Would That I Might

This is going to be a quick and perfunctory entry.  I am exhausted right now and ready to get to sleep.  I didn't get started with my work until somewhat late, at least in comparison to my recent schedule, and I am dragging right now.  I am afraid I might just fall asleep typing thus, so I am going to just call it a night and give in to my need for rest.

When to Start Waiting is not always wise, though it is good not to rush either, but it should be done sooner, not later, should be done early enough, though maybe it is too late for that, or will be by when it will be done. Start and get to the end and that is what matters, at least to get to the end. Do not wait too long, and, also, do not rush.  Do it at the right pace, at the right time.  That is it, yes, be certain first, then act, but do not take too long determining.

Melissa, my mother, my brother and I went out to try a new restaurant tonight.  The meal itself was nice enough, and I think we all enjoyed it, but, after we had finished eating and were paying the check, there was a loud crash outside.  Everyone in the restaurant jumped up and saw a car flipped over in the intersection, with another that had been hit spinning a few yards away.  We all ran out and called 911.  It seemed as if everyone was alright for the most part.  The car that flipped only had the driver, I think, and he was pulled out and seemed fine walking afterwards, and the two occupants of the other car both seemed to be standing as well, though the woman who had been driving was shrieking and hysterical, as one might well expect after something of this sort.  Emergency services showed up quite fast, and the people involved seemed to be okay, though, of course, one cannot always tell from looking.  I am sure that they got checked out afterwards, in any case, and I am hopeful th

After, I Heard Her Laughing and she said "that was funny" but I have no idea what it was she thought was funny, and there had just been a disaster, people were screaming and in pain, a car was upside down.  We had heard it, had walked outside to witness the aftermath, and I do not know what was funny to her, I do not know at all what it was she found funny. I do not understand how it was she found anything funny. I do not think anyone died outside.  I do not think so, but I am not certain.  What could it have been that was funny?

I'm beginning to crack a central issue I've been having with the essay that I am working on, or at least am moving towards having a real idea of how to break it down, I think.  It is one particularly thorny topic that is also central, but which is difficult to discuss without it coming out wrong.  To explain, it has to do with the way that two different marginalized identities were conflated to degrade both, and explaining that without seeming to be demeaning to either side is a bit tricky.  In specific, it has to do with sexualized images in anti-Semitism and how these correlate with moral notions that demonized certain forms of sexual expression, in particular homosexual identities and acts.  There are several pieces that specifically describe the story of a Jewish man crashing a dinner party and "corrupting" those in attendance by engaging both the men and woman in anal sex.  This is a plot that is seen in more than one work, as I understand it, and reflects a larg

It Has Not Gone Right Again and I am not handling it well, again, and it is not right: I must not handle it this way, must become resilient, at least to these things, at least in these ways. I do not have other answers or any way to speak of what is and is not so, of what has been done. I want to change things, yes, want to be able to do enough. It is not acceptable to remain this way, to have things as they are.   It cannot be accepted or turned right, cannot be.  To be glad of things as they are would mean I was no longer anyone I want to be. But, that is not all things, not everything. I cannot say that as the only answer, cannot stamp feet down so hard the ground cracks just because another small things is turned wrong. I need to have a balance I do not know, but maybe this is the first step. I hope I can find what is needed, can make things right. It is necessary.  I know it must change. It causes such harm.  I can be so harmful, though it is not meant.  Does that matter? Does it

I went out for a late dinner with a good friend tonight.  He left a little while ago and I began to do my writing for the evening.  I am a bit tired and chose to sit outside and write on my phone, rather than go up to my office as I usually would.  It is a quiet and warm evening, and I am enjoying being in the darkness alone.  I am glad to be finishing up, nonetheless, as I am tired and I have to be up pretty early tomorrow in order to get to an appointment.  I suppose I  should just finish this up and get to bed, but it feels rather silly to just write that and then do it.  I suppose that is not silly at all, though, not if I really consider it.

The Split There is a space between the trees that has come to be through strange means. It happened long ago, long enough, at least that no one here knows the origin, why ot how or when it happened or even what it was that did occur, or maybe it was always that way and it only seems too strange to be what was always so. It is not a thing, is only an absence, but it still contains a mystery, must have a past, must have been there and there is some story within. No one knows it.  It too is an absence. We can only fill it with assumptions or other, perhaps better, inventions.

I have not gotten back to work on that essay yet, but I feel a bit motivated to try and work on it tomorrow, as I am planning to see a good friend for dinner and he has expressed interest in this particular piece.  Maybe I can use that to push me into action tomorrow.  I know I am going to be getting up early, as Melissa has an appointment in the morning and wants me to drop her off and pick her up, suggesting that we have breakfast afterwards.  I am usually awake quite early anyway, so it is not a big deal, but it might provide me with a chance to get started, as I will be home alone for a while.  I should have plenty of time during the day, one way or another.  In truth, it is almost never a lack of actual time for the work that keeps me from getting to it.  Often it is just a matter of remembering that I intend to do something, or else, it may be a sheer lack of motivation.  I write my poetry each day because of inertia for the most part.  In addition, I don't feel I have any ex

He Told Bad Jokes that made no one laugh, but he enjoyed them, even though they never were funny and less funny each time when he said the same one again, because he had some that came up almost every day, or more than that, each conversation with him might be peppered with them, and he thought it was funny, I think he did. He is dead so long now,  but I think he thought it was funny or perhaps it was an affectation, the way he believed a grandfather should be. I do not know what motivated him or why it was his way, but I know he had once been a rougher man and had learned a kindness from it. I wonder what was still a performance, what had he become by will and what resided in his nature.

My twenty-fifth high school reunion is coming up in a few weeks.  I had thought I wanted to go, but it became too complicated, and I realized that, to be honest, I don't think I care that much about it.  I mean, most of the people I knew in high school were not very kind to me, and I don't really want to see them again.  There are, to be certain, a few people I would be glad to catch up with, but I have attended a few reunions, and most of those folks were not present.  All of this is, though, not the real reason for my choice.  Several factors were involved, but the most significant has to do with going back to New York and trying to stay at my family home.  My mother's family owned the building where I grew up until last year, and now that it has been sold, my Mom is having difficulties with the new landlords.  When my brother was there to finish cleaning out his apartment and generally packing up to move, he spent some time in Mom's apartment.  The landlord accused m

I Want To Believe It Is Not Already Too Broken Each time there is an annoyance it is time for him to say he is through and that it is not at all working or good, that it is over, a waste, not worth an effort. He is not committed if it will be work, if it requires more than arriving and being, if he cannot do nothing and have everything. He does not think he is being unreasonable. I've made a choice to try, to commit to trying and he is always ready to explode into rage or vanish or just stop it all, just run from it and blame me for the failure.  He claims to care, to want to do better but he will not commit.  He will not say he is committed to seeing this through. No: the moment it becomes uncertain he threatens and cajoles.  He knows it will scare me.  It is a manipulation because I am the one committed to this. He betrayed me and threw the world into chaos and I have never found my way back, have never been alright since.  It is not good, I am not doing well, and he knows. He kn

I am quite tired tonight.  I woke up early this morning, and I have not slept all that well lately.  My dreams tend to be strange and, often, upsetting.  I often don't recall the specifics that well, just the emotional tenor, but that provides enough of a sense about them.  Anyhow, I am tired tonight, again.  I got through my work early for once, so I get to go to bed at a relatively reasonable hour for once.  

No Agreement What was needed was named before anything else, it was clear, but when it came time what had been agreed to became unreasonable, became too much. The promises made were abandoned, to ask that they be considered or kept was called out as ridiculous. What is to be done now?  What is left? What was begun is not what has come to be.  

Last night's post was a bit dark, though I cannot deny it was reflective of real feelings.  Tonight, though, I want to find something else to say that is more positive.  I do recognize that their has been a lot of positive change and growth in terms of my writing.  I feel a lot of promise exists in the work, and I am eager to take steps to get more of it out there.  I've been getting ready to set up a consultation about some of my short fiction and if that goes well, which I think it will, I am hoping to do more of them.  I think it might even provide a bit of direction for where to send the work, especially with some of the odder and more esoteric pieces.  I do think that some of the stories have a broader appeal, but many others are still very odd.  I think that can work in my favor, of course, if they are not  just odd but also compelling and well crafted, and I am hopeful that, at least some of them are.  I would like to be writing more stories, I think.  I wrote a new one

I Will Check to Be Certain though I would hope you would check to prevent any mistakes: I do not like the burden. I wouldn't choose to do wrong here, would not wish to fool you, to cheat you, but I am error-prone, am not perfect in my capacity to do these things without any possibility of an accident. Things go wrong, get turned about. I have made mistakes before.  I have. I am not able to promise I will not do that, even if I check, I am not one who can promise my checking is at all adequate. You ask it be checked and it will be, but I do not like the burden, do not appreciate being asked. The outcome cannot be trusted. I am telling you, now, I cannot trust it myself.

I am feeling very overwhelmed tonight.  It is an emotional overwhelm, a sense of the weight of things that have been happening, of the need for change and the futility of my actions.  It is not a new feeling, but tonight it is acute.  I am not certain why it has turned up to high tonight, but there it is.  I don't really want to vent about it or indulge it, because I tend to become logical and frustrate myself since there isn't a logical way out of this.  It is the way things are right now, and things are not about to change as far as I can tell.  I just want to explain the feeling itself, if anything, but even that feels like a trap right now, as if I can't explain it without going too far into the why and the reasons, but the reasons are just explanations for what I am feeling.  The core is a sense of powerlessness, of frustration, and a sense of being unprotected, of being abandoned, of being, even, betrayed and intentionally led to suffer.  I don't know how else I c

A Reflection The mirror does its job of being an eye for another eye, of being there to look and be seen, seen, though, only as what it sees, invisible beneath the other. It is no one and nothing and yet all the world comes back. It would be nice to be that way, to hide there, hide by showing all the things they have presented, showing the whole world to itself. It would be a trick, but there is too much, is weight and volume and depth beyond image. It is not so simple to be anything and everything when you are not only surface and light.

I had the chance to share my new story with another writer tonight and I think it went over quite well.  I feel that their is a bit of work to be done, but I am quite happy with the piece as a whole.  It definitely needs a bit more editing, of course, and in reading it over tonight, I noticed a bunch of things I want to work on, but the changes are small for the most part.  I may even have an idea for the title that I like. I didn't get back to that essay yet.  I was quite busy, as I expected I might be.  I am not sure that tomorrow will be much better, to be honest, but I will try to find some time.  For now, I am exhausted and should head to bed, though I know this is a rather short entry.  I was already having difficulty keeping my eyes open while writing my poems earlier.  I need to head to bed.

Self-Descriptions He says the word I use is not one he appreciates, that it feels unsurmountable, an impasse, permanent and not subject to change.  I do not know what to tell him, do not even understand his meaning: these things are a part of us, are within us, are the way the world comes inside, are the always present that cannot even be named. I do not notice the air when it is not in motion, though I am breathing and breathing it, needing it.  I do not notice it unless it moves, or if it has a shocking temperature, heat or cold that is unexpected.  Then the air is a thing to me again, is touching my flesh.  Most of the time it is a nothing I do not know, a thing that is easy to forget, for me.  I do not know. I use one word to mean this and he says it is not for him, is not a word he can carry on his back.  I want to know we can find a space between us where each feels safe, but the terms of my safety seem to be ones that he rejects as I turn from his nomenclature.  It is an impasse

I finished work on the draft for that short story.  I am feeling good about it, I think, but I want to let it sit a few days before I go back to mess with it at all.  It is always useful to put things aside for a while before revising.  The general structure feels to be there, but I know that I have a few things I want to work on, some details that might push it further.  I've got a deeper understanding of how I want the end to reverberate, but I am not certain how strong that is yet.  I think the title can do a lot of the work for that, creating a context that will make the ending echo.  It feels pretty complete as a piece, though, and I think it is only a little bit more work to really make it shine.   I'm hoping I will have some time to get back to work on that essay tomorrow, as well, but I do have some appointments early, so I might not get to it straight off.  It is a big piece and I know it will be a lot of work, but I am excited about the possibilities if I get it right

The Answers Were Found, Once I am certain we had them, I remember it happening, all the answers were found and we had a big party to celebrate.  I think that happened, I am certain of it.  We had them all in envelopes, each and every answer to any question and every question, and there were articles, front page stories about all the answers being found. It was a celebration, a big affair all around the world with everyone out in the street and on the roof and blasting music and dancing and singing because we found all the answers.  I am sure of it. Don't you remember?  I know it happened. We had them all lined up and ready to go. No, that can't be right.  It cannot be, can it/ It is not a world where that could happen, not even for a moment.  I don't know what to say because I remember it and I know it cannot have been and maybe that is the way things are all the time with all of it so clear but still impossible and never being able to be what it is, and this poem is going

I want to finish work on that short story tomorrow morning.  I feel like I know how I want to continue it and what to do, I just need to spend a bunch of time doing the actual writing, I say casually, as if that is not the difficult part.  I think I am in good shape, though, with a strong sense of how to do what I think I want to in the piece.  I feel like I can give it all I want and make the ending sharp as well.  I had worried I would need to take the punch out of the ending and move it up in the story, but I think I have a way to make it work at the end, and that feels like the most difficult question I was facing when I began work on this. As I said, I still have to do the writing, but I feel good about where I am with it. Once I am through with that, I will get to focusing on the essay I've begun to draft.  I've had a few other efforts at writing on this topic, and I think I might be able to salvage some of that previous work in this new essay, but I am not certain just h

Some Have Grown And Fallen and some will stay tall so long that it is impossible to count  the days, the years.  It is too long for any of us to know, is too much.  That is the way. Do not mourn against that, thinking some have nothing: they know the world as they do, know it well in one way. It may be only a season to you, it may be nothing more. It matters and does not matter. It is a way, a scale in time, a rhythm for that which they are. It is not that their is no sadness in even what passes that way, but their is a difference. It is all the same, but it is not at all the same. How can it be understood? I do know something,  a flaming thing burns through, but flames cast flickering shadows. The edges cannot be made clearer.

I am still working on that story, and I also began work on an essay today.  I think that is coming along alright, though I find writing non-fiction difficult at times.  It is mostly a matter of comfort and confidence with the material and format.  I am never sure anyone will understand, or that I can effectively express my perspective.  That is a large part of the challenge, of course, and I know that, besides, I think I am often focusing on being persuasive in ways that may not matter for most of this work.  It is not an academic paper trying to make a specific argument, though I may have a point of view and a conclusion I want the reader to understand.  It is not that I don't want to persuade the reader, but that the purpose of the essay is communication first, and the persuasiveness must come as a result of the connection built, of making a visceral impact and bringing the reader into an experience.  I don't know that I am there yet, at least not in this piece, but I am stil

I, Too, Could Speak of Old Wrongs Done This, it would be the way you harmed your son, wanting him to be right and perfect in the only way you could accept, being what you expected, and you did not allow him as he was.  He never thrived at all, was denied a chance for that. You looked at what was done for me as shameful, refused to understand kindness and now you wish to say it was all mistakes  by those who made those choices, while you refused to do a thing for the one in your care. I have heard what you say now long before this, have heard it, the disparagement that aims towards me, and I am only saddened. I know you cannot understand how much you needed to learn, how you might have helped him. Do not pretend you know best for me when you did not know anything of what to do for another, when the model laid out for you was one that only deserved ridicule. I was looked down on for who I am: it has been so for much of my life, is still this way, I think, at least when I speak to you.  B

I am happy to say that I started work on that new story today, and I feel good about how it is going so far.  I have a strong sense of the entire story, which feels a bit odd to me, if I am honest.  Most of the time, I am kind of discovering things as I go, but this story is based on a fairy tale, and so I have a stronger sense of what has to happen when.  I think the story still has a lot of discovery in it for me, but it is not in terms of plot elements.  It has to do with the narration, with the details of what is told and how it is revealed, and it is about the characters in the story.  I am not entirely certain about the work I've done on the story so far, but I know that the important thing is getting a version of it on paper.  Once I've got it down, I can look at what is or is not working.   For the moment, I am going to just keep writing through the draft.  If nothing else, it will allow for  a completed version that I can look at and alter into what I want the story to

Did You Forget, Or Just Not Care? I remember what was said long ago, it was a promise you made when I was a boy.  I trusted you, trusted what you promised me and it mattered a great deal, to me it mattered.  It still does, though I never have mentioned it. I know you cannot keep that promise. I am aware that you made choices already that make that impossible. You ask me to trust you, now, ask me to consider you  as a loving person who cares, who wants what is best for me, but what am I to think when I cannot even ask for what was promised? I know, even to ask would be named harm that I have done to you.

I am still so exhausted right now.  I did not wake up that early and napped for an hour or so this afternoon, and even so, I am falling asleep as I sit here.  I hope that I can sleep decently tonight and wake up more refreshed tomorrow.  I have work I want to do if I can.  There is a story in my head right now that I really need to get out, and I am hoping tomorrow will be a chance to do it.

I Have to Turn in Some Direction and walk a distance and follow a path to reach the place that must be my destination, though I cannot be told which is the right way, or what the path is. I have a destination in mind, an idea for where I wish to go, to be at when I arrive, but I am not certain it is anyplace I can name.

Seder is done and I am exhausted.  Everyone seemed to enjoy everything and it was very pleasant to have everyone over, though it took a great deal of work.  I was at the market before eight this morning to get some last minute necessities, things that had slipped through the cracks, and even so, I missed a few things and had to make due.  I think I should just leave this at a few lines and get to bed, but I am not sure that will happen because I am tired enough I could just type a whole bunch of nonsense first.  I suppose I shouldn't let myself do that, not when I am about to post this online.  It is nice to be candid and open and to have a place for that, but I also know that being this tired, it is possible I wouldn't reflect myself in any real sense.  Why am I explain this?  It is a part of being so tired, I think.  I am going to bed...

There Is More to Be Done Even tonight: more.   This is tonight, still, and I am here, not asleep, here, in this place: I am writing and doing this.   It is not an absent act, a thing that is done without thought or choice or action and will, it is what I am doing, though.   I am so tired, but I am here.   That is how it goes. There is not another way, at least for me.   I don’t think of you, of what it means to anyone else, though it can be a choice you might make. It is a possibility.   I don’t think this is advice at all.   It is just pointing out that the choice exists for anyone. It may be a bad choice.   I don’t tell you it is a great choice.   I can’t say it has even been great for me, but it is the right choice, even so, or maybe, I am one who never chose, who never had any choices at all.

I spent most of the day at my brother's house working on tomorrow night's Seder.  Since Melissa and I still don't have a kitchen right now, let alone any sort of dining room, he took on the role of host, as long as he didn't have to do any of the major cooking.  I was able to prep the main dish so I just have to roast it tomorrow, and made a number of the smaller dishes that I selected because I knew they could be made in advance.  I still have a lot to do tomorrow, though, and I am a bit concerned about getting it all done in time, but I think it will be fine.  I know what needs to be done, and much of what's left involves recipes I've made many times before and is not so complicated, but it is still a lot that has to be done.  It is already half past one, and I've been up since around six this morning, and I think tomorrow is likely to be somewhat similar. 

There Has Been No Rest Not enough time exists for any of it to be spent on resting, on being restored: it would be folly.  The world is moving, is always at pace, jogging forward, sprinting, even, maybe.  It is always going, and each moment is needed, now, to stay upright, to not fall and slide away: the pace is set.  It must be kept, must be held to. It does not matter the consequence, the loss: what else is there now?  It is so long, I do not remember what was before, do not recall it except as a way I once was. I've no way to know any longer. Maybe I am always dreaming now, am too tired to be awake in any moment. It might explain the strangeness, the thinness that the air has taken on. I do not know.  It would take time to know, but I am busy, am committed and invested, have no spare moments.  They do not exist, not any longer.  There is still a bit of sleep, of course, there is that, but always, then, the dreams.

It was another very busy day, and tomorrow will be even busier.  At the moment, I actually have some stuff cooking in preparation for Passover.  I am preparing the majority of the Seder dinner for my family, though my mother and brother are both helping.  I am planning to do a leg of lamb, but I can't make a gravy, so I am currently making a lamb stock with some smaller pieces, which I can then reduce and thicken into a demiglace.  Tomorrow I am going to work on a few of the sides, and get the rest of my shopping done, as well as a bunch of other prep work.  My goal is to have stuff ready to go on the day, with the few items that are really needed to be cooked fresh all prepped and ready to go.  I have a plan for the meal as a whole, and have done a lot of the shopping already, I just had trouble finding a few things I needed.  Most of the day is clear tomorrow for working on this, and I think I can get a lot of what I want to get done pretty easily.  I think I may actually do one

You Wanted This It can all be done, each bit of what remains can be done, finished, and it must be: there is a consequence for this, a promise that is to be kept.  This is not simple, is not private and quiet and insolated from the world. Others will know, will be impacted, will hurt. That is the way of such a failure. It is possible to do better, to win, to do well. That is a thing that can be done, in this case, at least. It will change nothing, winning.  It is minor, is what is expected, but, if it is not that way, if their is a loss instead, if that is how it goes, that will matter.  That is very different, the way that it can change things if it goes wrong, tilts out control, if it falls into failure, that is different, is not at all on the same scale, will cause changes, though a positive outcome will be, at best, unnoticed.

Melissa and I had wanted to make today a kind of quiet day for us to recuperate from our trip up.  It was a lot of work to drive that truck, and we are both quite worn out from the trip.  Of course, that didn't really come to be, and I had to do a whole lot of different things, and it was a rather diverse pool of stuff.  My brother needed me to help him get some supplies for a project at home depot, as they could not have fit in his tiny car.  Of course, they didn't fit inside my car, really, either, so we had to use the roof rack and tie stuff down, and it took a lot of effort to deal with.  That was after my having to go through a whole bunch of different phone calls with the bank, getting a plumber to fix one of the toilets here, and dealing with the contractors to discuss work that began while we were out of town and does not match what was discussed before.  Tomorrow will be busy as well, and I have to begin working on stuff for Passover as well.  I think I am going to cal

It Was Not A Simple Matter to return home.  It should have been, it seemed it would be but it never became as it seemed. I was not prepared, was foolish and did not know what was to come. I thought it was simple. It went well, I think, and we are here and there was nothing wrong, nothing that did not work as it should. Still, I am drained by it all. Perhaps that is a damage, too.

Home at last.  Melissa and I arrived around three this afternoon.  The truck is unpacked and has been returned to the rental company.  It feels strange, just as I said last night, but it is good to be here.  There are many things that have been happening that I need to deal with, to be honest, and I am already feeling a bit of overwhelm about it all, but I will deal with it.  I know I will need to do a bunch of stuff tomorrow, but for tonight, I am just happy to be back home, and that we arrived without too much trouble.  Driving the truck was not a great pleasure, to be sure, but it worked out.  Almost nothing seems to have been damaged, and the only thing that was looks as if it can be repaired easily enough, with just nails, a hammer and maybe some wood glue.  It feels like a small triumph after the trip back, and especially so after being away this long.  I also started work on a project that I have been thinking about a long time, tonight, though I am still uncertain about exactly

What Bothered Him Most was not being allowed to be such a bother, not being given a chance to speak anything as if he were kind, when everyone knows he is not that, when they have noticed him as he is.  It is not hidden, it is not behind the sheets and shadows that he carried and kept up. It all drifted into the open, because he wanted to be a bother and was not allowed his want and so he was too bothered to keep the mask of quiet and kind, the pretense.  It always was that. It was always apparent to anyone who paid attention, as it must be.  He was not good at even that act.  Nothing was good about it, just like the rest. A rotten tree never yields a sweet, ripe fruit.

After all this time, it feels strange to be so close to being back home.  It has been almost a full month.  Melissa left on the thirteenth and I was two or three days behind.  So much has been happening, so much we had to deal with, so many emotional stressors beyond just the central calamity of Anne's death.  But we will be home tomorrow, after all this time.  I cannot help but wonder how it will feel to be back in our own house, in the chaotic maelstrom that is our own lives, again.

We Were Here Before when all this was new and little else was around, but that was the only time, all those years ago, and now we are back: how much grew here, how much new has sprung up. It is not shocking, not in real terms, but memory is what you know, and it was only one memory, one time, and it was long ago,, yes, long enough this is normal, but it is a shock to compare, when there is nothing else, it still seems so shocking. Whatever came of the trees? I remember: there were so many trees.

We are in Georgia tonight and I am feeling a bit better, now that we have a little distance from things.  It is only one day, but it is the first where we aren't in the middle of all of it, and I am feeling the shift for myself.  I don't know if it is the same for Melissa, but I hope she is feeling it, too.  I know she still needs to process a lot of her own feelings, and we are both concerned about many issues that are still ongoing, but I hope it helps her too.  I think it will, but it may take her a bit more time to get there.

Too Long Away I wish I had a space to be alone and not be seen or heard or noticed, to be with only myself to be as I would be,  as I can only be, when in such solitude, but I have no place to go, not tonight.  It has been this way, has been weeks of this, since we left for the funeral last month.  We are going home, now, after so long, we are going to our home again. She would have stayed even longer, she told me that much.  It is better, I think, that we are leaving to our own space,  to where we can be ourselves again and have our own lives back. It is not only when I am alone that is missing.

This morning, Perry and his son came out to take possession of the car.  I made it clear that I wanted to be left alone, staying away from everyone, hiding out on my own, but Perry insisted on finding me.  After all the things he has said and done of late, I didn't have any desire to interact with him.  I tried to stay away and made the choice to not say anything.  I didn't, in truth, trust myself to not say something unkind, and it wasn't worth it.  I said nothing.  His response was to tell me, "go to Hell."  I didn't even respond when he said that.  I am not sure if I am glad about that, but I know it is for the best.

The Air Tonight Is Cold and there is no quiet inside and not a place to sit out here that isn't too wet for comfort, so I am standing about out here, out with the wind, the chill, the winter. Soon I will return to the warmer climes of my home, I am choosing to enjoy what will be denied me, even if it is only  the shiver of my flesh.

Today, Melissa and I packed up in preparation for our return to Florida.  I am glad that we are ready to go home, but we are going to have to deal with Perry and his family tomorrow, before we go, and I am stressed about that.  It has me very on edge, and I would like to just avoid the situation if I could, but it is happening, whatever I may feel about it.  I am worried that things will go sideways in one way or another, and it really concerns me, especially after my recent dealings with these people.  It is to be hoped that this is the last time we are going to be dealing with them this way, but even so, it is, for me, too much already.

Tomorrow Worries Me We must rise early and prepare ourselves for all that is to come, at least I must.  You may wish to have more rest, to rise later, but I wish you would wake with me tomorrow.  I am worried, am scared.  I want to prepare. For you, the rest is preparation, but I have other needs.  Still, I must let you rest, I know. It will not be right for me, I will not be ready for any of it, but that must not become your problem.

I am eager to get back to Florida and to be home again.  I have a number of ideas for things to work in, in terms of my writing, and a few places where I am eager to submit my work.  I feel quite tired and stressed here.  Dealing with so much has been difficult, and the circumstances of our stay have been less than ideal, but I am glad that Melissa and I were able.to work on things together.  The next few days will likely be more stress, but at the end, at least we will heading home.

Flight And Risk There can be rising, but also falling, or soaring, or landing, or, as a thing that can happen, crashing.  There are possibilities and chances they will be. What will be chosen must considered, contains both. There are options that are not flight,  too, of course there are, but they too have risks, similar or different. There is no escape from the reach of danger or disaster.  It is worth considering, but do not choose thinking it can ever be gone. Do not stay trapped  by fear of what may go wrong without realizing the good that might come, that too will never be, not only the risks are avoided, consider what else is dismissed.

We finally made plans to get back hoke, at last, and that is good, but it has been a difficult day and I am feeling upset about certain things.  I am sure that it woupd be considered trivial by anyone else, and I probably should just let it go, but their is a degree to which I am finding that difficult.  I don't even really want to get into the specifics here.  Why do I always feel my pain is invalid in this way that keeps me from talking about it?  

This Unwanted Hurt I want to not feel this, but I do feel it and it is not good: harm was done, you have done harm, have harmed me, have harmed us, the thing we are together. I feel that.  I do not want to. I understand why you did this, but you still did this, you chose  to give them what they want. You should have understood. I need to let this go.  I want to, but they hate me and now you have allowed them control, have granted it to them, chose to not protect me from this, from the pain of being their puppet. I am not safe if that is your choice. I love you and want to stay in love. I want it to be us.  It must be us. I am so hurt.  I do not want to be, but I am so hurt.

A few days ago, Perry, the man was married to Melisss mother called, harassing Melissa in various ways that she found rather upsetting.  Since then, she has avoided speaking with him of his family, for her own well-being.  We have a few things to do and we're planning to contact them once certain matters were clear to us.  As mentioned, we have been working to clear up certain matters, and clearing them up is necessary before we can deal with Perry's demands.  Tonight, we found a series of calls from Perry'son(no voicemail), all in a span of a half an hour and an intimidating, demanding text about answering him.  It is really disturbing.  If he had texted with information about why he is calling, it might be different, but it is literally just a demand that Melissa call him immediately.

Once They Thought The Soul Might Be in the spleen or liver or kidney or a part might be there, a part in the ventricles, the atria, in the blood those chambers pump. It changed, of course, when these became interchangeable, transplantation moved the soul into the head, the mind, the place from which the world is seen and heard and where thought rests.  It is cruel, saying it is sight or sound that matter. Soups should not need to know the world by any one route, should not be thought to need anything, any one kind of experience or way of being.  Of course, it is all still just silly, not the idea of a soul itself.  I am not arguing that such a thing exists or does not exist, am not about to step there, not tonight when I am tired and hungry and there is nothing to eat and no way to go anywhere. But the soul, even just the idea, even just as a thought, it is transcendent, is beyond being anyplace at all if it is a thing.  It is another type of existing. That is the point.  Why think of

Melissa and I have not yet figured out our return trip to Florida, but I am hoping that tomorrow we can work out the timeline for out return.  We still have a few things that it is important to get done before we leave, and I am hoping that we can work out a plan for getting that stuff done.  Some of it requires getting outside assistance, and I am hoping that we can get that scheduled and figure out our return home.  Passover us coming up, and I am supposed to do a lot of the cooking for my family, so it is important we get back for that.  I hope it can be worked out to do what we must and get home this week.   

The Easy Option It was chosen to avoid trouble, to be simple, with no complexities, not because it was wanted, no, not for reasons of desire or preference, to make certain it would be easy, that it would go well, without a problem. That was the consideration: avoidance ot trouble.  It was the reason, the motivation for everything: things needed to go well, so it was the choice made. Of course, it did not matter. It seemed wise at the time, but now I wonder if any other option would have gone so wrong.

I want to sit down at a keyboard and work on some prose, in particular some non-fiction/personal essay stuff.  I think I have a sense of where to begin with some of it, and the ideas and experiences that I am hoping to relate feel significant to me.  I will have to wait a bit, of course, as we are still in Ohio and have not yet purchased our return tickets, but I think we will be heading back somewhat soon, as we do have certain obligations that we need to be there for.  There are still one or two things we must attend to before we go and they may take a few more days.

The One Who Came to Help She listened and heard and said she understood, said that it was reasonable, that the problems told we're real, deserved addressing, that it would be right to want it, to expect it, that it would be proper, would be the right thing, what is needed and deserved. Still, she could do nothing, had no suggestions or thoughts. She said she was here to help, but only could listen and offer nothing. There was not even advice. The kindness, I am sure she felt it was there in even listening.  I am certain she thinks that was a good thing, but it changed nothing and proved again that there is nothing that can be done. If it was kindness, it was not  a kindness intended for my benefit.

This morning it was snowing quite a bit.  Then it began to hail, small pebbles that pelted down with such force.  It looked like a rain of snow, thick white flakes that smashed down like drops of water.   It went on for about fifteen minutes or so, then it turned back to snow.  It was seventy degrees a day or two ago, so this was all rather unexpected.  About ten minutes later, the house lost power.  The blackout lasted several hours.

The Warnings Were Given but no one would hear it as anything true.  It was nothing, they said.  It was just to be ignored. And now?  It is done and the disaster has come and cannot be changed and they say it is my fault because I was the one who offered the warning.