Would That I Might

As a person with my disabilities, I often need assistance in certain kinds of tasks.  This is the reason that I hired Freesia McKee to help with my submissions.  That has been a very positive partnership, in many ways, though it has not been as fruitful in terms of getting work accepted as I had hoped.  At this time, however, Freesia has decided to step away from a lot of the side work she's been doing, in order to focus on her own writing, career, and life.  While it is hard for me, I understand the decision, so I am working on finding someone else who can offer me the same type of help going forward. One suggestion I was offered was to contact a company that offers support for writers.  I spoke with someone who was very nice on the phone.  I expressed to her the kinds of assistance I need, and even expressed some of my reservations about working with her company.  When we talked, she mentioned a number of aspects to their process that seemed like they might be fruitful, and sugge

All Day There Has Been Darkness even at noon, the light was dim as though the day were hours older, were dimming into night already, but it was noon.  There was no rain, not then, not for hours, but it was already dark.  Now, it rains, now, as the darkness meets its proper time, the clouds have begun to melt, but it is too late, the sun has rolled away from this apex, is reaching other lands. Tomorrow, I hope tomorrow it will be brighter.

As a person whose disabilities are invisible to others, I often feel as if the world is gaslighting me.  I cannot really tell what is or is not true for others, what is unique to my own perception and interaction with the world.  Is this task easy or hard?  If I ask for help, how will I be judged?  Is the problem I have the same as the one another person thinks it is?  To offer an example, I have had times when I try to explain to a person my difficulties using a certain bit of technology and had them respond that they don't like it either and find it hard to use, but the problems I am having may or may not correlate with the difficulties the other person, who is attempting to be sympathetic, may have, and I can't necessarily explain the difference.  Consider that a person who is able bodied might slip on a floor, but that does not mean a person who has a physical impairment won't have more difficulty with the same surface, or that the person who fell know the issues the ot

I Told Her It Was No Good, that if this happened it would be wrong, would harm me, but it did not matter: my being harmed was not important. And now: I am harmed, am wounded, have pain from what was done, and she only says I must make it work. She tells me  it hurts too much to see me in pain, but nothing can change so it is up to me to not be hurt, to remain here where I am trapped, where she trapped me, but make her know it is alright and she did nothing at all that could be considered any kind of wrong.

I am feeling very lost right now.  The fact that I can't get anywhere with my writing has been very difficult, and yet, when I consider alternatives, I so often just find myself spinning around in circles, coming back to the same set of problems.  In truth, I do not have the energy or desire to find alternatives.  Having to find alternatives already feels like it is defeat.  What I want is a way to make measurable progress towards my actual goals, and I am aware that is not an option.  I feel, more and more, that I am just lost.  This is about so much more than just the writing, but it feels as if that is the metaphorical example I can describe, but I feel that, in many aspects of my life, I have been guided to make important, irrevocable decisions based on trusting people I am close with, only to find that the support that they offered when providing that guidance was a lie.  Once it is too late, then it becomes clear, and even more, any comment seeking the support is either dismi

I Do Not Want to Step on The Scale at The Doctor's Unless I Am Promised It Will Work That scale has a hard limit and I am on it, my measurement balanced on an edge between what the doctor's scale can weigh and what it cannot, and I do not want to be told by a scale I am too fat even for it.

I often have a lot of positive support from people in terms of my writing.  In groups of writers, I always have a sense that my work is respected, and when I discuss the projects I am pitching, the response is usually quite favorable, even from those in the industry.  I've had several agents turn down my first novel with comments indicating that they believe it to be valid and ready, but are not certain they would be the right person.  In one case, I had a full request in which the agent made clear to me that they had read the entire book, but still declined.  When I talk about this, people tell me that agents never read a full book unless they are interested in representing it, so I take it as a positive sign.  Perhaps it was just impossible for her not to finish it, or I can hope so.  I don't say any of this to brag, as it is all rather insignificant in any real sense.  I've nothing to show for it, no results, no professional accomplishments.  But this is, in many ways, t

Fog Once we were in such fog it was a blanket that covered our eyes like children in bed, but the only fear we had was of the blanket, of not seeing before us, but somehow we made our way, led others to safety as well. I remember the fog then, remember it always, a cold upon me that I was certain would not be gone, that would always cling. Even now, my skin chills just the thought and I wonder is it still there.

I have a bunch of new submissions out this week, and I am still waiting to hear back from the agent I  queried.  At the same time, I am considering other ideas about how to step outside or beyond the known route.  I have been doing things "the right way" according to those I know, and it has been difficult, and largely fruitless.  I do not want to rely on luck or happenstance.  I know that, when I speak with people about my work they are interested, and Inhave had positive responses from many readers.  I believe in my work itself, I just need a path forwards that allows me to get my work out there in a real sense.  I am still working to do things in all the ways I have been taught, but I need to do more, even if I am not yet certain what that is.

I Do Not Trust The Signs Tonight, I think they lie or are nothing, not signs at all, but I worry: are they only signs if I believe them?

As a writer, one of the things which most interests me is the things that language can do that go beyond simple communication.  I tend to consider language as an essential tool internally, with communication as an important, but secondary, function.  We use language far more to regulate internal experiences, to categorize aspects of what we encounter in the world in ways that we can manipulate intellectually.  As such, I tend to wonder what language is capable of that is not part of the communicative process.  I mean to say, I think that their are additional elements to our experience of language that are outside the norms of linguistic interaction, but exist more as parts of our own mental processes.  When I consider the question of attention, for example, I wonder if their is a difference between perceiving an object and thinking of the language to describe it.  I think that moment of having language for whatever it is, is also the point of noticing.  That is to say, one can be uncon

It May Be So, may work might just be the way I must go, and I will do it, I will carry myself through this, if I must, I will, but why must it be that I must? Why is my plot in the garden the one always needing the most tending to grow anything but weeds? I have seen others do as I have done, follow the path I followed, but it leads to a destination for them.  Why  can't I do it that way? I will do the work, because I know I must, but I still ask why it is my work to be done at all?

I have been considering the question of attention, of how it is a person's focus is attracted to one thing over another.  It is clear, I think, that attention is a step in a process.  First, their is exposure to the stimulus, then there is awareness of it, then it becomes noticed, then it is attended.  Exposure is obvious: the stimulus is present.  Awareness is the initial response to that stimulus, before it reaches conscious notice.  Once it has been noticed, it can be attended.  That is the point when there is some degree of real conscious choice.  We do not decide to notice a thing, but we can choose to keep paying it attention.   I think that these earlier layers impact that choice, though I can't explain that intuition beyond the knowledge that repeat exposure impacts the response to a stimuli in positive ways.  I have to consider more and look at it from other perspectives before I can develop a real understanding.  

Let This Be An End so their may be a beginning. What is so now, allow it to fade.  It is not good, not any longer. I do not know what is to come, cannot say what will be, but there must be something, must be a beginning, a start to whatever will be, let this end so it may come to be.

I know I do not have the power to change things for the better right now.  I don't have that capacity.  Even in terms of my life, I feel stuck in a situation that is not improving, and which I don't feel any ability to escape.  This is true for me in regards to many areas right now.  Some of it has to do with family and personal matters, some is with my career.  I know that their are those who will tell me it is just that I am not doing this or that, or that I need to be more patient and wait, but I keep putting energy out, making an effort, and getting nowhere.  I need to find a way to actually get results that help me, and not just putting my energy in without any meaningful results.  I've tried for so long to base things on measuring the effort itself, and all that it has proven to me is that I've put in a lot of effort without anything coming back.  I can't continue on feeling powerless this way, but I don't think I have any choice.  I want to find new optio

Your Words Are Not Enough You will say you understand now, but only because it is too late, because you have what you want, have taken it, have changed things so it must be this way, and now you say you understand, now that it is too late to return  to what was. It is already done, and now you want to know it is alright, that I forgive you, because you understand, now that it is too late, I must know  you understand.

Earlier today I received some information about a program designed to help writers with achieving their goals.  The goal is to provide support and accountability for writers, and I am sure many who use the service find it helpful.  The problem, though, at least for me, is that this, like most supposed support, is only focused on self-directed actions.  That is to say, it is about setting tasks and achieving them, not about actually progressing towards a goal in a real, measurable sense, unless that goal is fully internal.  It might help a writer who is blocked or has difficulty getting certain work done, but as someone who is doing the work and still struggling to move forward, I wish I could find real help, not just a person to cheerlead my efforts so that I stay on track.  I feel as if the only point of this kind of help, with the attitude of keeping your creativity going without even considering the need for external measures of success, as a kind of trap, to be honest.  It feels li

The Nurse Spoke of Me out of turn, made the comment when she did not know I could hear, disparaged me for my obesity, and now: I do not feel safe there. The doctor made her apologize, but it is not enough, not when she says   she is sorry that I heard, nothing at all about what her role as the one who spoke, no recognition that it would be worse to not know who she is.

In exploring deep learning and neural network programming, certain interesting things begin to become apparent.  As I have studied the ways these systems work, it becomes clear that what the computer is being programmed to do is to remove information, to filter out data.  That is, the computer is learning by deleting irrelevant features.  All of the information is present from the start, but the noise, the irrelevancies, must be extracted to leave behind what is meaningful.   This seems, to me, a very deep realization about knowledge, but I am not certain how to explain what it seems to be suggesting.  It points towards the idea that learning is not acquisition, but is, in some sense, the opposite.  I can't quite piece it together yet, but I am sure there is more here.  I do not know if what I have said here will sound like anything more than repetitious nonsense, but it is that way, sometimes, when a new understanding is beginning.

Can It Be True This Time or is it, again, just illusion? I want to trust, to look and say, "oh, yes, it is so, it is real," but I remember this, remember feeling certain. when it was not solid, when the next step was through the floor. But would I notice anything if I were certain it could never happen?

I had a dream last night that I know involved a discussion with a literary agent about my novel.  As I mentioned, I've begun querying again, so it is not surprising that I would be thinking about this and having such a dream.  I can recall the agent who I was talking with, and it is a real person, someone I would be interested in working with.  I remember, in the dream, that they had read at least part of my novel, and I am certain we were discussing it.  That much I recall.  The thing that is making me crazy, though, is that I cannot recall if they liked it or not.  I am certain that they told me, in the dream, if they wanted to represent me and the book or if they were not interested, but I cannot remember that answer.  It is quite funny to me that, even in my dreams, it is so hard to get a clear answer about such things, but I am also attempting to convince myself that it was positive, and perhaps, even, a portent of good things on the way.

Too Many Times I give to you the time that should be mine, I let you take it, disrupt days, unmake plans because I think you will be glad, will appreciate the effort, but it is clear you do not see that, it is only expected, and still I continue. I must learn, must stop, must make you notice what is missing.

For some time I have worried about book signings.  I know, it is quite premature, considering I've not been able to get even a poem published since 2019 and do not have any reason to anticipate, at this moment, a book of my work will be forthcoming anytime soon.  Still, it is a matter that worries me.  I recognize the significance of an author signing their books, how that interaction and the physical record of it in the form of an inscription is a powerful aspect with a literary tradition.  I am a collector of signed books and cherish my own experiences meeting the poets and writers who's work I care about.  All of this is important to me.  I want to take part in this ritual from the opposite end, one day.   The problem is, however, as a person with the issues I have, the act of signing books for a prolonged time would be physical and mental torture.  Dysgraphia, the specific condition that impacts this, is a cognitively based disability that specifically impacts handwriting. 

The Answer Is What I Cannot Do He knows already the inherent difficulties I have with coordination, spatial awareness, fine motor skills, the indelicacy of my motion: he knows all this, but when I speak of my annoyance at how often things break, how the electronics I buy do not last well, refuse to continue charging in protest to the inept jabbing that is my only method of coupling the chord with its intended port, his answer is to be more careful, to control my motions in the way others do who are not encumbered by a brain like mine.

I've been contemplating ideas for how to go rogue as a poet and use guerilla tactics to get my work out there.  I've been working hard to get things going in traditional ways, and I am still making that effort, but I have to wonder what I can do to take initiative for myself, and how I can do that in a way that is truly my own.  I can imagine printing up poems and getting them out there.  In high school, I went to a bookstore and discovered a book that wasn't part of the stores inventory.  It had been dropped onto the shelf for whoever found it, with a note from the author explaining this.  I don't think I would want to do that, exactly, but the idea of distributing books for free is one I want to explore.  I like the idea of creating some sort of mystery around the work somehow, with it coming from nowhere.  The point is to do something theatrical that people will notice.  As a some-time magician, I have to wonder at making it a sort of trick.  I do not know if any of

Of Course Batman Doesn't Go Down Think what it took to make that too rich white boy into any kind of hero, and how even so, witness to his own orphaning, he is still just fighting to heal his own trauma, to channel unstoppable rage: doesn’t it just make sense he’s not the kind of guy that thinks of doing things to bring other people pleasure.

Circumstances over the last few months have made me feel very trapped.  This is not only the sense of being insulated and isolated of the pandemic, but also related to other issues.  Those who frequent this blog will think about my difficulties, at present, with rejections for my writing, and that is a factor, but as well, I am dealing with other issues, particularly some centered around my home and relationships with my family.  The thing is, that sense of being trapped has also got me feeling stuck in my writing.  I am down and often can't get myself to do a lot of work on things beyond a short piece or a poem that I know I will draft to the end.  Even more, the themes that I am dealing with all feel very derivative of the current circumstances.  Well, not all of them, as I do find things to right about at times, but most of my writing, and I even wonder at the influence on these other pieces.  One cannot separate the work from life: their is always a reflection between them, and

I Am Waiting and waiting only just began, and I must wait: they say you will wait, say it is weeks of waiting. I knew already it would be weeks for me to wait, but even so, I am looking always for the response that I know will end all my waiting, or perhaps, if it goes well, will mean waiting more for the next response.

 I am gearing up to query agents about representing novel once more, as I mentioned, and I am quite anxious, but I have one agent in mind who I feel a strong sense about.  It may be silly, to be honest, but I am trying to be optimistic if only to get myself in gear.  I've had so many experiences sending work out that are less than ideal, and I am timid about it.  In the past, I've messed up in terms of minor aspects of an agents request and had work that was dismissed out of hand as a result.  I think, at times, it hasn't even been a person, just an email filter seeking out an exact subject line, for example.  For me, that feels very much like walking a tightrope, and I have been very reticent about getting back out there, so, though I know I am probably setting myself up for disappointment, I am following my sense that this agent is a good match and someone who would be open to my work.  Even if it is not true, sending out again, I believe, will be a valuable step in my jo

Coincidence Or Serendipity? I see the pattern, see things aligning and I think it is important, has meaning, the universe pointing or just my mind noticing, connecting, I do not know. I see it, though, and I hope, maybe I am a fool, but I see it and hope this matters, that it is a sign my actions  will not, this time bring about nothing. 

Earlier this week, I mentioned an incident in which a creator I have long followed and sponsored presented some content that I found upsetting.  I discussed that I had sent a message and was saddened to not receive a response.  Well, I am glad to say that I finally received a reply today, and it was very thoughtful and understanding, expressing a true effort to understand the issues I brought up.  I am very moved by this, though I am still a bit upset that it took as long as it did.  I cannot help but reflect on the fact that I only received this response after I had taken the step to end my financial support.  Now, it may well be that this is coincidental.  The email suggests that they had been attempting to educate themselves on the issue, and I want to believe that the delay was part of an effort to craft a thoughtful response.  I do wish, assuming that to be the truth, that they had reached out if only just to say they had received the message, and asking for time to offer a real r

We Buried The Bird Who We Found in The Pool Melissa wrapped it in the palm leaf that floated there beside it.  At first, I did not see it was a bird, only the darkness, the feathers floating, a small lump of debris, but then, small detail of its reaching feet, the beak, the open eye. It is buried now, has left the sky, has been laid within the earth.

Melissa and I had a call with the hospice staff that is caring for her mother in Ohio and had to discuss end of life care, including making decisions about her code status and whether to issue a DNR.  Unfortunately, Ann, Melissa's mother, has become bed ridden and needs full time care, but she is not happy in the nursing home.  She has dementia and does not really understand that she needs care.  At this point, she has not been able to get into a wheelchair in some time, and even when they attempt to adjust her position in bed, it leads to intense pain.  At the same time, Ann is convinced she can get up and in her wheelchair on her own, and that they are keeping her from going outside for no reason.  The thing she most wants is to go outside.  We had discussed getting her some sort of mobile device other than a wheelchair which might accommodate her in a prone position, but it is not really feasible at present because of the pain that transferring her out of bed would produce.  The

Seen And Unseen My mother  did not notice that I had shaved, but did see the pain on my face. How odd, it took a change she did not see to notice what before she would not see.

A few months ago, I began to notice some content from a creator whom I have supported for many years that I found rather upsetting, as it drew (I am certain unintentionally) upon concepts that are built on anti-Semitic tropes.  For many years, as I said, I had been a supporter of this work with a significant monthly donation, so I decided to reach out.  I was not attempting to shame or scold, but to start a conversation.  The work at the heart of this is audience involved and their is always a focus on the supporters of the work, even a sense that they are considered to be part of a family with the team that works on the actual content.  I did not know that they would be receptive to my criticism, but I did expect, at the very least, to receive a response. After not hearing back for some time, I reached out again, this time using a direct contact for a member of the creative team.  Again, I heard nothing after a prolonged period.  At this point, I decided to contact the membership coor

I Do Not Know Why It Is Broken It does not work. It was working, but now: no. What changed? I mean, what besides not working, what changed to make it  not work? There is a reason, isn't there, a reason for breaking, or is it only that it knows  it is mine? Did it stop working because it know it belongs to me?

As I mentioned last night, I am trying to psych myself up to send out some queries regarding my novel.  I've come to understand a great deal more about the book itself, and how to explain it, I think, as well as how to present myself in relationship to the work.  One thing that I have come to realize is that, although the book is not explicitly about dyslexia, it is about aspects of my experience of the world as a person who is dyslexic.  I also think it is important to explain that the book is a subversion of autofiction, using a veneer of personal exploration to allow entry into another type of fictional space.  The book begins with me, the author, and explores the origin of this novel, but quickly becomes surrealistic, presenting a series of increasingly ominous dreams that demand the creation of the book.  A large part of the intended tension has to do with why the dream beings seem so insistent, why it matters to them, and the question of what this means for the reader.  Indee

He Tells Me It Will Take Hours if it even works.  He will try it, will let it go again, but it will take hours, maybe all the night. I must wait.  I will not know if it has happened, will be uncertain if it is continuing or has ceased in failure. I will not know, will not be able to know until he tells me, and I do not think he cares so much as I do.

I have been writing more prose pieces lately.  Most are short, and several have been explorations into issues surrounding disability.  I have a few others I really need to work on, and I am thinking that I want to attempt querying with my novel again, though that is always a bit daunting.  I've been doing research though and I think that I've found some good leads, so it feels that it might be the right time for this.  I want to be proactive, and waiting for acceptances is just not cutting it.  I don't know if attempting to get the novel published will succeed, but I feel very strongly about the manuscript, and even though I've not had any success in getting an agent, I've had a lot of supportive responses.  I do think that getting some other work published first will be helpful, of course, but it is not as if I need to stop doing one thing to consider the other.  It is more a matter of getting myself focused by setting aside my nervousness around the process.

A Fresh Face When the cat died, I stopped shaving. It was a choice, not just a decaying, not an absence of action. I stopped, let strands of grief accumulate all about my chin, my cheeks.  I hid myself with that thicket. It had been a choice, but then, I never chose again, I stopped considering it, just allowed inertia. I was still hurting.  I am still hurting, though it is not only the cat, is so much now, is the world now, and I have not shaved, have worn it still, kept my face unkempt, a wild brown brush to always be behind, but I wonder what good it is to go on this way, to keep it growing. I chose to start this, but if I do not choose now, if I do not decide to clear it away. I must choose, though I carry pain, I choose tonight that I must shave.

I've been making some progress in my programming journey.  There are still many things I need to get clear, but I am learning a lot, and I think I have a very good understanding of the concepts behind the work I want to do.  I may not yet know the mechanics, but those are becoming clearer to me as I work and learn.  I've gotten to a point where I am at least on a platform that seems to be working, even if it limits me in other ways, and I am sure that, over time, I will come to understand how I can expand towards my original conception.  The thing I want to figure out, right now, is how to automatically prepare textual inputs from the internet, as I think that would allow me to actually get an initial prototype started.  This is largely a workaround for the fact that I don't feel comfortable uploading my writing to the cloud, but I think it will also open up other possibilities for me, as there is so much written content that I can explore.  I have a strong idea of how I wa

I Miss That Lizard One week, each day when I sat outside, a lizard would come to join rest upon my foot. I would look down and see it there, staring back at me. I do not know why, what drew it to sit there on the toes of my shoe, but it would appear each day.  It went on at least a week, it could be longer, but one day, it was gone. I do not know what happened, if it was taken by some bird or had an accident, or just decided it was done with me and my shoe, but I think we were friends, maybe. 

 I am getting closer to being able to write certain pieces that I have struggled with for a long while.  In some ways, writing them is more about liberating myself to tell the truth about aspects of my experience.  It is, in part, the need to let myself stop bottling up things, which is connected to that tendency I often have to use cleverness as a cover.  There is, beyond that, the learning that I know I can gain by wrestling with these things on the page.  I do not know, right now, what that work will be, or even how I will feel about sharing it, as it is about things that still scare me to discuss.  I want to trust that I will arrive at something of value in the work itself, but, if not, I am certain the process will be liberating itself.

The Evidence When, during dinner, she tells my brother she does not agree that he is "laid back," he must text his friend at that same moment so they can offer the opinion he wants to hear.

I wish that I could find a way to use social media that was not so draining for me.  There are aspects of Twitter that I see and wish I could feel more involved with, but I find it so difficult to even use the platform that it just drains me.  This is true in all the various social networks I've looked at.  The interfaces are all designed in ways that I find entirely confusing and non-intuitive, and I find it impossible to do even basic things without great stress.  The issues I have with hand-eye coordination and spatial reasoning make it very taxing.  Their are times when I want to post something, but by the time I am able to find the app and get whatever set up, I am not able to remember my original intent.  I will see a post and want to reply, but will get flustered just dealing with the interface and will quit in frustration.  What is even worse, I feel ashamed writing this, because I know others who don't have my experiences often think what I am claiming is silly, or wil

Has It Changed What was wrong always seemed the worst suffering, but it was not, not here. It was less, though we felt harm, it was less. We did not see. We should have, but we looked only at the walls around us, while others lacked what we never noticed we had in abundance.

I received my 150th and 151st rejections in a row today.  It is never fun, and I am rather down about it.  I want to be hopeful, to believe that things will change, I need some evidence of that.  I was told when I started receiving rejections, get a hundred and you are sure to get some acceptances, but I am their and half again with nothing to show for it, and I still here the same things from everyone.  It is not the same situation for me as it was when I started.  It is at a point where I cannot reasonably believe that it is random.  I've gotten many positive and encouraging comments along the way, but it has meant nothing in terms of the actual trend, and I don't know how to keep going.  That stopping would be the same as deciding to just die is the only reason I keep on with it, if I am honest, but I need a way to feel real progress in terms of my actual career that I cannot find without some degree of actual success.  If I can't find it, the only other option that feel

Cicada Poem Do you think the long sleep of the cicadas is a waste?  All those years resting in a womb of earth, waiting in their slumber to rise: so many years of it. It seems sad and strange, so long to wait for life and then, the single day with sun and air and pleasures of the flesh, it seems a waste, life unused, wasted.  But, I wonder if the world maybe is the dream of cicadas, if they must sleep it into being, imagine them, deep below us, minds conjuring the world, dreaming all this,  until they wake to turn the dreaming over to their soon born successors.

Early this morning, I was sitting in the kitchen having breakfast and something ran by really fast.  I did not get a good look, but it had seemed, from the corner of my eye, like a small dinosaur.  Of course, living in south Florida, many lizards show up in the yard all the time, but their had been something odd about whatever I had glimpsed.  It was not a real look, though, so I figured it must have been in my mind, but a few minutes later, I again caught a bit of motion.  I got up and looked and saw a small lizard sitting on the ground.  It did not look like any of the species I normally see around here, with a darker set of markings, and a somewhat different body shape.  It was then the lizard jumped up and ran off on its two back legs.  It was a juvenile brown basilisk, the species known as the "Jesus Lizard".  I've never seen one around here before, but I gather that they are making their way north from Mexico.  Melissa is rather upset, as it does eat local vertebrat

The Damage Done There was a chance that I might have had for things to be good, for this place to be good. It could have been, and I trusted that might be, I wanted it to be true, so I trusted you, but you did lied, did what you wanted even when you knew, maybe because you knew, maybe to hurt me. I do not know.   It is how it feels, and you say now, it is too late to change it, but I should be fine now, because you understand, yes, you understand now that it is too late, that you have made this place so unsafe: it can only be a house, it is not a home, will not be one. But you say to me I should accept it because it cannot change, and now you know better, now you have learned, so it is not fair of me to still be hurt because of how it makes you feel.

 A friend of mine stopped by this evening who has some experience with coding and offered to look at the code I've been attempting to get working on my computer.  He was able to resolve certain errors, and we got through a portion of the problem, but he had to shrug his shoulders up at a point and say he had no idea what the problem was.  I think it may be that I need to do more digging and find other options to do what I am attempting.  There are also some options that I am considering, in terms of how to do the actual work in the cloud, using available resources that are already configured for what I am attempting.  There are certain aspects of the way I was going about this that I would want to alter, but I have some thoughts on how to get around the issues I was finding.  There may be a possibility that I can get a version of what I am attempting to do running in that environment, and it would bypass the issues I've faced setting up an appropriate coding environment. It is

Another Chance to Start It is beginning, I think, it might be, but I have been wrong about beginnings, but I am here. I want to go, to not wait for the turn, disappointment, it has come before and I wish to leave so it cannot arrive, to beat it out the gate, bu: I will not.  It may be this is the beginning, if not, it is still new. If I stay: something begins.

I often find myself very flustered when I attempt to write about my life, or about topics which feel personally important, and I want to gain a better understanding of this.  I'll have the impulse to erase what I have already written, to undo and hide any effort, because I feel scared, I think, that what I am hoping to say will not be understood, or rather that I am revealing something important and vulnerable which I want to share, but which I am scared to tell.  It is a fear of not being understood, or even of being ignored.  I have been pushing myself by attempting to write of this type of stuff, even just in private at first, or by thinking of it as being to a specific person who I know.  Often, if I get past that first part, it becomes easier to keep going, though it still impacts the results in strange ways.  I realized, for example, that I have a tendency to try to work my way into a subject for an essay slowly, as if I am gently raising the heat on a pot so as not to warn t

Is It Too Late At the time when it could be done, I could not do it.  I was not ready, did not know how to be ready. I was a plant growing in darkness, hoping the sun would be there, thinking it was only time, only the night around me and not another darkness, a shadow on this spot that will not shift. I waited in darkness, I was not aware what there was to do, or how to do it. I did learn, found my way, reached towards the light, and I can do it now, but what could be then does not seem possible. I think it is the wrong season.

A lot of complex thoughts have been coming up around my dyslexia.  Some of this I have already discussed, but I think a lot of it is leading me towards coming to understand certain aspects of my writing more clearly.  One thing that it has taken me a long time to come to terms with is the recognition of my sense of reality being somewhat alien.  It is inherent in the concept of neurological divergence.  If one experience the world through an altered apparatus, the experience itself will be different, thus the world will itself be different.  In a way, that is central to a great deal of the writing I do, and in a way that I had not considered before.  It is not that the books are, in specific, about being dyslexic, but that they are about a sense of the world being uncanny, of seeing what is considered to be normal from a perspective that renders it warped and partially abstracted.  That is to say, it is a reflection of my experience as a person for whom the world seems off much of the

Eggplant I am worried the lizards will steal the eggplant which we have growing in the front yard, the one Melissa says should grow large as any to be found in the store, the one I imagine as a dark, purple belly, as a womb, swelling, ripening with seeds. I have watched it, seen sun light stretched along its surface, watched to see how it comes into fullness, a bit each day, but I worry: many lizards live in the yard. I see them daily, tails raised, eyes wide and black, but yet to see it. Is "when" the only question?

 I have been thinking a great deal about issues around my dyslexia and how to write about them.  It is difficult, not only because the actual issues are hard to describe and explain, but also because I am afraid.  I think a part of the fear is to do with the idea that it will not be understood or accepted.  To many times I've had people dismiss my experience.  Once in college, a professor who forced me to do a class assignment by hand chided me that my penmanship was so bad I would never get a job.  I can think of many other examples, of times when it is clear people do not recognize the reality of my experiences.  I think, in some ways, all my writing deal with that, with the experience of living in a world that is off from what others see and know, and it is only recently that I have begun to understand this.  I want to write more directly about it, but I am still conflicted about it, maybe that is just the fear, but I am not entirely certain.

We See The Black Cat Again following a woman walking with her dog.  That cat likes dogs, or likes following women as they walk dogs, because that is what we see it do, over and over, appearing, black form separating itself from the shadows, usually it slinks, hides, but not when it sees a woman and dog walking down the street, no, it follows them, loses all pretense, prances along, ten feet or so behind. "He is obsessed with me," says the women, but I have watched, it is not just her.

In some ways the difficulties I am facing in getting my current project started feel rather typical.  I have code that I know can work to do what I am interested in, but I can't get it working on my computer or with my files yet.  These are very small hurdles, in terms of the efforts I am making, and it feels rather silly.  It is the least sophisticated problems that have me hamstrung, as it were, though I do not mean to imply that the code I am discussing is anything great.  I do not anticipate it to produce astounding results from the source document, but I am excited to see what does happen so I can begin to assess what I need to do.  I think that I need to just develop my understanding a bit more, and I am working to build that understanding.  I hope that soon I will be able to really push forwards on this, but for now, I am just taking it a step at a time to see what I can discover.

The Rain Today has been and gone, been and gone, only dallying. It was not serious, was not committed. I was outside, barely noticed when it had begun, There were swells, yes, times when it was best to be inside, to wait it out, but it was not so long. Mostly it was not raining, or just a dusting of small droplets, nothing more.  I wish the rain would be more, would choose to be more.  It would be nice if it cared enough to do the job right instead of being so inconsistent, so sloppy about it's commitments.