this is last week’s griefbacon, which you may have noticed didn’t arrive last week. I wrote most of it and then felt unsure about sending it. it’s about michael, and about brazenhead, and I’d already written about that in the last one, and I worried I was writing about all this too much. I never wrote about Brazenhead back when I actually spent time there, even though I always, always, always wanted to write about it. I thought that if I somehow got it wrong, I would reveal that I had never belonged in the first place, that I was not good enough or cool enough, smart enough or rigorous enough, and I would be found out, and never allowed back. This was the same reason, or one of them, that I didn’t go to Brazenhead often enough in more recent years, why I refused invitations to parties I should have attended, sometimes didn’t answer Michael’s texts, cancelled plans. I let my fears of my own insufficiencies, the shame I sometimes feel at my own rampant sentimentality, be the reason for not loving this place and this person as hard as I might have loved them. Anyway, I’m writing about it now, again.