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i heard my mom on the phone once, finding out her friend had leukemia... nu se poate (it can't be) was all i could make out. it can't be, it can't be... but it is, you know? it's hard to escape stories of people sick and dying, people in pain, in general - i know you guys are all touched by hurt, too, whether it's your own or that of other people. it's like all that stuff in the united states of leland: if you look deep enough into anyone's eyes, it's like there's this tremendous sadness, and they're just fighting to bury it under pta meetings and card games and status reports and facebook and shoes and books and movies and garbage.

i was thinking about how irrational love can be. i was thinking about how, when i sit beside nancy and no one's at home, i ask her, "are you happy?" and there is no earthly reason to hope that she will ever be happy, let alone be able to tell me that she's happy. how love is about hoping against all odds, without ignoring the sadness. i don't know what st. paul was on about, separating faith, hope, and love. i mean, you can argue with me if you really want, but i'm pretty sure those three aren't that distinct from one another.
 
my dad and i were talking about what it would be like to actually live each day as if it were your last. i joked that your friends and relatives would finally say, "listen, i get that you love me... you don't have to call every day and spend an hour on the phone with me, telling me how much you value me. i get it, i really, really do." sometimes i wonder if anything "practical" could get done if i took love seriously. maybe what scares me most about death is that there isn't enough time to really love people. maybe the beatles were right: eight days a week is not enough to show i care.