Leonard Marshall

It's been a week of immense proportions.

I have not accomplished what I set out to do at the beginning of my vacation, though I began the endeavor nobly. Saturday morning I began in her bedroom, with her closet, but by late that afternoon I was fully distracted from my cause. It was due to a diary that I found once I moved from closet to dresser. A diary with a note directed for me which was in two parts very strange: first, it implied that I would go into an area that I was always instructed to stay out of (bedrooms have always been private Edens, invitation only) and second, it addressed the fact that she'd been murdered.

You'll have to be patient with me, it's been hard to absorb.

( Cut for the purpose of length )

It's a rare occasion that I feel embarrassed about something, so I don't have any particular qualms about attempting to explain my present situation. However, I have done it here not as a way of collecting pity or encouragement, but as a way of prefacing a request. The request is this:

I am looking for a man by the name of Adrian Nightingale. He would have graduated from Veritas in the late seventies. Any information that can be given as to his whereabouts would be greatly appreciated. Presuming that this is in regards to discoveries made while going through my mother's diary, you can probably guess as to the nature of this inquiry.

Thank you.

School has ended and thus begins my Spring Break. These words strangely raise summer-like connotations in most media I see; swimming in warm waters and warmer weather, drinks with umbrellas, dance music. I am still relatively young; I should be enjoying it with youthful exuberance.

Instead, I will set myself to finally divesting this house of my mother's artifacts. I believe I will need every minute the next ten days can grant me to get through it for numerous reasons. Primarily, I am predicting that my emotional state will not allow me to focus at a level required to keep me forced-grounded (which will mean I will lose any number of productive hours). Secondarily, she had a lot of stuff: boxes of things on high shelves in the basement, drawers that were locked. I'm worried that I won't do a good job of abandoning what can be abandoning and treasuring what is most treasurable.

Now, more than any time in my recollection, I wish I had a sibling that could execute where I so often fail. I don't possess the emotional fortitude and according level of detachment.

I love new york city

I'm sitting in a closet right now the only light I have is from the monitor of my laptop though I wish I could turn it off and exist in perfect unremarkable darkness like the opposite of bleach or searchlight or death

life is overwhelming here so wonderfully overwhelming and I can pull myself out of myself but its hard when I don't want to leave behind the experience

if I just keep writing maybe it will work like people and I can ride the gap between

no more tequila ever oh god my head feels like its full of bees and hairdryers and my throat is full of marsh grass and the wall in my head feels like quicksand

sleep? sure

I've been feeling... adrift I suppose is the word. Not so much lost- I know where I am, who I am, etc.- but rather untethered. Yes. Yes, I think that explains it well enough.

It's comparatively easier to reconnect with MECA students, but that is my own fault. I was comparatively easier to connect with there than I was at Veritas; an equivalent difference between the salt content of Maruchan Pork Ramen and the salt content of a chocolate cake. Perhaps that is an exaggeration, perhaps not- I never could get the hang of similes. Or metaphors. I forget which one this is.

But Veritas was a large part of my life, despite my seeming lack of interaction. I've always enjoyed new opportunities. This could be one, despite the... familiarity.

And I'm interested in seeing whether I'm remembered or not. I'd tend to say no, but I have no experience not remembering things of that nature.

It's amazing how by merely thinking about my time at Veritas I seem to regress back to being awkward.

This is I am Leonard Marshall, class of 2000. I'm teaching high school fine arts back in my hometown of Portland, Maine. Hello.

( I've got one! two! three! four! five! senses working overtime )