



LetterstoDGL: six months, cont

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I hope I can be with you again. I’m scared, David. I’m scared of being alone. Isn’t that silly? I’ve seen my assumptions that I always would be change over the past few years and now I can’t go back to where I was before. I’m scared.

I don’t want to be alone – I want to have love, to share love, to share my life with someone who loves me as much as I them. I’m not sure why this comes up except that I miss you. You were helping me and now I don’t seem to know what to do.

I would give anything to change places, so you could stay. There’d be no grieving lover if I were gone. Less people would be so hurt, and you could continue your work.


LetterstoDGL: six months

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Sometimes, often, it’s much too difficult to write. I’m back in a state of distance, I think, but the last three weeks have been impossibly difficult. It all becomes so very disturbingly real.

On the seventh, I went to your grave. Six months. Just yesterday. There’s a benefit concerned planned for the sixteenth with the proceeds going to the production of your music.

It’s almost sick.

I don’t always feel that way, I’m must incredibly lonely right now.

You were always there – an open front door, an extra bedroom.

5:26 pm on Saturday (9/9), as I was at my Mac, spaced out a bit, I felt you. It was like I only noticed because you were leaving. I felt so good for the next few hours.


LetterstoDGL: hold on

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  • Super Grover
  • lava on the stairs
  • shark infested waters
  • Raggedy Anne doll
  • VHS tape on “Past Lives”
  • movies and the trattoria
  • Halloween costumes
  • pickle ball tournaments
  • lazer tag
  • Slim Whitman
  • the dryer
  • singing backup at the studio

1995-0711 ?

LetterstoDGL: refrigerator

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I haven’t written anything for two months… it seems strange but I was sort of avoiding things, I guess. At one point, I realized I’d been standing in front of the refrigerator looking at your picture for at least five minutes, convinced that I could call you to go and see a movie.  I walked around in a daze after that.

I haven’t been able to go to your grave for awhile now.

I want you to come home. Why can’t you come home?


LetterstoDGL: shock

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I think that I am still in shock. Nothing seems to make sense to me. I have seen the grave, yet it all eludes me. I think of my own death almost constantly, now unsure of my previous belief that I would die before __. Perhaps, after, that did come true.

Even my life’s present turmoil seems tiny. It can’t be David – my mind and heart cry – David, David, David! No, that’s too close.

I think of those that did this, that took him, and feel at most, pity. One or two brief spasms of rage have passed, but mostly pity. Perhaps that, too, is a stage.

A torrent fills my soul; a storm occupies the space where my heart once was; a blistering migraine has replaced my brain. I feel nothing. A sickness coming over me that needs to be expelled, exorcised – an anger, a grief I don’t dare feel for by god I’ll supernova.

His songs are in my ears and on my lips – ones I wanted to record – we – but now couldn’t possibly.

I’m stuck in a re-run I can’t turn off.


LetterstoDGL: beach

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How strange that at this picture*, I am actually at a beach. I’ve missed sunset, but the sky is still blushing over the Olympics.

People are out here, living: frisbee, volleyball, even two children playing tag with a dog. And I sit here alone, and wonder when the pain will end.

The once soothing waves now seem to be repeating a mantra of “death, death, death.” I’m half waiting for them to engulf me.  Hoping.  Did I use that word? Yes.  Hope only makes sense when the situation is hopeless, to paraphrase Greeley. And what is it exactly I’m hoping for?  It’s too late now.

A boy just threw a chunk of wood into the water. It bobbed, was tossed, then repeated the process.  It’s slowly working its way up the beach. Why does that make me cry?




*the opposing page of the journal is a photograph of a beach, the tide in.

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