Today something sparked my memory and i decided to look up Father Luigi on Google. I was really surprised to find some youtube videos of him being interviewed on Brazilian tv about some Catholic stuff. He's the director of a university, a different position than when he last visited here in 1994. It was great to hear his voice again, so familiar and comforting. Meeting and knowing him was a highlight in my life. But it really hurt me that i'm not able to show my mom the videos. I wish so much that she could be here. Who else can i share this with? Who really knows what this means to me?

He's a part of my past like she's a part of my past. Good times in the past. Never to be regained.

Every day that i leave my apartment i start anticipating the moment i can go back home. While i'm at work, i can't wait until i get back home. Sometimes i go shopping at the end because it provides a comfort that i don't find anywhere else, but my favorite place, or maybe the place i need the most, is my bedroom.

I joined a great Facebook group called "please don't jump" in response to a postsecret.com message about someone who was planning to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge this summer. I found a link on ONTD of all places, and i'm so glad that i did. There are many inspirational and loving messages posted on the wall of the group.

One of them was a link to a Facundo Cabral youtube video. I'd forgotten how much i love his words. And of course i remember that my mom loved him. We both enjoyed his songs and the wise words we'd hear him say on television. I wish i'd gotten a chance to take her to see him.

I stayed home from work yesterday because i hurt my back. I slept for about 6 hours during the day. When i woke up i remembered various dreams i'd had with my mom. They were actually good, comfortable, happy dreams (not the nightmares i had last week) and it hurt me more than usual to wake up from them. Sometimes i wake up happy that i dreamt with her. Sometimes, like yesterday, it sucks to wake up and be in this world in which she's dead.

I bought a beautiful journal when i went to the ICFF with Jes in May. It's a book of blank pages, except all the pages have photographs of walls on them. They look like NYC walls. So it's like your own personal graffitti canvas. So far i've only written a couple of things in there. But i just sat here and looked through the whole book. It's amazing how blank, bare walls with only the pattern of the bricks or paint can tell entire stories. Almost all of those walls look familiar to me. And they each trigger a movie in my head, of my mother and me in the city. Lots of images come from photographs i've seen. Also from stories i've made up in my head based on stories i was told about photographs i've seen.

I'm having trouble not living in the past. Dr. H asked me if it's possible for the present and the past to co-exist, or to reach a kind of harmony. I said the answer was no.

I think i can live in the present and there are many things every day that draw my attention and engage my brain and heart. But my soul also keeps pulling back into the past. Like i don't deserve to live in the future. Like it's my duty to stay in the past.

I have to fight to stop not caring.

I wonder when i stopped caring. Maybe high school. 8th grade? I gotta think about that.