#the valeries

I'll take care of it next week is the way my son eventually answered my question. He seemed incredibly stupid when he said that. It was one of the stupidest phrases I think I have ever heard uttered aloud, Jules, and I have heard many, many dumb phrases in my time as a state-appointed grief counselor. Not just lackadaisical or slackerish, but actually like a very dumb person. Shockingly stupid. My son, that is. Much more dumb than I would have ever expected any member of my family to be. Including my wife's troubled brother — a low functioning alcoholic who still lives in his childhood bedroom with my mother-in-law where he periodically slips into an alcohol-induced coma then loses his ability to speak for weeks at a time. In this instance, my son was able to speak, but his speech was about as meaningful as the garbled mush that falls from my brother-in-law's mouth during one of his bouts with wet brain.

For one, I have decided to eliminate any music that could give rise to emotions. When I began writing, I played music from my CD collection, but then I began to sense visages of Valerie in harmony and rhythm. Even the most rigidly minimalist house music filled my head with unbearable fantasies. My son coerced and abused in a techno club. It was a Brandenburg Concerto that ultimately prevented sleep for two nights, and I have avoided music ever since. I am certain Bach alone is not to blame, but under current time constraints, I see no option but to eliminate stimulation that might have any effect on my nerves.

In all honesty, Jules, at this stage I'm having some difficulties processing everything contained within Valerie's emails. I sense interference in the signal. The picture has become pixelated and punctured by static. It's as if the electricity powering her email account contains an intoxicant. An intoxicant that enters through the eyes, and shocks the nerves in such a way that a uremic plume is emitted from my pores. A sour cloud forced through my glands, flushed by hot shame. If I don't calm down, it may be impossible to construct some coherent narrative about what actually happened.

Forrest Muelrath, The Valeries