1997 seems to be haunting me today.
It crept up behind me on the Radio, where the 9 at nine was about 1997.
It reminded me of The Castilian, my sophomore year, symbolic logic and calculus.
I remembered my hallway: the firings, the sexual tension, the beer, the antics, Mandy, Matt, Ryan, Justin, Christine, Renee, Sarah.
I remembered Fall in Pease park, cool and dusky and orange sweaters.
I remember the night when a neighbor showed me Hal Hartley’s great movie trust. I remember thinking that I had never seen an actress like Adrienne Shelley.
The hauntings continued when I found out that Adrienne Shelley had died. It was thought that she had committed suicide, but now it has come to be thought that she was murdered and it was made to look as such.