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The USS RELIEF. Courtesy of Wikipedia

In 2016 I had a job in a building in West Los Angeles called TriBeCa West. It’s nothing like TriBeCa at all, but that’s what it’s called. The job was writing for a TV show. No one at the job liked me except two of the assistants and one assistant’s dog, who sometimes accompanied her to work. The dog was skittish and shy and rarely let anyone other than his main human pet him. But I was patient and had nothing else to do and eventually convinced the dog to sometimes allow me to pet him. This was a source…


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When I was young, we artists all commiserated about our failures and rejections. It was the lingua franca of a life in the arts. Bragging was considered bad form. Now we trumpet our successes, but keep the rest of it under wraps, each living with the shame of our failures alone. As I very often say, everyone posts the photo of themselves on their way to a #meeting at #Paramount #onthelot. No one posts the photo of the follow-up call three weeks later when they didn’t get the job. Or, worse, the call that never even fucking came at all.


Please be warned: this piece contains graphic descriptions of death

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When my father died, he was living in this place. I can never remember what this type of place is called. Board and care? Room and food? Board and a sandwich? Shave and a haircut? This was a place that was not exactly a retirement home and not exactly a nursing home and not exactly a hospice. It was as good as a place like this could be. It was a house in a residential suburb of Los Angeles with five or six bedrooms, each housing a person who needed…


Beginning, Revisiting, Ending, and Never Knowing

Flowers
Flowers

In late 2016 my father began to die. Although maybe we’re all dying, all the time, from the moment we’re born. In late 2016 my father began to die in earnest. Every week less of him was here, and more was wherever the dead go. He’d been fading for years. But by late 2016 the balance was tipped over an invisible line: less of my father was here than there.

My father was a complicated person. You could probably say we’re all complicated. My father was complicated in earnest.

My father lived in Brooklyn…

Sara Gran

Sara Gran is the author of multiple books, scripts, essays, pamphlets, rants, mysteries, prophecies, et cetera.

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