Would That I Might

Melissa is in Ohio, and I am here in Florida, missing her.  I feel bad that I did not go with her, though it was a choice we made together.  I have plenty that I need to do here, which made my staying back necessary.  I will probably fly up soon, depending how long she stays and whether there is a memorial for her Uncle.  At the moment, they aren't planning anything.  His remains were cremated, and it makes sense to hold off on a memorial at the moment as a result of the pandemic.  I wish I were with her, though, and I wish I were there to offer her my support in person.

You Spoke of What You Would Do, of actions to be taken which I had seen as signs of change, of growth, a chance we might heal  the damage between us. It seemed it might be real, came without coercion, presented with silence about the subtext, a respect shown, a holding back. You did not seek  make it a clear sacrifice, to play the game, to make it a gesture for gain, but seemed genuine. That was months ago; if I ask you now you make it clear things are fine as they are, things will not change.

Melissa was scheduled to fly to Ohio tonight, but she was rebooked due to a delay that would have caused her to miss her connection. Tomorrow morning, the flight is actually direct, so it is easier, but the timing of the flight means I won't be able to drive her myself, as I have an appointment in the morning.  In many ways, I wish I were going with her, but she wanted to get up there first.  I expect I will be joining her soon.  Tonight, though, she is still here, and I am, selfishly, a bit glad at that.

Who Will Know Or Say or think of it at all? It is nothing to them, is a new nothing that is the same as any nothing to those beyond. Nothing is just nothing, one space is just a space the same as any other if they are empty. But what is it empty of and what can remain, what can return when all is shut with nothing within.

 Melissa's Uncle Pete died today.  I did not know him all that well, but he always struck me as a very kind and intelligent man, perhaps more sensitive and,certainly, more wordly than many of his relatives.  Melissa was hit hard by this loss.  She had already been planning to fly up tomorrow, but wasn't expecting to be able to see him, even if things had been different.  Even so, I can imagine how she must feel, not having gotten there sooner.  That's why I am glad I can be there for her, especially if I finish this post and get back inside.

Waiting for A Beginning I have taken away what was there that would have changed what is to come in unfortunate ways, or have tried to, have worked to prepare, to remove unreadiness and omens of misfortune. I have cleared a space, am waiting now. It should be soon, or have I missed? Did I choose wrong and leave misfortune before me? It is all done as it was said it should be, but it seems so long, so late,  I wonder if I made mistakes.

I have done my writing for tonight, and I need to get myself to bed.  My mom and brother arrived back in Florida tonight.  Melissa and I had difficulty driving to the airport, as the exit from the highway for the airport was closed due to an accident.  As well, we are still waiting for more news about Melissa's uncle, and she is probably going to go up there in the next day or so, with me flying up a few days later.  I want to get to bed, and I know Melissa would appreciate me wrapping work on the early side, so I am going to call it a night with this little post.

You Ask Me to Find A New Way but it does not come to me, not a way that is right, that would be of meaning, would matter at all. I don't think of anything as an answer, but denial. It may be this is my doom, that I am choosing it, but any other path is another doom, is an end to who I am, if I am to remain myself.

Earlier tonight, Melissa received a call that her Uncle is in the hospital and very sick.  He had been receiving treatment for a serious illness, but it had seemed to be going well, so it was a devastating shock.  It sounds as if they are expecting the worst, and I am not certain there is much that can be done at the moment.  It is our hope that at least Melissa can make it up their to see him in the next few days, but I don't know how long he really has.

An Awoken Hunger It would be better if it had not been nothing, if something had been chosen instead of not choosing, of letting there be no choice, of having emptiness instead. Now, it is late and the need remains, but it cannot be met, not now. And, oh, how it has grown.

 I have a new story to work on as part of this same project, but I am still not sure how to approach it.  It is to do with stepping beyond certain limitations that I've imposed, of creating a concept that expands those I hold right now and pushes through them.  I know the intention is to find a liberating framework, but, the truth is, I am not certain I see that.  I do see ways that can press past, but they are oppositional and resistive, for the most part.  The truth is, the real answer is that the systems surrounding these things have to change, and I can conceive of possibilities for that change, but they are rather absurd to consider enacting.  It is something I've had in mind a long time, but the concept is not realistic in the least, if I am honest, or, if it is possible, it would not be within my capacity, I don't think, at least not without some significant changes beyond this.  Even more, it is not really all that relevant, I don't think.  That is, the point in

I Must Do Better I am uncertain how to do what is needed, to change myself, to be in control in those ways, to do what is needed to be different, to change, but I must do, must accept it as my task, own it. I have tried, have fought, done so much, and it has not helped, has been impossible, but it must happen: I know.  I am afraid, perhaps that is needed. Perhaps the fear is what I need to find my way.

I often fail to recognize the importance of my effort to write each day.  I know it matters, but I usually do not let me celebrate it as a kind of victory.  In general, this is probably for the best: it is a practice for me, is a necessary activity in my life.  I know its importance from the time I spent not working, and the changes this has brought about inside of me.  I often don't acknowledge this, as, in truth, I would like some more external results as well, but it is still important, is still a thing I must keep in mind as I continue each day.

Is It for The Best, This Return? It may be right, it is a possibility, there is something appropriate, something in recurrence that does seem right, but, it should not be undoing, should not be a rewind, must be a return but not to was as it was, not to move against what has come.  A return, but only if it is new, if the return is not degeneration but change.

I have had a long day, but I managed to get work done somewhat earlier tonight than has been typical in the recent past.  I am quite tired, though, and the feeling of not being able to sleep properly is very draining.  My most recent sleep study, just a few weeks ago, demonstrated that I need a different type of equipment to treat my sleep apnea, and I am waiting to hear back about what insurance says.  It is quite apparent I need the machine, as my previous study showed I was still waking up roughly once every two minutes, I believe, and this was with the treatment I am receiving right now.  I never get very deep sleep, and when I do drift off, my body has to fight to wake up so I can breath again.  It terrifies me, to be honest, that I might not wake up one time and just drop dead of a heart attack, as does happen to people with these conditions.  Even more, assuming the best, I am still exhausted, even after I sleep a full night, because it is not real sleep, only resembles it in a

There Are Two Ways: You can go along from within, can accept the costs, the burdens, that you will get what is given,  will have what is to be taken, taken.  You will be rewarded, or will be promised the reward, and it may well come, later, now, soon.  It can come, it can always come. The other path: step beyond, outside, attempt to do what can be done to undo what is seen, what is there within. You can be within or you can step outside, but those outside are not considered in the way those within are, are not said to belong. Both ways have a cost.  It is not simple: do not think one is so much better. There is a choice, but either path must be walked, is miles of strides.  It is not simple, is not even better.  It is a choice: there are two paths.  Or, perhaps, you will find another way instead.

 It is quite late, so I am going to be short tonight.  I worked on that story, but my efforts to get to work early were thwarted by external factors.  This morning had people here doing work on the house, which was quite noisy.  At the one point when I was actually starting to write, I got just a few paragraphs in and then received a phone call i had to take.  It was just a bit frustrating.  I did get the work done, though, it just had to wait until far later than I wanted.  

If I Had Not Waited, Would It Be Different? What was missed, what did not happen? Did hances exist then? What was possible? Would it have been better, or only longer and more of this?

I have repeated the same procrastinative pattern as last week, not working on my writing project at all in the past several days, leaving it until the last day or two to get to work.  I know that I won't have too much difficulty with the writing itself, as I have a good sense of what I want to write, but I am still very slow to start.  I wanted to begin tonight, but the day has been long and busy, and I did not get to it.  I did my poetry, and I am here, writing this blog entry (though it will likely be rather on the short side), but I didn't get to the rest.  As I said last time, part of me thinks it is a desire for the pressure that comes with an approaching deadline, the fear of missing it.  I wonder, as well, if my procrastination isn't, in part, a response to the feeling of futility I often have, at the moment, around the work itself and the frustrating inability to make real progress in my publishing efforts.  I often feel a bit of fear as I push myself to begin to wr

I Cannot Keep Waiting cannot survive this waiting and waiting, cannot.  It must end, must come to an end, must not be more and more of not yet and soon  and maybe later and all the things that are never yes or now or come along or go.  It is always waiting, and waiting, and waiting and waiting is my destruction, is the thing ending me, digging out what is within, each moment of nothing becomes more nothing,  becomes the echo of my silencing. I wait and wait. I have waited too long to keep waiting, but I cannot turn away. I cannot wait any longer but I must get through. Tell me what to do so I can stop waiting and have what it is I've worked for, can end the delay and arrive.

A few nights back I was writing about how I didn't always feel that the poems I write are all that valuable and spent my blog exploring the value and reasoning for continuing on through those times.  Tonight, I felt myself on the opposite end of that, with several new pieces that feel exciting and, possible, important, at least in terms of my own journey as a poet.  It feels as if they are new, are pushing in a direction that feels significant.  I do not usually push my work in one direction or another, but it is natural that it changes and develops, and the times when a new idea or a different way of approaching the work emerges it is a surprise to me.  It is also, I think, important for me, at this moment, to remember that I was, just a bit ago, feeling stuck and was, at times, doing the work solely out of commitment.  I know, even in those moments, that this low period is often important, and often comes before a positive shift.  I think that my previous post on this shows my aw

I Do Not Know How Long It Is Since I Slept or, since my sleep was real, was sleep, was not falling and rising without any real rest.  I rise as if I am waking from another day, just accepting the morning as the time to return, to get up from the place called bed. The doctor is trying to help, to get the right treatment, better treatment. She says I spend the night close to death, falling towards it.  Sleep is suffocation, is breathless, waking is the deep gasp, and my heart, I hope will be alright, will survive more nights of this: I do not know how long it will be until I can sleep again.

The last several weeks I have been back and forth with my morning writing session.  Some days, I have been doing it, but many times I have let it slip.  I am still writing each day, so it is not that much of a problem, but I would like to be more consistent about doing my work in the mornings.  I'm hoping that tomorrow I can get myself back to work on that project from last week, which I know I need to continue work on, as I need to have the next portion of the work ready for Thursday.  It may be that I don't do it tomorrow and repeat my procrastinating from last week, but I am hoping that, perhaps, tomorrow morning I will get to it first thing.  I am already fairly sure what I want to write, or at least the approach to that which will get me started so I can do the work.  I am certain it won't be so hard, once I begin, as so much is already planned in my mind, and what I am planning for it is fairly fun and entertaining.  In truth, I don't have very many reasons for re

Things Are Not The Same as they were when things were  already not great, and now they are worse, but is that a chance? Is there a way this may be a chance if things are done or what comes is right? It costs too much, but it will have that cost has already been a cost. It is not possible to find these things without it costing, without harm upon harm. It is already harm, was harm, will have been this  even if it were not possible to think of better coming. If it is already this, why can we not do better just to do better, just because now is a time.  No matter what came before, not in the name of aftermath, but because it is time, because it is possible now that we have seen, now that we know this much.

I have a number of projects I really need to get back to work on.  The Dracula essay that I have been playing with for so long is probably the chief amongst these, and I am thinking a lot about how I can get that on the page.  I think part of the problem is wanting to bring in the personal aspects, and finding a way to do that while making the relevance clear.  One of the major problems is that I am pointing towards stereotypes that aren't as known today, but which were very much commonplace in the past.  I keep thinking of how to draw a comparison that the reader can recognize, and I do think I have some of that now.  I need to find the structure for this piece, the way I want to tell it, and I feel close.  In the end, it is really more a matter of just putting myself to work on it by just doing the writing.

I Do Not Know what can be saved or who, or how or if it is possible to bring this back, though back is wrong, is not where it must go, but any of it, all of it? Who can say?  It must be done, it must be done.  We must do it. We cannot know how or if our hands or backs will break, if their is too much already that has gone against us, if their is nothing else left. It has all eroded, has fallen, has changed.  It was tarnished, was marked and stained, but it was not this, not yet, now: what can be done? I do not know, but I know we must do it, even if we do not know what, do not know how: I know we must do it.

I am often not certain about the poems I write. Many of them feel insignificant, or just off the mark.  I press them out, but they do not seem to be of real worth to me.  It may be, of course, that I am misjudging them.  I've certainly had others tell me that a poem is quite a bit more impactful then I had expected, but that is not likely to be true of each piece I pen.  The truth is, most of what I write probably isn't of great value, but that is one reason I write so much.  It is a simple fact that the more attempts made, the greater the chance of success, so, writing poems each day is sort of like rolling dice over and over.  I also know that it helps in other ways.  For one thing, writing several poems at once helps me to run out the boring, easy stuff.  I have to press myself for new ideas, or to return to those concepts that I might have written about before without success, or around an idea I have a deeper or alternative perspective on now.  As well, in a slightly diffe

The Respite Ends It was not easy, or simple, but things have been quiet, or at least, quieter, at least that is true. There has been quiet that was not here before. That quiet will end soon when they have returned.

As I had anticipated, the pressure of needing to get work done got me in gear, and I was able to get what I think is a pretty decent story done.  In truth, though I thought it was complete, I am going to return and add more, but that decision is being pushed by the nature of the project itself.  When I was first pushed to put more in, I was a bit reticent, to be honest, or at least, I was uncertain how to do it.  I was trying to think of how to continue on, which meant considering the ending I had already placed as a midpoint.  Now, the ending is not a major event or climax, it is more a summation, a reflection intended to express a perspective on what came before, it was when I stepped back from that ending that I saw the opening for a lot that I want to add to this piece.  It is funny how such an attachment to a piece of work can persist.  I like the ending I gave the story and feel it works for what is on the page right now, and I didn't really want to lose that end.  Even now,

There Was A Time When It Was Unclear: had it been enough, had it been achieved. No one could be sure that the days would come, that the world had been restored, would be considered redeemed, renewed.  It might not have been enough, not now, not after all that was lost, after all that had been taken away. What had been seen as necessary was impossible now, that chance had been destroyed. But the effort was made and everything happened, continued to happen, what had been still existed. That was enough, that was miracle enough.

Tonight, Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, began.  It is a day of fasting and prayer, of remembrance for those who have died, and, most essentially, of contrition, of accepting and acknowledging ones guilt.  It is quite somber, but I think there is a space within that for a kind of sacred joy that grows from being cleansed, both by asking forgiveness and granting it, of being freed from the wrongs of the past.  I do not know how to achieve that, not fully, but the effort itself, that I choose to try to be better, to be willing to make amends and open to accepting those of others, even just the effort to do this, as imperfect as the results may be should make it a good day.

To Back Away Would Be No Good and do not suggest stepping away, turning back, going in another direction, no, that would be an empty choice, would be the choice to allow emptiness inside, to be hollowed out.  Those ways are not forward, are not progress, are even worse than just being stuck, than this immobility I must overcome. If only it were possible to go closer, to move towards it just by stepping there, but that is the one direction  which, it seems, is barred.

I began working on the story, as I had hoped to do before.  It is not really a surprise, as I do want to get it done by Thursday, so I had little choice.  I wish I had more done by now, but, as I said last night, there is a power in the pressure of a deadline.  I've certainly had other occasions where I needed to finish work and waited until the last minute to get it done, and even my own daily writing, a deadline I impose on myself, often follows a similar pattern, with me putting it off for a long while and then getting it done at the end of the evening, before going to bed.  I would like to change this, and have worked to do so, but it may just be a matter of temperament and I might need to accept it, even if I know it is not an ideal habit.  It may be more that I need to find a way to use it to my advantage, creating more deadlines for myself that I take seriously, such as a deadline for a certain amount of writing by a certain time of day, not just a quota that I can fulfill i

To Be Here Is Not Good, not any longer, but there is no other place that I wish to be not any longer: that place is not the same, the one place I would say is the right place has changed, is wrong to me, now. But here is not good, and no place else will be. What must change is not the place, I know.  It is not where, that is not the problem, but it seems possible that could be changed, it seems better to be upset, instead, about what might change

 Of course, I did not do my work this morning, as I had intended to, and I am now another night behind, with less time to do what must be done before my deadline.  I should work on it tonight, but, again, I feel it is too late, so I am trusting myself to do it tomorrow.  I suppose the pressure of the deadline may be helpful.  I certainly wish I had started sooner, but it is not always a matter of what I want: that pressure matters, even in terms of clarifying my ideas.  If I had known where to begin, I would have been writing last week, but the fact that I still had time made it feel reasonable to wait, and kept me from working hard on nailing down what I was going to do.  I had a few ideas, but none seemed quite right.  Maybe if I had worked one of those, I might be done already, but I didn't.  Now, I do have an idea, as I said last night, and I have to wonder if waiting for the deadline to be so close wasn't necessary in order to get my mind in gear.

The Choice Was Made Long Ago There is nothing to do now, or nothing that will be done that is not a result of that choice, of what was decided, and no choice to undo it, no choice could undo it, not now, not after so long, it would be no good to change, to start over now, when the beginning is gone, when it is the middle, at least. No, it cannot be undone or redone or ignored. It was chosen.  It is, always will be. If there cannot be a way to make it the right choice, to bring forth good, to grow it from what has been done, if that cannot be, there is nothing at all. There can be no going back, if it is wrong, too much was wasted that cannot be had again, that is necessary, that must never be wasted, must never have been wasted. It must be possible. There must be a way forward from here, there must be.  If not? I cannot think of that, it must not be that.

 I need to get myself in gear in terms of writing the next piece for the project I've been working on for therapy.  I've been slow to get going, as I am a bit uncertain how to approach this specific assignment, but I think I have an idea now.  I am not certain how much it will really work, but that is the nature of writing anything: I have to do it before I can be sure it was the right idea.  In this case, what I am uncertain of is more about the circumstances, though.  I think I have an idea that can work as far as the writing goes, and the challenges in it are interesting, though subtle.  The biggest problem I am having is determining certain specifics of how to orchestrate the perspective to allow for the ending I want within the framework of the piece.  What concerns me is more removed than that.  In some ways, it is a question about what it will mean in the context I am presenting it.  The assignment has to do with self-conceptions and with the idea of success and I am fin

Do Not Think or do not think about thinking, do not notice it, contemplate what is a thought or not, if there is a thought or not. It is not holding it, is not keeping it, is not judging or owning it: just be present, let things happen that are actions you are taking but taking by allowing, by opening instead of doing. It is not easy to explain, though it is simple. It is so simple it cannot be easy at all.

On that morning, twenty years ago, I was lying in bed sleeping when my mother called me.  I was living at home, sort of.  My Grandfather had passed away and my parent's had kept possession of his apartment, which was on the same floor of the apartment building as the one where I had grown up.  The night before, I had been up late, so I wasn't really too keen on getting a phone call so early in the morning.  My mother told me that I should be watching the news, that a plane had crashed into one of the twin towers.  I grunted and was getting ready to go back to sleep, but then some little part of me put together the words.  I was befuddled.  It did not seem a sensible thing to have happened.  I had to check, so I turned on the television, just in time to see the second plane make impact.  I watched as it unfolded, beginning to understand what was unfolding.  I'm not sure how long I sat there alone before I got myself together to go into my parent's apartment. I remember a

An Unspoken Response It is no good, the way things are working, the responses come with empty platitudes, what was taken, what was denied, it is acknowledged, but nothing more, no value returned, only the hollow echo of apology and thanks. There is nothing behind it, no substance, it is just a shrug, another denial. Those who come, who offer themselves here are seeking beneficence, are hopeful, make their offerings, as is demanded, hoping that it will bring reward, that they will be welcomed forward. It cannot happen for all, no, it can never be that simple, but to offer nothing, to take from those seeking assistance while giving nothing cannot be the way to continue, not when nothing is given in return. If you can only continue this task by enacting this harm, maybe the alternative is worth considering.

I am not doing well tonight.  It happens, has been happening.  There are a number of things in my personal life that have been draining, and situations have manifested in the last few years that make my home feel unsafe, while also pressuring me to want that particular safety.  I do not see a way to change those things directly at this moment, and so I have put energy into my work, and that has been a very unrewarded endeavor.  I need to find a way to make progress with something that matters.  I am glad that I know what those things are, I just wish I could find a way to take meaningful action in a way that would lead to real progress.

The Assignment There must be a story  I can tell, I want to tell and can tell, that meets the criteria: there must be, but I do not know it, have not found it, not yet.  It must be there, waiting, must be there. I need to begin. Maybe I must begin, must start without knowing. Maybe there is enough in what you have asked, maybe that is already a beginning.

I am thinking of enlisting some help to get my short stories in shape, and maybe find some places that might be a good fit for them.  The truth is, I am not as confident in my fiction as I am in my poetry.  I've not spent nearly as much time working on fiction, have not attended many fiction workshops.  I did take classes on fiction craft, and have read a great deal of fiction, but I haven't had as much opportunity to get feedback, and have written far fewer stories than poems.  In some ways, I think the fact that most of my thinking on fiction is not prescribed by writing classes has been a benefit to me, since my interests tend towards the experimental, but I also know that having not had as many opportunities to have my work critiqued limits my awareness around the work.  I don't trust my own perceptions of my work in general, but that is even more true in fiction, where I don't have enough experience to anticipate what might not be working.  As well, I am less certa

There Needs to Be A Process a strategy to guide each action. Without that, there is nothing, only accidents, happenstance, nothing planned, nothing to build upon. It is not enough to do this or that, not if there is to be progress. There must be a plan, not only the goal but a way to get there.

I haven't been sending out any work for a while, now.  I still have numerous submissions out, but since I stopped working with Freesia, I haven't sent out more, and I am beginning to feel a pressure to get more out there.  I don't know how I can manage it without a great deal of stress at this moment, but if I don't submit, I won't get anyplace.  I need to figure out how I can manage submissions for myself, I want to figure that out, but the reality of doing it is daunting for me. 

Those Wants And Needs cannot be fulfilled, not any longer: I see no way to repair, to return to the path, do not know what to do, what could be done. You did not need to do this, you knew, were told, but you chose this path, and now you claim regret, but what will you do? I do not know what can be done, but that does not change that you must do something if you expect me to believe you care.

Today was Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year and the holiday has me thinking of my dad.  It is not as if Rosh Hashanah had any specific or special meaning in my relationship with him, as though he had shared some personal connection to the holiday.  In truth, the service I most associate with him is Kol Nidrei, the evening service that begins Yom Kippur, the second of the two High Holidays that mark this portion of the Jewish calendar.  Kol Nidrei is the service my father told me he loved the most and found the most beautiful.  I am certain that will hit me, as it has each year, in another week and a half, when Yom Kippur begins.  Tonight, though, it is more general, is just the reminder that another year has come, carrying me farther in time from the moments I shared with him.  I miss him and that growing distance always hurts, but this is how the world goes, pulling our lives ever forward to the future.  He is not here any longer, and that will always be devastating, of course, but I

You Think It Is by Choice, that I have control, can change this, but that is your assumption, is not my experience, and I have experience: this is my life and I have worked to make things different, have strained myself to be a not this, but it never works. It has not changed. Perhaps you know more, know what I do not, but if that is so, show me, prove the point by offering evidence. Do not just tell me this is not acceptable, that I must change. It would be best for me if this could change. Do not insist it is by choice.

I am finding that I am slowing down a bit in my writing for the last week or so.  I had been more active, but right now seems to be a period of thought.  I've been contemplating a few new ideas for longer pieces.  One is the next part of the same project I have been working on, but it is a deviation from the previous sections.  I wasn't certain what I wanted to do with it, but I think I have a better grasp on it now.  The general idea has to do with crafting a character with certain positive qualities and I was having trouble thinking of what to do with them, as I want the characteristics to be important to the story, and needed to figure out what they would be motivated to do.  A large chunk of the idea has come into view for me, but I am not certain of the specific plot, but it is coming together. As well, as I think I might have mentioned, I am also beginning to work on a new short play.  The general concept is about a person on a spiritual pilgrimage to meet some hermetic s

The Warning was placed  where it would be seen, spoke of danger, of the power within, of the need for care. It was a warning, right there, a warning of what could be, of the need to use care, to be cautious, placed with care where those seeking just that kind of power would be certain to see it right away.

I recently finished reading James Tate Hill's recently published memoir, Blind Man's Bluff.   Hill is a graduate of the same MFA program that I attended, and, though we were never close, I do think of him as a friend, if not a close one, so, perhaps I am a bit biased.  It is a joy to see him doing well, I will admit, but even were it just a random book that fell into my hand, I know I would be struck by it.  I have wanted to write about my experience with this book, but have been having difficulty putting my thoughts together.  The book is one that I found incredibly moving and thoughtful.  It describes the author's journey towards self-acceptance.  As a teenager, Hill began to experience severe vision loss as a result of a previously undiagnosed condition, and dealt with this, for many years, by minimizing his lack of vision and faking his way through situations without divulging the truth.  The book captures the true fear of being uncovered, the want to be normal, to not

Undone It was waiting, the space already prepared: it waited, ready, even before I came. I should have been glad, should have been soothed that I was wanted, that I was called forward, but I balked, thought it an imposition, or told myself it was; in truth, I was afraid. I did not do  what I desired, did not fulfill the very reason for my arrival. I ran away, told myself it was best, that it was not right, but it was fear. I wonder if I had not left what would have been.

 I am getting some more sense of a potential idea related to the concepts of content and context that I have recently been exploring.  This is getting a bit more grounded, though it is still abstract and undetailed, it is, however, in the direction of an actual technique or approach.  In many ways, the structures that are found in fiction, the contexts that supply the meaning for the relative contents, are universal.  We have all been in a wide variety of situations that are metaphorical to fictional tropes in some way or another, and we all have relationships with people that could be interpreted as analogues of relationships in stories.  If one picked a well known and largely universal story, one might be able to conceive of a way to correlate content from a reader's experience with the content in the story itself.  That is, to use Cinderella once more, one might endeavor to cause the reader to recall events from their own life and organize them into a version of Cinderella.  The

What Was Best Was The Beast Itself The rest would not have mattered or been much of anyrhing, but that beast: it stood above everyone, was more than present, an overload, a beast that could not be ignored, could not be other than a beast.

 It has gotten quite late tonight.  A friend of mine who had been out of town called earlier and we went out for a late dinner, then hung out for a bit, and I hadn't yet done my work for the evening.  I am quite tired, since, as I said in the previous post, I spent last night having a sleep study.  Being covered in wires and conductive gel and going to bed in a room with cameras and mocrophones to monitor your every move is not all that restful.  The aids have to adjust and fix things through the night, and they wake you very early, so what little sleep you might get is cut short.  Still, if it results in my being able to get better sleep in the near future, that is worth it.  

I Remembered Him as Kind as a good doctor, and he was, saved my brother's life when he was a baby, probably save mine, too, over the years.  He was a good doctor, but today I remembered(why today?) the time he told me I was far too fat, that I needed to lose weight. "No one will want to hire you if you are fat like this when you grow up." I was probably ten, or maybe twelve.

I am at the sleep clinic tonight, so I don't have a lot of time for writing.  This is my second sleep study within a month, as the first showed severe apnea with a cpap, so now they are going to try again with a higher level of machine.  I am hopeful it will work, as being able to sleep well would be a huge positive.  I know the change it makes from my initial diagnosis.

It Must Be Done, I want it done, fought for it, am ready for it, but it does not mean I am glad to be here, to be in this now. It must be done, but why must I be here at the time?

It is very ironic to me, but as I have spent the past several days writing, here, about my interest in pushing aside content, I've also been involved writing other work that is very grounded in personal experience.  Perhaps it is not ironic but the same thing coming to a head in different ways.  I will admit that I have a part of me that wants to hide, and maybe I am learning about how to differentiate between that impulse and others that inspire me towards this kind of work. recognizing that there are authentic reasons to write in the ways I am exploring which have nothing to do with the fear of revealing too much.  Perhaps the two are less connected than I presume, are just things happening at the same time, but still separate.  Even if that were the case, though, the fact that I see a comparison is meaningful, creates a meaning that now exists in this circumstance.  It is important for me to press forward in my work, and that includes both being more willing to take personal ris

A Small Part Wanted Disaster, wanted things to go wrong, wanted to be sympathetic, to be the one who would be seen as correct, as needing. It was not good, was not the best outcome, would not be as good as the best outcome, but things never turned that way, the world does not go right, events never unfold so smooth. It would go wrong, would be imperfect, and some small desire  wanted that wrong to be a boon, though it was too selfish to ever admit, even as a thought in the mind thinking it.