Would That I Might

I feel quite good about the poetry I wrote tonight.  As I mentioned, I want to be more playful in my approach, and want to make an effort to write pieces with a certain variety I have felt the lack of.  It can be difficult explaining these things, but I have felt that my work was stuck and in a bit of a rut, which is not all that strange, considering that I have felt that same way about things in my life in a more general sense, and my work is often, by necessity, a reflection of other things that are occurring in my life.  It can be hard to find new things to write when my mind is obsessing over the same problems all the time, and I have been pretty much stuck in that kind of mental pattern for a while now, despite my efforts to work through it.  I know it is not a good place to be, but it is not always simple to change such things, but I don't want to go down that path again right now.  I know I do not have answers and that explaining what is bothering me will only lead me back i

Late The bloom has not emerged though the plant lives and grows, is tended, watered, has enough sun. It should bloom but it has not, seems stubborn, an obstinate refusal to reach its destined state. There must be a reason, something that is missing. A plant does not choose to wait, to put off its budding for a week, or I do not think that is how it works, not that I am an expert at all. I know it should bloom. Perhaps it will, soon. I hope it does. I have worked so to keep it safe and well so it may blossom. All I can think to do is hope it does.

When I first left school, I had a great deal of difficulty adjusting to being in charge of my own time as a writer.  In school, even beyond any specific assignments, I always had a general sense that I was expected to be writing, that what I produced would be valued and was desired.  Even as a graduate student, I had some challenges due to my neurodiversity, but I had a creative community and people who I could share and discuss writing together.  It was when I was out of school and not in that kind of environment all the time that I faced a real challenge in getting myself to write much of the time.  I had periods when I would write a great deal at once, over days or weeks, but those were rarities in between long periods of not writing anything, and even those projects I did work on, despite the fervor, were generally unfinished and abandoned.  It took a very long time for me to learn to manage my time to gain the importance of working each day on a longer piece until finished, not ta

It Is Best It Continues but, also, it is not constant, it cannot be constant. To be constant would be too much, an impossible too much, it would take everything, if it were constant, but it can be continuous, can be ongoing, if not always happening, can be punctuated, but still there, pausing, waiting, to be resumed, to remain in process but at rest, but never too long, not so long it isn't any longer a continuation but a return, no that won't do: it continues, but is not constant. Still, even as it continues, as it must rest, so it begins again, as it must. It must start anew, each day, let it begin again, let it continue by starting once more.

I have been very mired in gloom for a long while, and I know I need to get myself free from it, at least in terms of what I am writing.  There is a place for poems expressing these feelings, but I don't want it to be all I am writing, and so I am trying to be a bit more playful in my poems.  Play can, of course, be a part of expressing these same feelings, but I think it might help me to loosen up and shift the work.  Tonight, for example, I worked on a poem that was about a time I travelled overseas and arrived to find my luggage was missing.  I framed the poem around the fear of not having underwear, which was a thing that I remember thinking about at the time, and used that odd perspective to make it a bit silly, though I think it is still connecting to something more, to a sense of being uncertain in a strange place, and hinting towards the want for some kind of familiar comfort for stability.  Play is easy to ignore or forget, at least for me, despite it being not only a power

Broken I do not know that there is a way to fix these things, and I am uncertain what to do. If it can't be made better, what is there? As things are it is not good, and nothing can change what happened, nothing can do that, and there is not a way for me to accept this, to be alright with this outcome. It does not work. I do not know how to make it right. I don't want this. I want to fix it. I need it to be better, if I am honest. I do not know how to continue with things as they are. I cannot adapt to it, cannot accept it: it will never be alright that this was done. I don't have a way out, but I need one. I need you to be responsible for what you have done, and that means making it better, that means fixing this, though I know it can't be fixed. I don't want this. I want it to be better. I want you to make it better. It is all your fault and you say  you are sorry for it, but that is not anything, is not action, is not changing the conditions that you created. It

I want to challenge myself to write more fiction, but I don't know how I can structure that challenge to make it effective.  I've tried to have the goal of working on a story every day before, as I do with poetry, but that doesn't work as well for me with fiction.  Several times, I have found that I get lost in the writing, attempting to keep going but not certain what to do.  With poetry, I have a lot more flexibility as a writer.  I am not as experienced in fiction, and that can result in losing my way.  I am certain that I can find a way to structure a daily fiction task for myself that is not as open ended and which will help me to develop a more robust capacity as a writer in that area.  I know I can always write a poem.  I want to feel that I can write fiction the same way, and that means practicing to develop the associated skill set.  I need to find the right way to structure it, I think, so that I know what I feel I know what I am doing.  I suppose that is the bigg

There Was A Small Black Bird a crow, I think, though I am not expert in the identification of birds, only that it was dark enough and not so big that I thought it likely a raven, no, I think it was a crow. It came near to me, landed on the ground just there, and I feared it would fly away if I turned, but it did not, even looked at me. I said hello and thanked it for coming to visit, told it I was glad, that it was welcome. It looked back at me, just a moment or so, and turned again, turned its back to me so I saw the light  shining purple of the dark cloak of its feathers. It walked about, stepped here and there, seemed to be searching, then, a moment later, looked to the sky and followed its look, launching itself. I was glad it came, glad it stayed so near, even for just a moment. I wonder if it will return. It would be nice to have its company again.

I've been working on a new query letter for my novel, as I have alluded to in a few previous posts.  I'm starting to get a stronger idea of how to pitch it, but I am a bit conflicted about some of it.  For instance, I recognize that a great deal of what drove me in creating it, even if not in a way I was aware of, is related to my experience as a person who is not neuro-typical.  In essence, their is a degree to which I recognize that the normal approach of encoding meaning within language, the typical ways we create meaning with our words, serve to depict a certain "normal" range of experiences.  Though the issue of neurodiversity isn't directly discussed in the book, I can't deny that the way the story is told is intended to depict a different type of experience, and to demonstrate the possibility for language to carry other kinds and layers of meaning.  While I believe that those aspects of the book are important, and are also some of what makes it special,

You Gave Me The Name And The Phone Number I wrote them both down, put it into my phone book to be certain it would be safe, that I would not lose it, and it must be there, I am sure it is still there, but I don't remember which one is the one I need.  The name is not one I remember and there are too many that I do not recognize that are already here, so I can't pick it out. I should just call you, should ask again, but I will just wait and hope it becomes clear. That may not work but it is less embarrassing.

I am considering making some videos of me reading some of the poems from this blog.  I would probably start with some from early on, and work my way through, picking out those that I feel stand up.  As I have mentioned, the poems I write here are, for me, a bit like sketches might be to an artist, done in a sort of improvised way and presented without any real work beyond that original creation, and there are certainly times when they work as preludes for pieces I wind up writing afterwards, or which exist in conversation with those dashed off originals.  I have not gone back over most of them in a long while, to be honest, and that is a part of the appeal of doing a project of this sort.  Of course, a big part is to try and get the work out there more.  I am not really certain about video production or anything, but I think I can figure that out, even if it is pretty basic at first.  I've got plenty of work sitting here on this blog and I don't want to just let it sit here.  I

It Can Be Named And Described detailed until it there is a certainty that what was asked for is well understood. It could be done, at least in this case. I know, I have said, "I do not know what help I need," but I can name it here. The problem is not knowing, it is that I cannot ask, that naming it is pointless. I know what is needed, but if I ask I will be told it is unreasonable to expect that, or it is too late. I can ask, have asked, but, always it hurts worse when I do.

I am thinking about the question of whether a writer can create a piece that causes their to be a consequence for the act of reading it.  In some sense, this is clearly certain, if a piece is able to impact a reader in the proper way, but that is not the sense I am intending here, I mean in a more direct way, not through the meaning or symbolic resonance, but that the reading of the work itself is somehow an action that has weight.  Consider, for instance, a fictional character who rebels at some point in a story, recognizing the world as fiction and distraught over the trials and burdens of the story, and decries both writer and reader for imagining them, for dreaming them into being, in some form, only for such silly entertainment.  I don't know if such a story could really work, though the idea has been in my mind for some time.  I think their is an attempt at another expression of a similar concept in my first novel, and thinking on it from this perspective may be helpful in kn

Imagine It As A Rock It is hard and heavy, a boulder to be pushed away, but not out in the air, rolling it up some hill or mountain, no, it must be freed from a cave within.  Is there even an opening large enough, a place ahead it can slide through? Can it be moved at all? If it is set free, can where it goes be controlled?

My therapist asked me to do a bit more writing this week, in particular to discuss certain feelings around my education and my journey to being a poet.  I had done a bit of work to explore those ideas in some of my poetry earlier in the week, but tonight I decided to sit down and do a bit of a more extended meditation and wound up writing several pages of prose.  It is the first solid prose writing I have done in a bit,  and I am wondering I know that a large part was just getting to it.  As well, I think it matters that I have a point in writing it.  I am not just going to save the file here and hold it on my computer, but already know there is an audience for it, even if only a small one.  It was still close to some of the other things I have been doing, at least in the themes that were touched on, which makes a lot of sense in terms of it being a therapeutic exercise, since so much of what I write about of late grows from the same stuff that has me seeking that kind of help at prese

The Things That Were Said were only things said, but I believed it was true, believed it would be  as you said it would, chose to do all these things because I was certain of what I had been told. If it had not been said, if I had not been told, it would be otherwise. What might I have done, what choice would have been made? I cannot say at all, but I know I chose this, I chose it. I trusted what was said. It was only words, and now I chose. Because of you and all you said I made these choices. I have no way back. 

I want to find a way to get myself feeling more enthusiastic about my writing again.  I'm not really certain what to do about the issue at the moment.  I've been writing, of course, and I still find myself interested in the work itself, once I have gotten into it, but even so, there is a missing element.  It is the reason why it is often so hard for me to get started on my work, why it has become routine for me to leave it until the end of the day in the first place.  At one point, I really felt the desire to get to work early, to wake up and go to it, and I felt compelled to work on various projects.  Maybe this is just me imagining it, or it was a product of being in the middle of certain piece of writing that I was particularly invested in.  I don't know.  What scares me is the sense that it is my general feeling of futility spreading out.  I feel very stuck right now in so many ways, and writing often does feel as if it is a frail and silly effort on my part.  I'm o

What to Do? Following the path of consideration, I often reach a great chasm, an ending of the ground that cannot be passed, though it may be  it is more that there is an island, a place surrounded on all sides, an inescapable island of thought that cannot connect forward, can only repeat itself, treading the same ground, going back again and again through what has been thought and seeking a way forward that does not exist.  Can it exist? It is only thought, is only thinking, and it shouldn't be so limited, should it?  The problem is not thought, the problem is what can be done, it is what can be changed. Thinking is not going to change things, but it is what can be done in these circumstances. Thinking is only thinking, though and things need to be done. The thinking can only matter if something is done.

Well, I did not get started on that new story today.  I have no real excuse for that, other than being distracted and not really thinking about it until just now.  I'm hoping that writing about it again, admitting to my failing today, might be more potent, but that seems a bit optimistic.  I don't know what I can do to lash myself to work in advance, but I can take a minute after I am done with this to at least start a sentence or two.  I have some idea about the beginning of the story, I think, a strong and strange opening image that leads into the events quite well.  It may be that even just putting that much down on paper will be enough to get me off and running.  It is already late, so if I am going to do this, I should get to it right now, so I'm keeping this short for tonight.  I should have done it first, I guess, but the idea didn't occur until I began to write about it.

There Were Simple Reasons to Believe to trust it would be true, examples to point towards: those who came before who had been ushered forward, who had taken this same path, trusted the same guidance, and were now fulfilled. The choices made were made with clarity, with a certainty, with confidence in the possibilities, in what was to come. It was all reasonable. It had to be, it was not a small matter, the all that followed would flow forth in accord to this course. Now, though, now that it is later and so much did not come to be, so much of what was said was only words and never deeds, now, what is to be done? There is not a way back, and there is no way forward, no way to be free of the current, no way to go forward, though to stay here  is to drown.  

I need to push myself towards writing some more prose, and I have said this a few times of late without taking real action.  There are a number of ideas that feel close to ready, and the only way to get them to where they need to go is with the work of writing them out, even if it is only a second-rate first draft.  I am writing my poetry each night, of course, so I don't feel as if I am slacking or anything, but I know I need to be doing a wider variety of work right now, and I have some ideas that I feel could best be expressed in non-poetic forms.  I have enough to begin with some of them, I am certain, it is more a matter of choosing to start than anything else.  I need to begin tomorrow.  If I don't, I will have to admit that here.  Usually that small commitment is enough to give me the needed push, but I will have to let you know how it works out tomorrow evening.  For now, I am going to call it a night before it gets much later.

I Thought, Perhaps, It Was You but it was not.  You are still silent. It should mean nothing: I know you well enough to be adjusted to such disappearances. It is nothing at all, is only the way you are, but I am still sad. I do not have many friends, at times, I think I have only one, maybe two, but that is not the truth, there are a few, but they are scattered, are not here.  And the world: it is so busy, so necessary to be busy if you wish to survive. I mean to say that I miss you, that it would be good if it had been you. I expect you will return, and I hope it is soon. I have been hoping it would be soon since you went away.

I have been thinking a great deal about my first novel and how to update my query, in particular the portion describing the book itself, and I think I am getting close.  I realized that, on one level, the plot can be summed up as falling into the "be careful what you wish for" category of story.  The main character is a writer struggling to come up with an idea for a novel.  During a strangely vivid dream, he encounters a book which he is tasked to write, but as he proceeds, he has to wonder who or what is behind the dreams, and why they want the book to be written, what it is they wish to bring into our world.  As the book continues, even the reader is lead to wonder what dangers might be waiting when it is finally finished.  There is a great deal more to a pitch, and it is important, I think, to stress the unusual qualities of the book, but this feels like a massive improvement on other approaches I've taken, simplifying it into something that is more coherent.  I had t

I Must Learn to Hold It within Myself to remember your needs, to realize there is a burden, a pressure placed by such things. I must hold it, must not be careless. It is not correct to cast it upon you, to take what I do not want and drop it onto you. You have asked before, have said it is important and I have failed, have not considered it well. Tonight, I want to do better. I understand.  It must change. You have enough already, you do not need more when you are unready. I know you will listen, when you are prepared you are ready to listen. It cannot be as it has been, the tirade of my upset. It has been so hard, things have been so difficult. I know you understand, but I know it does not excuse me. I must remember you too  have been harmed. I was not the only victim.

I am feeling so stuck and I cannot take it.  I want to make things better, but I don't know what to do.  The things that need to change in order for it to be better are not just ideological.  There are material issues in my life right now that I don't have control over, but which are having an extreme negative impact on me.  I am still living in the house Melissa and I bought, and we are still in the midst of the same ongoing renovation that we started before the pandemic, but the situation with my brother makes living here feel like a prison.  You see, my brother decided he wanted to move to this area, which was perfectly fine, but I asked him, for a number of reasons, to not move too close, literally not to buy a house on my street.  He said that was fine and even that he didn't have any interest in living so close, but, of course, he wound up deciding the only house he could possibly want was one down the road.  It was clear this decision would be bad, that he was going

You Say It Was A Mistake, Now but you knew the damage that would be done, you knew it already. You were told, you saw the pain it caused. You told me it was still what you wanted, that even with all that was wrong, all the harm it was inflicting, you wanted it, needed it. It was what you needed, what you wanted, what you deserved to have. It would be right. But now, when it is too late, now you want to say it was a mistake as if I should accept that, as if it changes things. You must prove to me it was not a mistake, must prove it was true that you needed this, that even with the harm done it still was what had to be, what you required. Prove to me it still is good, was still the right choice, or admit to me, say what I already suspect: you only did it to cause the harm. You did not care about the rest, you just wanted to have what you wanted to prove you could, to prove that my needs did not matter at all.

I am quite tired tonight, but I am finishing up at a relatively early time for me, at least in terms of my recent schedule.  This week I have been very slow, and many nights went well past two before I was done.  I am at least closing out around one tonight.  I don't really have a lot to say, to be honest, which may result from my being tired, though it can also be a formula for writing a great deal, though not always as coherent thoughts.  It takes a lot of editing most of the time, even if their is good work within.  The critical voice is often too worn out, is just waiting and resting, watching from off stage.  It is easy to get into a rant or just run away with an idea, and sometimes the results are spectacular, with imagery that might not have appeared outside of that wanting to dream state, but it still needs to be looked at in the morning.  Considering I have to post this now, I suppose I am, then, best keeping it short.

That House It is not comfortable to be there, you have not worked to make it a place anyone else wants to be. There are is furniture but no place to sit, not when each chair except your own is covered with things, with cords and packages and components for whatever project. It is not a place to have anyone come besides yourself, and that is clear, but you invite us, want us to come and be there  and will act like I am unreasonable or intolerant. You do not undertand. That is the problem that is at the center. It can't be explained, I cannot explain it. I do not know who can explain it for you. I do not know. I have understood in my own mind what has come to be, what is between us, have worked to heal, to make things better. I want it to be better. Do not think that means I will do the work alone,

I spent much of the afternoon and evening preparing a Valentines Day dinner for Melissa and I.  I had planned to try and do it here at home, originally, despite our not having a real kitchen right now due to the still ongoing renovation here.  I have a convection toaster that works quite well for many things, and was planning to do a one pot braise in that small oven, but that plan was put into disarray.  There was some work that needed to be done in that area of the house and it didn't seem as if I would be able to cook st all in the house.  I was able to go to my brother's place instead, which was not ideal, and I kind of wish I had found a way to avoid it, but it did work out in the end, at least, and Melissa seemed to enjoy the meal.  I am not all that fond of valentines day in general, but it always makes me happy when I can cook a special meal for someone I love.

It Cannot Be Some of what was said then, some of what I believed, what I was promised, some of it, at least,  needs to be true, doesn't it?  So much was chosen, was done, so many choices were discarded, can never be. It is important that something of it is still the truth, some promise fulfilled. It is probably not, it is probably impossible for any of it to be what it seemed to be, what I trusted it would be, even just a bit. It is not that way. I cannot accept that, even knowing it is the truth, it cannot be.   If that is the truth, everything was stolen, everything is gone or never was. I want some kind of hope, an ending that is not this, that is not gloom. I want a way forward, but it cannot be if nothing is there at all, if the foundation  was always an abscess. What is there to say? What can be done? There needs to be a change, but I am always told I cannot create the changes I need.

I have been considering a new story idea that is turning around in my mind.  It is, to be honest, not all that original as a plot, though it is fun and odd and a bit of a quirky take on the idea.  I can think of at least one story off hand that uses a similar central concept, but it is rather different.  The idea is a story built around a variation of the bootstrap paradox, where the end of the story brings the character back around to the very beginning, such that the events are a loop where their is no first cause, as every result leads to the circle.  In this story would start with the appearance of a baby who grows up and then goes through a strange time loop that sends it back in time as a baby.  In essence, the backwards time travel is just a reversed entropy of some sort, where time is flowing backwards to a certain moment and everything inside it is going back in time as well.  Thus, at the end of the story, their is not a start or an end to the man's journey, just a strang

It Is Too Easy to Be Distracted or maybe not just distracted, but to choose, to make a selection that is imprudent, not looking over at a dancing, shining thing, but to put it their, to seek it out and place it down and pick it up again and stare, and think nothing of what was to be done, to think nothing of it until it is later than it should have been, until it has gotten dark and their is no light to make it shine. It is too easy. The mind does not listen to what it says, as if it is another. I should do that, I will think while doing  what is not that, is anything but that.  It will be there, but I won't notice, won't remember, or won't care and won't listen and won't do it until it is impossible to wait any longer or it is far too late for it to even matter. It takes so much just to do any simple thing that is intended. So much is not done. Do I even know what has, what has not, been done?

I almost forgot to write my blog tonight.  I was finishing up my poetry writing and it was already so late, and I just wanted to get myself ready for bed.  I've been so slow tonight, distracted, I think, on some level.  I sat at the computer for a long while waiting for a poem to begin, and just had to wait.  It happened eventually.  I think it is often just a matter of wearing down a certain resistance, of outlasting it.  If I say, I am not getting up and not going to do anything else, after a bit, the part of my mind that is resistant will give up out of boredom.  I just have to outlast it, sitting and staring at the blank screen.  Tonight, that took a bit of time.  It was already getting late when I started, and it was quite late when I finished, so it is not all that odd, I guess, that I forgot about this blog momentarily.  Obviously, I didn't rush off and get to bed, considering that I wrote this, but I can't help finding it a bit curious that I could so easily misplac

Small Things Add Together and all of it becomes too much, becomes a crushing accumulation, one day at a time, one thing happening that should be nothing at all but is not alone, is not seen alone, is part of a pattern no one else knows or will ever experience, a pattern of what it is to be here in this life each day with so many things, little things that happen in the same ways, things that are the same things again, are new incarnations of it, and none of it gets better, none of it can be changed once it has already happened, and it keeps being what happens, the same kinds of little problems, of little disappointments, going wrong in ways  that seem so minor, but are just too much when they come so often. Is it this way for everyone? Is it just the world now? I do not know.  Maybe it is me, maybe I just have bad luck.

For the first time in a long while I was able to spend a bit of time alone with my mother and actually felt I was able to talk with her about certain things.  It has been very strained between her and I, and that has been true for some time, but today felt positive.  I vented about a number of things that are going on, and it was the first time that I didn't feel as if she just hand waved it away or became immediately hostile.  I don't know what it means, to be honest, but it is the first time I have any sense that she is open to change in a real sense.  Some of it was very particular, to be honest, and I don't know that I could explain it without going it far too much detail. but she she surprised me by stating a desire to prioritize me over some of her friends who, in the past, she always seemed to give preference.  It was more a sense that she was affirming certain aspects of our familial bond that have felt absent to me.  What prompted this?  I am not at all that certai

Let A Different Story Be Told Tomorrow Today was just another  in the same line.  Nothing happens, nothing but the same things that were not good when they first happened. Why not tomorrow? Why not let it be different and let it get better? I don't know what to say. I do not know who I am asking. It is not me writing all of this, it is not my story.  I don't write the world. Who's story is it?  And can it be different? It keeps returning.  Let it go forward. It is always good to have progress/ In any story, there should be progress.

I keep spinning around in circles and getting no place.  I start to work on getting new submissions ready and it seems to just fall apart.  I've been wanting to video me reading some poems from this blog to maybe create some other content, perhaps to build a bit more of an audience, but I keep stalling out on it.  I know that a large part of it is organizational, that executive dysfunction is a real thing, but I also recognize the existence of a certain degree of fear that also causes me to hesitate.  I've been working hard in many ways, but if I am not sending out more work and doing other things in that vein, it is not going to matter, really.  The problem is, though, making that effort often feels like a big risk.  I don't do well with the rejection onslaught, and it often feels like that is the only thing I can expect if I make the effort.  I need to have a real sense that I am doing things that are actually impactful, that are making a real difference.  I need a sense

I Wish It Were The Other Way but I know, I am not a fool, it would be the same if the decision were the opposite, if it were what I now say I want I would be just as unhappy. It is not the choice itself it is surrounding conditions. It would do nothing to change these details, but I still regret choosing this as much as if it mattered.

I am still needing to do those submissions that I intended to begin working on a few weeks ago.  Things have been hectic, especially with my getting Covid, but I haven't forgotten my intention or given up on it.  I need to get to it.  I know that sending out work isn't a very rewarding thing, often can be both frustrating and difficult to even accomplish for me, and that is not even including waiting for a response or getting a rejection.  It is hard to motivate to do something that often just feels like asking to be abused.  A large part of that is the process itself, and how difficult it can be to navigate.  I wish that their was a way to submit work that felt accessible for me, that there was a process which I could feel comfortable and confident about being capable of following properly.  I have so much work I want to submit, and I would send out a lot more, but the process is so overwhelming that I haven't sent out anything in months.  I want a way to do it that doesn&

Each Time I could wait again, could go away with intent to return, to be back soon, saying it is best, is a good choice not to go on right now, not to get stuck and held and not have a moment to even think of what to do, to only continue and continue and that can be so bad, I could say all of that, talk about overwhelm or burning out or needing to take a break, which are real things. I do not mean that it is not real, that no one needs to stop. It can be good.  It can be what is needed.  I do know there is a time for that. That a thing can be right does not mean it always is, but that can be enough yes.  It can give the excuse. I don't need an excuse. I don't need one at all, can run from waiting labor even unencumbered by a reason. I can do that.  Tonight, I am still here.

I didn't sleep all that well last night.  The futon here in my office is not the most comfortable bed, unsurprisingly, beyond which, it is also a bit too short for me to lay completely flat.  Throughout the night, I kept rolling about, and eventually I just couldn't lie there any longer and got up entirely.  I wound up going out to the yard and sitting out until around dawn, at which point I was tired enough to get myself back to rest.  I know a part of it was just being sore and aching from sleeping on the futon so many nights in a row, but I also miss being with Melissa at night.  I am  glad that tomorrow is going to be the end of my quarantine period, that I will be able to spend time with her again.  It hasn't been all that difficulty not interacting with the world in general, but not being able to be close with Melissa, that has been far harder.

The Road Is Dark And Long and it is so late and it seems to be repeating, to be a loop, the same trees, the same streets and signs, all coming back around. I don't think their was a turn but we are still back again, and each exit I took seems only to lead back here again, to take me around and about to be where I already was. It is so late and I am tired and there is not much gas left, the engine does not stay full, will not keep running, not if dawn is still so long off. I do not know if there is a place to stop. I do not want to stop here. I started in this place, I want to get somewhere before I stop.

I am still testing negative for Covid, but the doctor asked me to continue to isolate a few more days.  I had been hoping that it would be enough, but I know it is for the best.  Realistically, I wasn't planning to go around anyone other than Melissa, and I have spent a bit of time around her while masked and still practicing social distancing, mostly outside, to be honest.  At least I am able to go outside.  I know that is a privilege of being in Florida at this time of year, but I would point out that their are many other disadvantages, though I don't want to get into all of that craziness.  Anyhow, I am going to stay in quarantine a bit longer, as advised.  I have been testing negative since Friday, so I am not all that worried, but it is better to be safe than sorry.

He Spoke of A Missing Hunger The hunger is not missing, not now.  I do not think it ever was: maybe it was unnoticed or unheeded or abandoned and ignored, maybe, but missing?  No.  It waited, if anything. But now, it is not waiting, will not wait, refuses waiting, is a snarling hunger, is the call of wolves  who smell a feast in the coldest wind of Winter, is deep, cannot imagine patience. The hunger, he spoke of it, said it was missing, was needed.  Now: there is a hunger, but a hunger that needs feeding though there is nothing, there is nothing for it, is only the hunger itself, nothing here even to begin its satiation.

I had another slow night, tonight, but it is earlier than last time.  It is always tempting to just stop, to let myself get away with not doing the work, but I am always afraid that will just be the start of a longer slide.  I have been having so much difficulty in other aspects of my work, and rejection itself can certainly feel demotivating.  It is natural to wonder whether it is worth keeping at it, I suppose.  I think just keeping going is important, not letting myself have that small slip up.  One night of not writing wouldn't matter on its own, of course, but I know myself, and could easily imagine that one night being just the start.

I Do Not Know If You Are Awake Still I do not want  to be a nuisance, to bother you if you are asleep: it is late.  I took so long, did not finish until now, and you may be asleep. Should I wake you? You will not want to be wakened, but, I know, if I leave it undone, it will still be missed.

I have let the night get away from me.  Now, it is almost four and here I am, working on this blog entry.  I am tired, but I am still here, doing this.  I know it is my own fault that I didn't get to work on it earlier.  It is not as if I was out or even busy earlier.  I've been sitting in my office most of the day, observing my quarantine.  I do go out in the backyard at times, just to get some air, but I always make sure to do so when no one else is near and I wear a mask in the rest of the house.  It is good to at least get outside for a bit, to have a bit of fresh air and sunlight.  The most difficult part of it all is not being able to spend time with Melissa.  We do talk, as she is here in the house, but we are staying apart, and I can't help but miss her.  There is a bit of irony to this, as we were staying at her Mother's house in Ohio, where the sleeping arrangements make it hard for us to stay in the same bedroom at the moment (there are two small beds, but no

This Again I have said before, have spoken out, spoken up,  spoken the truth, shouted it, spewed it, laid it bare and broke it down. I have, yes, have, before this, have said what was so, what was wrong, what had happened that was not right, was not good, was a harm already done. I have spoken, have shouted. My throat has burned, has dried out, has splintered dry. It is what it takes, what it has taken. Not that anyone has heard, or if they have, they do not listen, they hear only a noise that must be drowned out, perhaps with a bit of music. Everyone enjoys a bit of music would rather hear a bit of music. They will ask for quiet just to listen.

I spoke to the doctor today and they said I should continue to quarantine at least through the weekend, and then test again.  It makes the most sense.  It is, of course, plausible that the first test was a false positive, but it doesn't really matter at the moment.  I can't be certain if any of the rapid tests are completely accurate, and so it is safer to just wait it out.  I've been feeling fine for the most part, and the few symptoms I've had, as I said before, started a long while back, and I wasn't testing positive at that time.  If it weren't so long ago, I might worry that it was a false negative, but the sore throat started almost a month back, and it is not an uncommon thing for me to get a sore throat that lingers this way during the winter.  I've avoided it for years by living in Florida, but this year I have been braving the cold in Ohio a whole bunch.  It is impossible to know, at present, whether the sore throat is now a covid symptom or not, b

Danger I looked down and saw a lizard had come to me, climbed up  onto my shoe, as happens at times, but he surprised me and I almost flinched, almost kicked, a reflex, unthinking, movement itself taking control. I do not understand it, do not know why I was ready to take that action. I caught myself, noticed my action and stopped it before anything happened. I could have harmed it, launched it far and fast with just a flick of my foot. They trust me. Why do they trust me? I do not think they should, but I am sure another will come. They always seem to. I sit there and they come to me, sit on my foot.  I must be careful, must show care. They trust me. That deserves respect, and I do not wish them harm.

So, the test kit I used yesterday said to retest in 24 hours if I wasn't experiencing symptoms.  I have been feeling mostly fine, except for a bit of congestion and a sore throat, but I have had that for more than a week already (I tested myself when they began and was negative), so I tested myself again, and this time it was negative.  I actually used two tests tonight, because I know that false negatives are more likely than false positives, and both are negative.  Still, I am worried.  I do not want to get anybody else sick, so I am being cautious, in case.  For one thing, it is possible I didn't do the test right, even twice, and I have certainly heard others discuss getting multiple negatvie anti-gen tests, but still having covid when it is checked by PCR.  I would certainly rather suffer the inconvenience of being quarantined for a few days than finding out that I have been contagious because I infected others.  I live in a community with a lot of older individuals, as we

To Do I have not forgotten, have kept it in memory, have held it, reminded myself of the obligation, of what must be done. I do not do it, have not yet. I am not pretending I have taken action, but I remember and I want to do it, at least, I want to have done it. Doing it, starting, sitting there, following through, that part troubles me, is difficult.  I keep choosing to not remember when I could act, to remember later, remember that I must. I must do it, I think, I must.  But not now, not yet.  I will do it, I am certain, yes, I am sure I will.

I have tested positive for Covid, so I am in quarantine right now in my office.  As I have mentioned, Melissa and I went to Ohio in order to take care of her mother, who is in a nursing home and seems to be declining at a rate that is very upsetting.  We took a great deal of care, but there were definite risks, but it was necessary for us to go, especially as Melissa is the person responsible for her mother's wellbeing.  We arrived home a few days ago, and have been quarantining at home, but my mother asked us to meet her for dinner, and we said we would, but wanted to test ourselves first.  After my test was positive, Melissa ran one for herself, but it appears to be negative.  I am feeling alright, aside from a bit of congestion and a sore throat which I have had for far more than ten days.  I actually tested myself when I first had these symptoms, and at that time it was negative, so I thinking it is separate, though I can imagine it being exasperated, perhaps, by the virus.  I

These Are The Wrong Kind of Wounds "If it had been worse it might be better" is a thought  I have had too much, a thing I consider, wanting injuries, wanting to have been hurt in deeper ways, to have my body distorted by the force, my form injured with real injuries; not so much I would die, you understand, but hospitalized, yes, harmed. I don't want to be in pain, but I think, it might still be better if that had happened. I do, I think it, the want for that destruction, for it to have been worse, even to still be impacted all this time after, even now,  because I have scars, now, it is only that they will never show, but, I keep thing that, if they did you could not still say nothing happened at all.

I have been feeling quite hopeless for myself lately.  I don't know how to believe things can get better any longer, and things that have happened in the past few years have me very down.  This is not only the pandemic, though that adds to it, but so much more.  I feel as if my house is a prison, and I don't have the ability to make that better.  I am stuck.  My mother and brother chose to make this my reality and still do not seem to even admit that I have a right to feel hurt by it in any genuine sense.  Indeed, they have made it clear, by action and attitude, as well as direct statement, that I don't deserve real consideration.  I still cannot believe that my brother actually hit me with his car, on purpose, let alone that my mother's response, upon seeing this, was to physically attack me in the aftermath, as if I were responsible and not the victim.  If it is brought up in front of them, my mother still defends my brother and acts like I am being an asshole for bei

Repercussions Do not tell me you want to help when you did the harm. If you can help: do it.  But no, you only say "I want to help, if I knew how." You say that, as if you are no one in this, an onlooker, outside it all wanting to be nice. You did this. It was you. We all know. You are aware, have pretended to care about that, to want to fix things. But you say you cannot, offer only the solutions that serve only you, as if they are all that exists. Find a way to fix this. If it cannot be fixed, at least tell me you don't care and never did. Be honest about it, at least you can be honest.