Would That I Might

This week marked the end of my time working with Freesia McKee, and I am rather unsettled about it.  I don't have anyone to take her place, right now, and I am feeling very anxious about things.  I don't know what to do, but my therapist suggested taking a break from submitting, and, though it scares me (and makes me more, not less, anxious at the moment), I am listening.  I have felt for a long while now that I need to get things to happen soon.  I feel that even another six months without an acceptance will be too much for me, and not submitting work seems to be allowing that, but I also just feel so defeated right now, anyway, and I can't realistically anticipate anything getting accepted, at all.  I am feeling just lost and powerless, and I am scared, not only of the failure I am experiencing, but of the destruction I feel within myself that gets worse as I accept it.  I need to find a way to change things, and the only change that would make a difference in a positive

Insurance Says It Is Unnecessary The current regime of care is not providing adequate relief, and the only way to know, to be certain, to find what will work, is the test.  It is not a whim, is a response, a necessity for relief, for treatment to be provided, for there is to be an appropriate intervention. Tell me again how I am wrong, how the doctor and I are wrong. I do not have the strength to fight, but I do not want to die.

 I feel a great deal of pressure about getting my work out there right now.  A lot of that is to do with the desire to change things in other areas of my life.  I am not suggesting that I think being published will magically alter my reality, but I know that there are ways in which it would give me a certain sense of accomplishment and provide me something to point towards to show that I am productive.  I am always writing, and I believe in the work, but writing it is not meaningful in the larger world that I inhabit until I have a professional career.  This is not, of xourse, the only dimension to my desire for publication, and is not even the most significant, but it is, right now, one that seems pressing.

 Visible As you look you are seen, but it may be you are not noticed, it may be,  it could be: you do not know, you cannot know. You were looking and to look you opened an eye, opened a way for seeing to arise. It was your sight, but you were seen. Do not forget, do not deny that seeing may have been enough, may have made you known.

 I did some work on the story from last night, but have not started a new one today, at least not yet.  It is possible I will get an idea after this and go to work on it, but at present, I don't have anything in mind.  In addition, today has been a rather brutal day on a personal level, and I am not really feeling all that energized at the moment.  I did my poetry, and I am glad to have been able to do a bit of revision on that story, but I did not have the will to get to work on a new story.  With poetry, I can begin with following the language, and I am sure there is a way to do that, or something similar, with a story as well, but I haven't found it for myself yet.  If I sit down to write a poem, I can just do it, because I know I will find something if I just play with words for a few minutes, but I need an idea for the story first, and that makes it very different.  I've got to find a way to put together an idea for a story on the fly, or know how to just write the sto

What You Permit If you care at all you will tell him no will make it clear: he must see this through. He created this, caused it and now he wants to run, after all the damage that cannot be undone he will run away, will abandon his mess, will leave it, leave us trapped in it, and you can tell him no, can say it is against you. But he can be irresponsible, can ruin everything and run. You told me I had to try to make it work,  Not him.

 I did write a new story tonight.  It is rather short, and I feel good about it, at least as a draft.  The idea had been in the back of my mind for a few weeks, but it was not until this afternoon that it really started to settle into something.  I am hoping, perhaps, that I can keep writing short stories in the same range of length, maybe one a day for a while.  I don't expect they will all be good, or even most will be anything at all, but I know that practice is what matters, and revision, of course.  If I can get myself into a good habit in that way, writing a new piece of flash fiction or other type of short story close to daily, I would like to start adding some stories to this blog as well, maybe not each day, but on a regular basis.  It is an awful big push to write a story each day, or feels like one, but I did it tonight, and I can recall other times when I wrote a great deal fast.  I have time to do it, most days, anyway.  It is more often a matter of getting myself to s

Drawing Close I must remember to be without, to not indulge in a single bit, not tonight, not when tomorrow I will rise so early to meet one who will take from me, will extract from me an essence, a syrup of myself, the great, thick fluid, not too much but enough. But if I am not good what is discovered within will be corrupted. I must wait until after, then I may indulge again, though it would be best to see it another way instead, to choose other ways for the same actions, other visions to enable new ways of being even with the same blood.

I do not really know what to write here tonight.  It would be better to avoid writing another piece that revisits my current frustrations, but that is really where my mind goes.  It is important to me that I can find a way to get through my current situation, but I don't really know how.  The only way I will not feel the way I do right now is if I start having some career success, in terms of getting work published or finding a literary agent to represent my fiction, and I don't have a way to change those things.  Even saying that I don't have an ability to change it, really makes me feel hopeless.  I do not have any other plan, and even having to make one would represent complete failure in a way that I could not handle.  I don't know how to explain it, but the frustration I have now is at least not my giving up all hope.  I need to find a path towards what I define as success, and not some alternative I would never even pursue if I could get what I really want.  There

It Has Been Only A Few Weeks that you are gone, but much has happened: too much and nothing, and other things as well. We travelled and it was not enough was too short, but was overwhelming, an inundation, a deluge. It has all been this way, is all more and less, is all absence and excess, but never one, only both. I will have to tell you more, will have to explain it all: I know that.  I can say more, can give clarity, detail, talk of the shade brought by the absent tree, talk of the ditch in my kitchen that lies where the tile once was, the shape of it, the depth. I am not certain it matters, it is only another hole, is only an emptiness.

 One of the difficulties I am having with placing my fiction is the length of many of my stories.  The two that I am most fond of are both quite long.  One is around 8,500 words and the other is over 10,000, I believe, but they are both stories I feel I executed quite well.  One is written in a unique style, and is a bit of a shaggy dog story in the vein of Kafka, and the other involves the character encountering a band of faerie creatures who proceed to take over their home, but with a twist at the end that I am quite proud of.  I need to start working on some more fiction, and I want to attempt to get better at shorter pieces.  I have an idea, actually, to do a longer work that is built on short fiction, but I am not certain about it quite yet.  Ideas remain nebulous, at times, but when it is ready, I am sure it will come into focus...  In any event, I think it is a good thing for me to start working on some new short fiction, and I am thinking that I should try and limit myself in l

 I Will Wait I could write to you, or write to her, or reach out in this way or that, and hope it would be helpful, but I am not going to do that, no, I will just wait, I will wait and wait. It will happen again, there will be a chance, another chance.  I did nothing, but next time: I will not. It is too late now, the last time is over. I must wait, I must just wait until it is time again, until the time comes when I will do what I should have, what I want to have done. I will speak this truth, though I am afraid, I will speak it, and I must hope someone will hear me, will understand the reality of my perspective.

 So, it finally came that I chose, last night, to skip my evening writing.  It was a choice, one that resulted from my being quite exhausted.  Melissa and I, as I mentioned, flew to New York out of nowhere, and I had very little sleep as a result.  We had to leave early for the airport and didn't get to bed until late, and the next morning I woke early again, as I tend to do.  Then, we had a long, fun but still long, day.  We went out for a late dinner and by the time we arrived home, I was drifting off to sleep already, so I decided I could skip my work.  It was an important thing, I think, to give myself that permission, just as it is important I am writing this tonight, despite having just flown in tonight and it being after two in the morning.

It Scares Me to Raise The Issue to point it out, though it is clear, it is real.  I am scared, though because it has been dismissed before, I have spoken, have asked others to help, to understand and see what is meant, and most often it has been failure, has been a wave against breakers, only a crash, and I am the one who cannot breath, who is pulled under. It is hard to do it.  Each time it is hard. And now, it seems to happen so often.

I am not certain what to write about tonight.  Part of this is just exhaustion.  Melissa and I had a long day, starting at around four in the morning, and I have not had a chance to rest.  I should write a longer entry, but I am already about to pass out and I have to do before I can sleep, even after my writing, so I am not going to worry about it.

Much Is Gone Already, much that was.  It mattered, it still matters to me, to others who know, who remember, but how long until it is over? How long until my memory or yours, anyone's will be present, will keep it as a thing that exists in the past, that was, that has been and is part of what was, of the world needed Zzto build this new one. How long until it is forgotten?

As mentioned last night, Melissa and I are flying to New York tomorrow, early in the morning.  As well, I had a really disastrous night of sleep last night and didn't get up until late, and thus didn't do any of my usual morning writing.  Normally, I would do that work tonight, but I have to be up in just a few hours already, so I made a decision, which seems rather significant, and that was to only write the five evening poems I am supposed to, and not the whole ten that I would do if I were making up for this morning.  I need to realize that I can be a bit more flexible, though I want to keep to doing morning and evenings with this pace, at least for now.  But I still need to adjust for the events in my life as well.

Anti-Semitism in The Works I do not speak up because others will not hear it, will not hear me, but I feel this, and I have to wonder about it. It is the same thing again, is the same as the cannard, she says it is about ghosts but calls it an "ancient conspiracy" that "controls the media," and I cannot help but feel it. I do not want to say though, I am afraid if I say anything others will jump up to tell me I am being silly, that I am being too much, when it is only the thing I see being depicted.

 So, I am unexpectedly going to be travelling to NYC for the weekend.  My mom and brother wanted Melissa and I to come up, and Mom has a travel voucher because of a cancelled trip from last year which she was worried she would never use, so Melissa and I are flying up.  I am glad to be going to New York, but I am also still nervous about flying.  If I am honest, I have never really been very fond of planes.  It is not a phobia, just a strong discomfort within the space, and a dislike for the feeling of being confined for so long there.  It is just an unpleasant experience, and I find it rather unnerving, sometimes(his is why I usually drive when I am going travelling).  Now, I also have the added fun of the whole pandemic flight experience, and the weirdness around that.  Fortunately, Melissa and I were able to get seated together, which is not always so easy, especially at the last minute.  I need to find a good book to bring or something, but we are leaving early Friday, so I am not

I Almost Walked Away Without This I almost forgot.  Almost, though, I am here now, so it did not get left out, is not still waiting, is not here while my mind is there with my otherwise occupied body, and it will not be that my mind comes back, comes back when it is too late already for my body to be here again in time. It is not a concern at all, no, I do not need to worry about it, it is avoided.  Yet, I am here, it is in my head, my mind now has gone to that place where my body is not, has gone to the other choice, to the wrong one that was avoided, and I am here, am here already, have it done, have it all done, but still, I am worried about it, or perhaps I am wondering if I do not worry still will next time turn out the way I do not want, will I need to worry as I am already doing but without it being in vane. 

Earlier today I was feeling a bit out of sorts, just annoyed about things in general, and so I sat and I decided to channel it out by writing some extra poems.  It felt far better than just sitting around feeling like that, and even if it did not really change things, or even improve my mood all that much, it did mean I had more work done, and that is a positive in and of itself.  I mean to say, I was happy about doing the work, even if it didn't make things at all better, and I was still, over all, upset about the general situation.  Somehow, it was good to feel I had used the energy in a productive way, though I don't know how good the poems themselves are.  That does not matter, so much, I suppose, in terms of the overall output.  I mean, I tend to think that the good poems are a bit random, that it is just luck if this poem or that one works, and the more I write in general, the better those odds.  I do believe, as well, that practice improves the work, but I think that is

Petty Revenge I think I know a way it could be done and it would work, I think so, I am quite sure, am solid, firm, I am three planted feet holding the table, but you do not get to know the way, not tonight.  I do not think I will tell you, but I will consider it.  So many want the way, want you to get what is needed, and I found it. I could just let it be yours.  I could.  I would have, too, I would have told you as soon as it came upon me, but you must understand why not.  If you do not know, what is there to say, it is worse than I had thought.

In the past several days, I have been thinking about the challenges I have when it comes to organizing information through notes and such.  It is an ability I have lacked since school.  I was often chided for not keeping written notes in lectures, but I developed a capacity to remember a great deal of the information, and relied upon that instead.  In writing essays and such, I would research, finding quotes in the text and remembering where they were located, for example, and this worked well, for the most part.  I could always dive into the text to seek out an appropriate quote, if I needed, and I generally had a good grasp on the material.  When I wrote my first novel, I did attempt to take some notes, but I found that they did not function for me in the usual capacity.  It was not that I would ever refer back to them in a physical sense, but instead that they served as a vehicle for thinking things through.  I had a strong sense of the book, but not in a format that anyone else cou

She Cannot Change will not change, does not allow it in herself. I am not so different, though it is in dimensions that are not the same, but the clash: she wants her way, will get her way, has crushed me beneath the wave of her desired outcome, and now, she will say it is done already, will say she is sorry, but only now it cannot change. When there was a chance she was all momentum, was force impelling this, now, though, now, she wants me to accept she is sorry, wants the fact it is too late  to work on her side.

I often encounter people who think that telling me to pursue self-publishing is a reasonable thing to do, but it is very far from what I am pursuing, and, if I am honest, feels like accepting failure to me.  If I need to pursue self-publishing, it is because I have failed at my chosen career path, and self-publishing would be nothing of meaning as a result.  Unless I could self-publish a book in a way that could receive identical reception, in theory, to a book from a publisher, including eligibility for all the same awards and similar opportunities for legitimate news coverage and reviews, it is not at all the same thing, and is not what I am pursuing.  I do not mean to say that I expect to get those things, only that being part of that conversation and community is a major aspect of what being published involves for me.  It is not merely having the object, but also the apparatus of legitimacy associated with the publishing process that matters.  I recognize, of course, that this is n

We Are of This Place though it is not clear, though you think we are new, are not the same as you, do not belong or fit: this is home, has been, generations before us called it by that name. We are not the ones who came to this place. We can respect your claim, but you must know ours, must see why it cannot be denied. There is a way for both of us. It is not only to be yours or mine.

 I am thinking about my vampire essay quite a bit, and have been hoping to get a new version of it drafted soon.  I've had a number of thoughts that seem really significant.  For one thing, I think I need to press beyond the initial framing of exploring the anti-Semitic tropes themselves, but to press into a space of cultural criticism.  The modern vampire is not written with an intent to make it anti-Semitic, but what does it mean that the qualities that make the vampire intriguing are derived from stereotypes about Jews?  It is not merely that the vampire was anti-Semitic, but qualities which make these characters appealing for appropriation by various communities are the very tropes that make Dracula an anti-Semitic work.  To offer an example, I think few would deny that the hypnotic, seductive allure of vampiric characters is alluring.  Anne Rice certainly drew upon that quality in crafting the modern vampire, as have other authors.  Adaptations of Stoker's novel have playe

Down from The Doctrine One is of this, the other is of that, and to be of that is not to be of this, though maybe this could also be that, or that could also be this, or that is always this but this is not always that. It is best if they are seperate, is easiest that way, but I do not know.  It is only clear one is not the same as the other, is not of the same type, is not to be seen the same way. I do not know why: it looks so much alike. It is what I am told, though, it is what has always been told. The differences, the discrepencies. It may not matter at all, but I am told one is this, the other, (and it is important) the other is not. It has been this way, I am told it has been so, I am told, and is so, and will be, even if I do not notice the difference, I am told it is there.  I must learn, they want me to be certain to know, to be certain I can see it, and one day, they tell me, I will know for myself, if I listen and agree: it will become a seen truth.

 I am glad that this week is ending.  It has been stressful, and I am ready to move on.  If only I felt next week would be much better, but so many things remain unresolved.  At least I can let go of some of it for the weekend.  It is not so much that things get better, but I can assume I won't be hearing from various people or organizations, and so I do not have to be concerned that this or that is going to be exacerbated.  I am just wanting some time to enjoy myself, but I always feel so stressed.  I hope that this weekend I can let it go for a bit, even if not forever.

There Is Not A Place to Store Fire Here, not right now.  Maybe soon, we can have it in the drawer or the closet, but not now, it would be too much, would burn us, would burn away everything. We will make a place to keep it, to hold it safe, but for now we do not want it, though it is quite kind that you have offered it, it does not go unnoted. We are not the right ones, cannot keep the flame here. It would go out, or else become too much, become a thing  that cannot be allowed to live.

 When I was in my twenties, I found that I was having a lot of trouble with sleep.  I was always tired, but at night, I would wake up again and again.  At one point, I fell asleep while teaching a class.  It was really bad.  Finally, I was able to get tested and diagnosed with sleep apnea.  I was told at the time that my sleep efficiency, without treatment, had been less than 1%.  I was walking up once every two or three seconds to breath, though I was largely not aware of this fact.  I would wake up, gasp, and then fall back to sleep without knowing anything had happened, but I still wasn't getting any deep sleep, and, what really scares me, each such incident could be too much for my heart.  It was made clear to me, without proper treatment, any time I fall asleep, I am at risk of never waking up again. That was well over a decade ago, and I have always used my machine.  To be honest, I could never understand why a person with apnea wouldn't use one.  I had been unable to sle

Another Futility I do not know at all how it could matter what happens to me, with my efforts, though it does matter to me, to the life I live, but the world now: I do not see a way it will survive, not the world I know, not a continuance of what has been. That stability cannot be. What does it matter, then?  How can it matter? My pursuits align with what I can know, but what will come, if it is not an ending, it will not remain as it has been, it will be another thing, and I cannot say what will matter at all.

 I have had a rather long day, and it was not fully pleasant.  I am sure that I will be discussing some of the things that came up today in future writing, but at the moment, I am more interested in concentrating on the fact that I still got a good deal of writing done, and that I feel good about a lot of what I created.  I never talk about the poems on the blog in specific, but I do feel quite good about the poem I wrote tonight.  As with most poems here, it is the equivalent of a piece out of a sketchbook, in that I just write it and set it aside as it is, but I found something there.  It may just be that final image, which I am certain I will use elsewhere, perhaps in a more refined form.  In general, though, I am just glad to be back in gear writing.  I had a long period of just writing three poems a day, which was far more than nothing, but I had spent so long writing more and more poems, that seemed close to stagnant for me.  I was glad to be doing the work, and did not feel I wa

Some Are There Still are there too long, have been there so long: they smile, still they smile, but is it still a smile that means a smile, or are they frozen, has it become stuck, those who are there, who have been too long, are their smiles only the remains of smiles, the things they know they must bare carried within the sack of two lips with upturned edges?

I feel like I should be writing the thousandth blog entry spectacular, but I am not even certain what that would be.  I don't have any dancers lined up, nor singers.  I can juggle a bit, but it does not translate well to text.  I am proud, though, of having reached this many entries.  It feels significant: though it is just one day after another doing this, it adds up, becomes something, I think, or at least hope.  I do not usually reflect on how long I've been doing this now, and I often forget the significant role this blog played in getting me back on track as a writer.  When I first started it, the goal was just to keep consistent, to have some kind of accountability for writing each day, and now I am writing so much more.  I have been writing ten poems each day for the past week or so, and that is excluding the work on this blog.  It started with just knowing that I had the obligation to update this blog each day, and I have done it almost without fail (I seem to remember

It Is Nothing I Want to Do, is not what I want to be, but I come.  I do not run away, even if it seems wrong. I am not certain why, but I keep coming. I wish I had better to do, things that were right, things that were mine, that felt proper, felt in line with me, with my directions, the me I choose, not this stranger. But still, I will go again. I know it.  I am certain.

 I have been doing a bunch more research in preparation for redrafting my Dracula essay.  I want to incorporate a number of other aspects, and I am thinking of restructuring it a bit, including more personal elements as well.  I think the first draft was good, but there are certain things that I come back to which are not yet there.  A major part of this is to do with the question of the vampires appropriation as a symbol of outsiders and by various oppressed communities.  While I can appreciate the use of the vampire's use in those roles, I also find it very odd, because the qualities that lend themselves to those interpretations are so often connected directly with the anti-Semitic aspects of the book.  For example, the sexuality of Dracula, his seductive nature, is clearly of the same line of thought that led George Du Maurier to create the Jewish villain Svengali in his novel Trilby .  The undertone of homoeroticism, even, connects to long standing stereotypes of Jews as debauc

She Is The Person I Am Told to Call about These Matters I called because it was wrong, and you are supposed to be there as an advocate, a helper, not my adversary, but you respond first to tell me why it does not matter, why you do not need to care. I do not understand: you are supposed to help, something is wrong and you are the one who should be helping. But it is nothing to you, is nothing at all. I have been harmed by efforts you instigated, but you will never care, will never even admit it was even a wrong at all.

 I cannot see a path forward for myself that is not through traditional publishing.  I recognize that, for many others, new avenues have been very successful, but I am not a person who wants that or is willing to take on the challenges associated with those kinds of pursuits.  For me, to choose such a path would be an acknowledgement of having been a true failure at the thing that does matter, scrambling to find something instead of nothing.  I am not suggesting this is how others feel or that it is true for them, but for me, it is my experience and how I see the world, and I am not interested in or going to change that. As well, I am in a situation in my life where I need to be able to make progress in my career.  Things around my home and family life are not great right now, and Melissa and I are kind of trapped.  Changing that is not a realistic possibility with things as they are, and one of the conditions that needs to shift is around my career.  This is partly practical, in an ec

You Ring The Elevator And Wait and you are waiting, waiting long enough you have noticed you are still waiting, but it does come, it comes and you get on, and you press the button, but it is not going there, not now. It is going down, and not up, and you wanted to go up, but you are here, are on the elevator, will take the ride.  It is easier: you would still be waiting. But then, it does go up, and you think that is good, but it only goes up, and not to your floor, goes up past that floor, far above it, and you decide it is silly now, so you get out to find the stairs, but you cannot find the stairs, and everyone you ask points the same way, but it is the way you have gone all along, and you did not find the stairs, and you are not even certain where the elevator is, not any longer.  You are just there, thinking of where you must go, of what you need to do and why you came, and wanting to find the way. You know there is a way, at least, you can be certain, at least: there is a way to

I have been spending time on Clubhouse the past few days, and it is interesting.  In some ways, I feel very strange about it, and there are certain aspects of the communities I am encountering that I am not fully comfortable with.  There is a great deal of positivity, and that can be good, but it is also so important to recognize the importance of more.  In a discussion this morning, for example, some were discussing the need to keep a positive attitude and not indulge negative emotions and how this can be empowering, allowing one to take on whatever is to come.  For some, this may be true, but it is also necessary to realize that other emotions can be valid responses and can bring positive change to the world.  Many times, anger is a legitimate response to circumstances that are oppressive.  One needn't look farther than the last year's events to see how anger and pain can be channeled towards creating positive change, and how those things can be a natural and necessary respon

Minds That Are Not Like Yours Do Not Need Curing It was not the focus, was just a small part of what he was saying, was bundled, padded, hidden under the rest, but there it was, a notion of curing, of fixing, correcting, treating, people. I do not know who heard it, or if I would have noticed if I were not one in the class he would erase.

This afternoon, Melissa and I were heading out when we discovered that the crew working on our community landscaping had sawed up a large bougainvillea on our property.  Previously, we had told the workers, explicitly, that we did not want them to do this, and had been told that would be respected.  We do not use this company ourselves and have never given them permission to mess with our garden, but I am sure they are tasked by the community with caring for things that are visible from the street.  That is fine, in general, as long as it is only trimming and such, but this was an eight or ten foot tall plant that was in full bloom, attracting butterflies and other wildlife to the area around our home.  It was, indeed, the central feature of our homes front landscaping, and had probably been there for twenty years, long before we bought the house.  It was one of the first things we saw when we came to look at the place for the first time before choosing to put in an offer, and the fact

Do Not Ask Me How to Fix This This damage is yours, is by your hand. We both know this. Why, then, should it be my responsibility to tell you what to do? I have been harmed, you have harmed me. Take responsibility for offering solutions, for helping to heal these wounds. Do not ask me what I want done to fix this, for what I do not know what there is to do. It is broken, you have broken it. If it is to be fixed, if you wish it to be fixed, show me it can be by discovering a way. I cannot see one, am blind to it. If you ask me again, the only offer I can give is to find a way to not have done it in the first place.

 I had a very long day, and am quite worn out.  I had a number of appointments this morning, and then Melissa and I had to go to the DMV to renew our driver's licenses.  We had appointments, and usually it is not a major problem, but today they had a major backlog, as a result of various computer problems.  It took at least an hour and a half to even get inside the building, and Florida's moist heat was not a great companion for the wait.  Much of it was under shade, fortunately, but even so, it was quite oppressive.  The thing is, they could have resolved a great deal of the problem.  To get an appointment, you provide contact information, including email.  They could certainly have contacted those with appointments, stating their were delays and asking that people wait to come until an hour or so after their scheduled time.  It was not as if the line mattered.  They only allowed people in based on when they had appointments, it was just far later than originally anticipated. 

The Empty Space between Us There would be room for so much, but you made certain it would be empty, attacked, dismissed, destroyed whatever I offered  that might rest there, have made certain it is nothing, as though it is best to have clarity, to have nothing at all there, but the nothing that is there is the only thing you have allowed to remain between us.

A friend of mine invited me to checkout Clubhouse, which, to be honest, I had never heard of.  So far, I am not really sure I understand it on any level.  I mean, I realize the concept, but the interface has me at a loss.  I wish that I could find a way to interact with social media and other internet technology that was not so alienating for me.  Even discussing this, I think that it might just sound like a rant by an old dude, but I am a person who loves technology, or at least, I love the idea of technology.  The reality, for me, has been upsetting, in a great many ways.  Many of the areas where I have neurological differences are to do with spatial awareness, hand-eye coordination, fine motor skills, and processing visual information.  My ability to remember image patterns is quite low, though I score high when dealing with other types of memory.  For me, even attempting to recall what a symbol means can be challenging.  Even more, the multiple fonts and text sizes create a jumble

When You Say "Sorry" I do not want to be mean, do not want to hurt you, but you do not understand the aggression of your apology, the act of contrition you offer is not one that comforts me, not yet, at least.  No: you betrayed me.  You knew you were betraying me, knew I was in pain. But you wanted what you wanted, even if it was at the cost of any trust I had in you. I love you.  You are my brother and I love you even now, even now, the damage, unfixable, done.  Yes, I do love you, as I always have, but I cannot let you think I am ready to give you permission for what you already did. You knew.  You chose this.

 I am struggling a great deal today.  The feelings I discussed yesterday are not resolved, and I just keep imagining this continuing on unchanged, for months and years.  It has not changed in years already: why expect anything else?  I do not know how to remain sane when the only real pathway towards my goals requires this kind of behavior.  Strangely, though, I wrote a great deal more than usual.  It may all be drivel, but I am uncertain of that.  It is all in a certain tone, of course.  I wish I could write more playful, happy poems again, but things are not happy or playful in my life right now, and I cannot find the way most of the time.  I'm feeling lost, and I want to find my way, but that seems impossible.  I am sick of struggling to get what I want and just being told to keep struggling and wait.  I need things to change, and I am willing to take action, but I don't have any idea what that would mean in this case, because I am not going to take some detour: it has to be

From Within You closed doors I cannot open myself, but they must be opened: you must realize that, must catch the reasoning, must know the doors must open. But, you will say: I cannot open them, they are closed now. You closed the doors. I need to open them, to get out from where you have me trapped, or at least know I can go. Help me.  I will work to open the door, but give me help.

The agent query that I was excited about came back without a manuscript request.  It was a short, but encouraging note, stating that the work itself sounds quite good, but that it would not be a good fit.  I have seen many similar responses, and I am feeling really lost as a result.  It would be one thing to hear that I need to do this or that to make the work better, but I have been told explicitly not to change the work, not to even try editing it any further until I have an agent who wants to represent it.  Even if I decided to dismiss that advice (which came from an agent who read the whole manuscript), that is not the point.  The thing is: what do you do when you are told you have work that is ready but no one wants it and nothing seems to make a difference.  It is not a matter of improving the work, so what am I supposed to do that is not just hoping to be lucky.  I've been working hard, doing all the things I am told to do, but I can't get anyplace, and when I ask for he

All That You Said Was Lies and you think it is okay, that you could say it all, could babble on and on, make all the promises you want to make, but not promises to keep, just to speak them, as if that is enough, as if I will never notice the words in the contract that do not match at all what you have said, that even seem to mock the idea you might at all take responsibility for what comes of your actions.

I am very concerned about getting assistance with my submissions.  Freesia has been incredible, but I know she needs to move on from this, and I am glad to see her career taking off.  That being said, my search to make certain that I have the help I need to get the work out there is not easy to find.  As mentioned, I did speak to a company about this, but my interactions with them were not entirely comfortable.  I am hoping to be able to find some other options, but so far, no one else I've reached out to has responded.  It has me feeling rather anxious right now, and I am not certain what there is for that, to be honest.  It shouldn't be that difficult to find accommodation as a disabled person, but it often can be, especially when the issues are not so clear cut or visible.

She Can Talk to Lizards Melissa asked me if I told the lizard to leave, the one I had found scrambling about the hallway. I sat with it a few minutes, stood there and regarded it as it watched me. We did not understand each other. I tried to tell it, I did try, but it is not interested in hearing what I say.

I am thinking a great deal about language, and exploring my suspicion that the general view that language is primarily about interpersonal communication is wrong.  I tend to believe that the first function of language is intrapersonal mediation.  By this, I mean that language first functions as a medium for interpreting and categorizing experiences.  I am not certain how to explain this fully, let alone unpacking it and what it means for me as a writer, but I think that I approach writing differently when I consider things from this vantage.  This may only be my experience, but when I consider language from the traditional perspective, I write just to tell the reader, to communicate with the language itself, but when I think in the second way, I think of the language as something else, not just a tool of communication but a method for creating an experience.  It is more like writing a script to be directed and made into a play by others, but those others are the unconscious faculties o

The Sky Will Be Bright Again, it will be filled once more by the sun. I am certain it will. It has not been so long: the sun continues. I am sure we will see it. It came back the last time and each time before. Why would this be different?

I need to find a way to calibrate my efforts, a metric for determining how close or far I am from getting where I am seeking to go.  It must be something that can always be updated to show my current progress, and it must be consistent, and I need to have a sense of what parameters are important and how they impact the results.  Without this, I am doomed to just wander about, becoming crazier and crazier.  To me, the choices I have right now are only between doing what I am doing and not succeeding or choosing to accept that I am a failure who wasted the chance I have for existing in this world.  I can't find an alternative path, or another thing that matters to me, or a secondary focus to distract or occupy me.  The truth, for me, is nothing else matters, and pretending that an alternative could be acceptable is just painful.  I have an awareness of how ridiculous I sound, and of how much it seems wrong for me to keep pressing this point, but I have nothing else that I can do.  I

How Do I Ask For The Help I Really Need? I know what you are saying, I already know, have heard it, have been told it, it is what is said by everyone, and I have said already that it is not so, that it cannot be so, have told you if you wish to help it must be to find what is that is not what is said, that is what must be, or are you the same, saying you will help but only if help is not intended to bring me closer to an outcome, is just another nothing to distract me from what matters, because you want me to feel better, even if I get nothing at all, am still trapped in this, am still hurt, you want to be certain I show you it is okay, you want that proof: not that I am better but that it is okay to not do anything that actually helps.

I often feel it is impossible to ask for or receive the help I actually need.  In part, this is a matter of not always being able to explain what it is that I am seeking, or to even recognize what is wrong in a situation.  It is easy for me to present things in a way that does not match with another individuals experience of what I am describing, for example.  As well, because of my experiences with people not recognizing or understanding the issue, it can be hard to even ask for help.  At the moment, it feels that I don't even know how to describe things in a way that will actually enlist aid, despite the fact that I feel the need for it severely, and have been attempting to find real guidance with no success for so long.  At present, I feel that the only path presented to me is one that is utterly maddening, and that I am going mad from pursuing it so long without any results to show for it.  It would be fine to keep working, if I had some ability to calibrate my success, to know

I Did Not Want It Here, So I Put It Elsewhere Am I ashamed?   Maybe, I am ashamed, or maybe it was not that, maybe it was not shame that had me move it. It is possible it was not shame. I think that is a possibility. I think it might be it is even likely.