Would That I Might

I think that I made significant progress on my non-fiction work today,  not just in terms of adding more, but I feel that I was able to move towards the core of the piece.  It was not just adding more and moving towards completion, but instead I was dealing with core questions and fears I have around writing about this topic in the first place.  I know that I still have a long ways to go on this piece, and in general, but I also recognize this as one of the reasons I chose to push myself to write each day.  It is through the practice that I am pushing myself past my current boundaries so I can learn and grow as a writer.  

I Want to Tell You What I Think but it scares me, not the telling, but what will come after. I do not know  that you will listen, do not believe it will be heard. You tell me now you care and want me to speak up, but that has been true before. I have spoken up before and you waved your hands through the air as if my words were only a bit of smoke to be wafted away.  It will be that way again. I do not want to pretend it is different. I do not want to let you pretend, either.

I want to start work on some fiction.  It would be good to add that as a daily part of my writing practice, but I only recently started with daily non-fiction, and I think it might be a bit too much.  I have a story I want to work on, though, so it may be that I will figure it out.  I don't want to encourage myself to only write the fiction on these occasions when I have an idea pressing.  That us to say, I want to discipline myself so I can be writing fiction with the same regularity as my poetry, even if not at the same speed.  When I begin this story, I intend to make it the start of a real fiction practice, of the same sort I have engaged in when doing poetry before and now non-fiction prose.

You Say It Is for All of Us and is not just for you, is not going to be only yours, not what you alone want and need, that all of us are to be included, but when I speak of my concerns or mention what most matters of I am to know consideration in these matters, if I speak up at all, you only tell me you know what it is you want already. You do not want to include me, do not want to think of my needs or wants. You want to do as you wish and have everyone pretend it is the right thing.  You want to hurt me but with my permission.

I began working on a piece of prose tonight that I think is going to be good.  It is something I have been contemplating a long time, and I have always pushed it aside, but I think that I am ready to get to it now, and that the fact I am writing daily and can just do some of it today and some more the next day and not feel the pressure of needing to focus on finishing it, or worry that I will stop work on it out of disinterest or some such, that gets pushed aside because I know I am committed to writing daily.  I can stay the course, am glad to have the piece, really, because it let's me jump right in with something that is already in mind.  I can just sit down and write a bit and find my topic that way, but it is nice to have the idea ready and waiting for me.  It is off to a good start, I think, or good enough to get me into it.  I know the beginning will need work, that the first part was just me getting my mind on track, but it got me in and now I just have to keep going.  When

Plans Must Change What was to be, as certain as it was,  it is not the way, not any longer. The vines have grown  towards the sun, but the rays have fallen at a different angle, the clouds have shaped the light and the light has shaped the vine, and the world is not the same world that was expected, it is so different, and the plans were for that place that can never be, but there are still the same needs, the same drives and desires, no matter how much has changed. What was planned cannot be. The plans cannot be followed, must be changed.  It is what must happen because the old way is not a way that exists. It will never be, is like driving a road that is only drawn on the map but was never built, is not there at all. But what should be done? There is nothing to be done any longer that is both possible and desired.

I have continued writing my non-fiction pieces each day, but am shifting into a more casual mode, and it seems to be working.  I feel the work is more cohesive, though it may not yet be what I am seeking to create.  It has been difficult to keep up with the work, but I know I am learning a great deal.   I need to start work on some fiction as well, as I do have an idea in mind for a new story, but I haven't had the energy to focus on it lately.  So much is happening right now and none of it is good.  At least I am still writing poetry and, now, I am working on the non-fiction as well.

I Do Not Think It Will Go Well She will choose and will say it must be one way and it will be wrong, will not be at all right, but she will insist I accept it, insist I agree and say it is good and be glad for what is wrong and what still hurts me and makes worse the hurt that is already. She wants to be right and have it be good, that is what she will say, but what she means is it must be called right, must be good, must be accepted as perfect, even when it is more of the poison.

Earlier today, Melissa received a phone call from a long time friend with truly devastating news.  One of their children, a son in his twenties, shot himself on Friday.  It is not clear why he did it.

Prepared It all still sits, waiting and just about ready, ready to be made ready, to be finished and presented. It is not done, not all the way, will be finished when it is needed. I should have done it yesterday or tonight, but it will wait until at least tomorrow. I am hoping it will be tomorrow.

 I am still feeling quite upset tonight.  As I mentioned, a few days ago I received some personal news that was upsetting, and the events in this country since then have just enhanced my feelings.  Even knowing that this was coming, the decision to abandon decades of precedent in order to take away an essential right of bodily autonomy from pregnant individuals is sickening.  And that the president and other Democrats have taken no meaningful action other than speaking out against it and telling people to vote if they want things to change, it just makes everything so much worse, makes it all seem so much bleaker, more hopeless.  I do not have any answers, often  I wonder if I even have the right questions, if we are honest.  What is the answer?  It is already so bad, and we all know this is only the beginning.   

You Will Say I Must Accept It because their is nothing else to do, because it is the way things are and they cannot be another way, but do you not understand that is the thing that is wrong? If this is the way it will always be, it is too late.  It can't be accepted. That is not negotiable,  does not change.  It is this way, just as what was done is how it is. If you are saying I must accept it, you are telling me it will never be alright.

Anything I have to say just feels so small and silly.  The problems in this country, the hate here and the growth of oppression that is occurring.  The leaders who are supposed to be there for us, who are supposed to take action to defend the citizens and who were already elected and empowered to stop these things, they stand there and complain and do nothing but speak of how terrible it is and that we need to vote.  We did that already, we voted and that is why you are in power now, that is what happened already, and yet nothing is being done.  They will say they have no choice, but if that is true, what good is electing them in the first place?  What good is it to live in this country if the people can vote and it still does not allow anything to be done, except by those who most of the citizens wish to stop?

You Say to Call Them and I have called and they do not answer and it is the same message no matter when I call, it is always just the same and they seem to not be there, and I need that help, you understand the need for help, you understand it, have told me I can get the help needed, but nothing happens. You say you cannot help except to tell me that they will help, but what am I to do? They are not there or will not answer. Do you know another way, or will you say that there is not another way?

I do not have it in me to write a great deal on here tonight.  It has been a very taxing and emotional day, and I received some upsetting news that I don't really want to get into right now.  I will say that no one is dying, that I know of, or even sick, but this is still a traumatic change for me, and I don't know how to cope with it, if I am honest.  I am kind of shocked to have gotten my work done, as it seems an act of such hope right now, and having hope feels both impossible and insane to me at this moment.

It Was Already Broken but now it is more broken, though the way it had broken seemed to be enough, could not be repaired, now it is worse and it feels worse though it is not different, is not anything new, is just more of it, is just the pieces  that split and shattered, shattering and splitting again. Why is this so much worse? I do not know what to say. My heart hurt so and it seemed impossible, but there is more. Maybe I am glad I can hurt more, am glad it is possible for their to be more, deeper, that their is a capacity for such things, but it would be better as only a possibility.

I continued on with the prose today and I began to feel that the work was more coherent and that I knew how to explain the ideas in a straight forward and persuasive way.  I can't say that this shift is permanent or that my feelings about the writing itself are accurate, but I think it is a positive signal no matter what, attesting to the way writing daily helps me to get better and more capable as a writer.  Tonight was the first time, as I have been doing this work, that I really felt the work was on target.  As I've said, I am not putting pressure on myself to do anything particular with the prose right at this moment.  I start work on an idea and keep it going for several days, if not longer, and I have been focusing on that aspect of things, as I know that worrying about the quality of what I am producing would only add more pressure.  I believe that, over time, I won't have to worry about that, and I also think that just doing the work itself is a good place to be rig

Start Again I do not want that to be here and now it is gone and I don't know if that was a mistake, if it was worthy of remaining, of existing. I erased it already and cannot go back, or, maybe it is more accurate that I won't go back. Maybe there is a way, but I do not know it. I do not want to know. I am glad I could choose. It was not right, what was good in it will remain and return.

I am continuing on with the prose and keeping up with my poetry work, and I am glad to be doing it all.  I think I need to figure out how to get the prose a bit more together, but I also worry about attempting to tinker with it right now.  I only just started doing it as a daily practice and I am still not all that confident about it, so giving myself the freedom to just write and not consider the work beyond getting it on the page is liberating.  It keeps me from getting stuck trying to find the right idea, for example.  I have discussed how, in the past, I would sometimes set about trying to start a piece and would just get stuck in a sort indecisive paralysis, not knowing just what to do to begin.  By not worrying about the work at this point, I am freeing myself to just write and not worry.  At some point, of course, I will need to reshape these pieces, at least if I intend them to be read by others.  I know that the work right now is somewhat disjointed, that it may not yet be hol

No Way Out Right Now They covered the door up and I cannot get through, taped plastic all around the frame to keep out dust, but no one said a thing and I was inside, did not know what was being done.  I had to go out, though, needed to get through and they did not care: "it is only temporary," they told me, as if it only mattered that my confinement would end at some point in the rather near future. I only wish they had said something first. I would have gone through the door before they covered it up, but it is always that way, I think, is always what happens to me. I go someplace I think will be safe and it becomes a trap I cannot get out of until someone else decides it has been long enough for what they want.

I am feeling myself itching to do more of the work right now.  It may be, in part, that I have been working on prose now for several days and feel refreshed due to that work, both because of the writing itself and because of the permission to create without consideration that was part of that process.  I've been allowing myself to just riff in prose and not worry as much about things in terms of the actual output, not yet at least.  It is also some of what I took from my consultation yesterday.  The sense that I should be leaning in to my language and allowing myself to create works that explore that is very freeing for me, because I know how to do that, especially in the context of fiction.  As a result, I want to also begin some work on fiction, again.  Short fiction, I think, and I may have some specific thoughts on it right now that feel potentially fruitful.  One thought is about a piece for a specific journal that has certain thematic requirements, and which I think might be

Beyond Inspired They will tell you ways to find the inspiration, will say to seek it here or there, ask you to look or listen or feel or remember, suggest a word or image, a sound, a way to imagine.  That is all fine, can be a wonder. They will say how to reach forwards to find that inspiration. I want to ask, though, try not to find it, try to do without it, to do it and go forwards without the pressing need, the burning in your spirit, not that it is no good, but consider what you can do if you step beyond that place, if you become one who is capable of always being ready. Trust me, it is not a need. The mind is always full. Do the work and discover their is never an absence. That is the truer secret. Of course, it is not simple, and the other ways are fine too. It is not any better, perhaps. I am not  in any position to say it is a better way of working. It is worth consideration, though, at the least, it deserves a thought.

I had my meeting today to discuss my story, as I mentioned in yesterday's entry.  It went quite well, though I do think their are some things I still need to work on in this story, but I had been concerned more that it was just a bit too strange and not truly relatable for most readers.  I don't think that is the case, and in fact think that much of what is best about it comes from following those impulses.  For example, the story is full of long and winding sentences that often repeat the same idea a few times, and I worried that the language in those parts of the story might be too much or a bit self-indulgent, but instead was told to follow those instincts and do more of that, even removing and replacing the more generalized language.  It was very affirming to be told that I could follow that aspect of my voice in the work, and I hope it will help me to feel liberated in writing even more fiction soon, as well as guiding my revision of this story in particular.  I also was v

The Effort Must Be Made It is not so weak a thing it can be held down, but it must be controlled, must be held or it will destroy, will rip apart what is before it.  Grab it with the arms you have there, those arms will need to do, and those hands too. Use them, all the strength that you can find in there. It is not clear it will be enough, but to try will matter, even to try and fail will be important. Do not ask how or why. There is no time for those answers, only time to try and find what works.

Tomorrow I have a meeting to discuss one of my short stories with a consultant who may be able to offer some advice on where to send it.  The story I gave her is a rather strange one, though I can say that about most any of my stories, to be blunt.  They are all a bit weird, and this one fits into the set.  Part of what is unusual in this story is the framing of the story, which begins with the narrator announcing that it is not true or believable, and denying any claim that it is a real story, but then going on to talk about it as if it is their own life.  It's hard to explain the narrative posture, to be honest, but I think I pull it off in the piece and that it works. There are certain aspects of the story, in particular some of how it develops before the ending, but I think it is largely a good piece and one that shows a lot of what is special in my writing, at least I hope so.  I am, of course, excited about this meeting tomorrow, but I can't help but be a little bit nervo

Encounter We saw a black cat outside my mother's house when we were getting in our car to drive back home tonight. The cat ran away from the garage when the door was opening, and we thought it was gone, thought it had scurried off or hidden itself among shadows as even cats not that black can do. It did not, though, it was there, was staring at us, sitting up in the neighbor's drive-way. It stood and let us look at it, listened as we spoke wanting it to come over, to be our friend.  It just stood, at least for a time, then it walked off as if it were bored of our company.

I am going to make this a short entry, even shorter than many have been of late.  I had a booster shot today and my arm is feeling incredibly sore right now.  It wasn't bothering me most of the afternoon, but it started to really ache an hour or so ago.  I've done my work for tonight, including more work on my prose non-fiction.  I feel good about it, though I am still finding my way.  I suppose that is always the case.

Even Your Apology Is Broken Last night, you cancelled and said you were sorry, offered to make it up, saying we would meet today, instead, but then you said no to that, as if it was alright, but you cannot erase that it was a gesture to apologize for missing last night. You erased your apology as if it was fine to do that. I want you to understand what you have done. I wish you were better, were a person who showed respect for others, but I know better. It is not your fault. I should have known, I should have seen the kind of man you are, but I trust people. We all have flaws.

I keep going with the work.  Each day I am doing more, and it is getting easier, I think.  It may not be getting better yet, to be honest, but I know I can't keep working without learning and developing as a writer.  It is a skill and practice will hone it.  Just doing the work each day is the best way to make certain I progress in the work itself, and it will also result, at some point, in my having finished work.  I am slow with it, right now, even if I am consistent, but I know I will get more comfortable doing this work, will become more capable.  I expect that will result in a greater output, in part through faster output and in part because I will have the stamina to spend more time with the work.

It Is Only The Bad Choices That Remain It is wrong that I am this way and am hurting you by not adapting, not accepting. I need to accept and be better, but it is no good, the available choices are no good at all. To take them is worse to me, is not an answer, but what is there left? I don't want to be this way. I want to change but not if changing is accepting that, but I must, and it will hurt me. I will do it and be lessened, but I will. It is all I can do. I don't have any way that is alright. It is all bad choices. At least this one might be better, might not harm you, might make it better, at least for you.

I am quite tired right at the moment, and today was a long and rather difficult day, so I am going to keep this on the short side.  I've continued with my work, remaining diligent and writing more for my essay.  I do feel that I am getting more confident with the work, and I think a large part of that is that I have continued work on this same piece.   It is often when I attempt to start writing a new piece that I get stuck and wind up walking away, but once I am in, it can be very different.  I need to get over that, and a big part of that is just recognizing it, and then deciding to not care about how the start of an essay seems.  I know I can revise and change things, so it doesn't even matter that much.  It is about getting started and finding a way in to the actual meat of the work, and that entry-point can be anything, even if it is silly or dumb.  It does not matter in the end, because it can be removed during revision.  The whole point is just to get going, and the less

Outcomes Their is not a space for anything between and it is not going to be there: either it is this way or it is another way, and any other way is far away, is so different, shares nothing that is needed. It is not possible for it always to be this way, but it can be,  if you choose that, it is a possibility. I suppose it must be. It seems rare, though. It seems too rare.

I did continue work on that essay tonight, though I am still finding my way with it.  The sense of uncertainty and the fear both remain with me at the moment.  I have to hope that keeping at it, writing each day this way, will be enough to help alter that mentality just through exposure to the process.  That is to say, I want to become better and I know that writing more does not automatically mean the work is better or of any value at all.  Indeed, for me, the point of the daily writing is not that it is resulting in a perfect piece, but that practice itself is important as a way to move forward.  It is not always about what I am writing but about the fact of my writing itself.  By doing it each day, I learn that I  am capable of doing the work each day, and I also remove the pressure to make it perfect.  I have to keep it up, and I think the best way to do that is just to keep reporting on it here, though, I hope, in a more interesting way.

He Will Complain Will tell me  all that is wrong, that he doesn't want it, does not appreciate it. He will complain and tell me I am wrong to feel any upset. He will say nothing of what is right, of what is gained. None of that matters. It is only that he is upset. That is all that matters. He chose this, and I know it could be better, but not without changes, not without him changing. I wonder if he can.

I began work on another essay today, one that I have been thinking about for some time but had delayed writing.  There is still a certain hesitancy in the work, I remain uncertain with it, but I am pushing forward in spite of any doubt or fear that haunts me.  I have much more work to do on this piece, and I believe that picking back up with it will be a boon, allowing me to slip back in without the same degree of initial struggle.  I can sense the shape of the piece, I think, and have a general idea of where to go with it, and I feel committed to continuing.  It has only been two days since I started pushing myself in this way, but I feel confident that, at the least, I cam continue on this track.

At The Meal's End We all are quiet, seated with coffee and dessert still on the table, though the check is paid, and you say nothing but rise and go to leave, standing with the force of a demand. But when I comment to the rest of the table, "it seems we are done," you grow agitated and respond. You seem so certain that I am the rude one, and maybe it was unkind, my annoyance, but still, consider it again.  At most I was your echo.

I got myself to work on that essay tonight.  I had a bit of difficulty with getting started, but I decided to just write through it, discussing my trouble getting into the topic and why I was hesitating, and it offered me a path forward.  I am certain that I'll need to revise that part of the piece, but it helped me to push through some of the anxiety and get to work.  I know the piece is not perfect, and I would like to make it a bit longer, to take a deeper dive, but what is more important, right in this moment, is that I pushed myself to do that work and didn't back off of it.  I committed to getting to it and followed through.  I need to do that on a regular basis, the way I have committed to my daily poetry routine.  I am thinking that I should do the same thing again tomorrow.  Maybe, at some point soon, I will decide I don't need to do it every single day, but I know that can be a transformative commitment, so I am going to push myself in that direction right now, ev

I Did Not Enjoy That It was not what was planned. My father's name  was never spoken, not even once, though I know his memory was the reason for my being there. I understood what was to be as one thing and it mattered to me. It still matters to me, but you will leave and not think of it. You think it is fine and if I complain it will be about me, will be unreasonable that I feel anything. It is always that way. I want to speak of it and have you understand what I am feeling, but you will only say it is my sensitivity. You will dismiss it. Always, you dismiss it.

I am at the start, again, of a cycle that, in the past, has not gone well.  I have an essay in mind, a piece that feels ready to be written and which I think their could be an audience.  It is a discussion about a popular piece of media that looks at it through a certain cultural lens and presents it in a light that raises certain difficult questions.  I need to commit to writing it, and I am afraid that, as in the past, I will find myself avoiding the actual work.  I know that their is a degree of fear for me in relationship to this type of writing.  I need to just push through that, and I am going to push myself in that direction tomorrow.  I must, it is important for me to be doing this work, even if it turns out to only be for my self.

My Brother's Friend Is Still Visiting He was going to leave a few days ago, I think, but then he did not go and stayed and said he would be leaving, and I thought today he would be gone, but he was here, and now he says he has a ticket for the morning, early tomorrow. I do not know where he is going, if he does go. I do not know if he will go, fo not believe it, not this time. He did this before, when he was coming. There were many days we thought he might arrive before the one when, at last, he did.

I am tired of being stuck and of not finding real solutions for things.  I look, but I know, also, that I do not accept certain things that might be, if. I were to choose them.  I am stuck inside my own patter of thought as much as in anything else, and the thoughts in my mind often push me around in certain ways.  I recognize that.  I don't feel capable of doing many things that I should, if I am honest, be able to do.  I want to have more and better choices, at least in this moment.  I also recognize that a part of me is afraid of that, is not happy doing these things.  I want to be able to follow the path that I was shown.  It feels like the right way to do things, in all honesty, and it means a lot to me in complicated ways.  I also am, as said before, kind of stuck.  Their is a way in which these shifts feel the desperate acts of a failure.  Maybe it matters, at the least, that I am facing it all, in some way, if only to understand it better.  I hope so.  It is just too overwh

What Was Once to Be Said did not need to be said, not tonight, not here where it might be too easy for those who the words reached to be anyone at all. It was better it be kept, be put aside.  It came out, but in another way, not with everyone around. It was still there.  It was not gone, was only waiting. There could come a time when it would alright or different, or not as easy to be felt as cruelty. It was not meant that way. It would be no good for it to become a cruel thing to have said.

I don't know what to write here tonight.  It is late and I am tired and I just don't know what to say.  I am feeling depressed and have little belief it will get better right at this moment.  I don't know what to do to change things so it can, and am sick of feeling utterly stuck.  I need something good to happen, something that makes me feel it is possible for things to get better in a real way,, and I know it is unrealistic to expect that, that I have no power to change things in those ways.  What am I supposed to do?  I cannot accept things as they are, and I cannot change them for the better, and each day it is harder.

What Good Is This Effort?   Nothing gets better and it cannot because what is wrong is already done and there is no way it can be undone, and nothing to do that will change it, that will fix what was broken. What is there? I keep trying as if it can be better, but I do not believe it. I know it won't be if this is the way things are, and it already is the way things are and cannot be made better.

I have no idea what to do about things.  It seems as if the only options that are possible are bad, even though I know it can't continue on the way it is.  I don't have any real hope for things, right at the moment, if I am honest with myself about it.  I want to, and I suppose that I keep making an effort, even though it feels pointless.  It must be there is some part that still believes it can get better.  It must be, or I wouldn't be doing any of it.  I recognize that, and am, in some way, grateful to still have that within me, though it makes it more painful to be stuck.  I need to find a way to make that part of me right, to make things better in a real way, but I don't know how.  I don't believe I can do anything that will make a real difference.

I Too Fear  the pile of mail that we have not opened. It has sat there.  It sits, waits.  I do nothing. It is not only you. It is me as well, but I will push past, will deal with it. It should be simple. Why isn't it simple?

I did get my blood drawn today, though it was not entirely without trouble.  The phlebotomist was late, which I can understand, but I never received a call to tell me they were delayed on their way, and considering my last experience, I was concerned when they didn't arrive.  I also found the phlebotomoist to be kind of fattist in how he treated me, which was upsetting.  Beyond that, he went straight in through the back of my hand, instead of trying to use a less painful sight.  He did not even check anywhere else, but went straight for the back of the hand, and was not particularly gentle about ant of it.  At least it is done.

I Do Not Trust That Mirror When I look in it I always see a secret in my eyes, a smirking look, as if to say, "I know what you would want to know, but you don't even know to want to know it." It is just a look, but that is what it must mean, I should know: it is my own face, the language of my expression. It is only in that mirror. In the others, I just look back and sometimes, even, smile.

I am going to keep this short.  I have to get up early tomorrow, as I am supposed to have that blood draw tomorrow.  I am skeptical that it will happen after my last experience, but I want to be ready, and they are coming early, so I am going to keep this short so I can head to bed before it gets much later.

They Left and did not say and I was there all alone in that house and I didn't know they were gone. They didn't think to tell me. It was easy for them to just go and leave me behind without a thought. I wish I would learn. I wish I didn't care any longer. It is no good.

I have been thinking a great deal about the writing I am not doing.  I do a lot of writing, but I also have a lot I want to write but don't.  I often start these things and then get stuck or lost or just distracted enough to set it aside too long.  I know that I need to find the focus and dedication, but more, I need to let myself be messy on the page.  In poetry, I can let loose and just set off, but I find that I am not certain how to do that with prose, whether it is fiction or non, and so I get flustered.  It is okay, I must remember, to not know what is happening while writing a piece.  At some point, of course, it must become clear, but that can happen quite late in the drafting process, and any longer work will always require rethinking when the whole is clear.  That is, the impact of that initial confusion can he sorted when it becomes clear.  Revision is always waiting, so why be hung up on the draft?  I am not certain that really helps, though.  In the moment of writing,

Eventually It is not for now, is not right for this time, this moment. It will be right at another time: we are certain there will be a time, but now, no; not now, not today. A time will come, though not now or tomorrow. Perhaps in a week or a month,  or in a season that with nicer weather, but not now.

The phlebotomist did not show up today.  There was a big storm, so it may have been for legitimate reasons, but no one contacted me, and the only information was the phone number for an office that is closed until Monday.  I am diabetic and these were fasting bloods, so it isn't so good for me to skip breakfast.  It troubles me to be put in that situation for no reason because of a medical professional.  I just wish they had contacted me to tell me that no one was coming so that I could have taken my meds and have some breakfast according to my normal schedule.

Is There A Way? I do not know, not any longer, but I understand it is needed. If it cannot be, what is there? It does not change the need itself. The flower thirsts for water, needs it, even in a drought. Tell it their is none, even if it can be convinced, the need remains unsated.

I have to get up early tomorrow, as I have an appointment for a blood draw in the morning.  I find it very stressful, to be honest.  My veins are difficult to work with: they are deep and hard to see and do not stay put when the needle comes.  As a result, I often have to be jabbed multiple times, and it is not always pleasant.  A few times, the first phlebotomist was required to trade out for someone else because they had tried so many times they weren't allowed to try again.  On a few occasions, the phlebotomists have gotten so annoyed dealing with the veins in my arms that they decided to use ones in my hand, once even drawing straight from a vein in my palm, which hurt for weeks after.  I know I have to get the blood drawn for my annual physical, but it always feels potentially traumatic when I have to.  I hope tomorrow will not be, or, at least, I am trying to remain optimistic about the possibility, if only so I can get some sleep tonight.

The Storm Will Not Go Soon There is too much rain tonight and I know it will be here when I wake in the morning and all through the day, as well. It is not going away, not soon, not for another day at least, and I don't feel well trapped inside. I want to step beyond the walls. I do not want to be inside all through tomorrow. I want to go out now, even, while it is dark and late. It will keep raining, though, it is quite obvious it will keep raining at least until Sunday, maybe longer.

I don't have a lot to say on here tonight.  I am tired and overwhelmed and so, so sad.  What is there to say?  I wish I had some sense of hope that anything meaningful will happen, but I am not sure I believe that is even possible in this country.

There  Were Two More Shootings Today Two that I know about, small ones, and no one died at one of them. There were only two fatalities besides the shooter at the other.  It should not be qualified this way.   I do not want to say, "only two" about the massacred, or call a shooting "small," do not want to be in this place where it must be determined how many deaths are needed before I can stop calling it, "minor." But who can process it all, can understand it in their heart. The pain, the grief already  it reaches beyond  what my tears can bare, to respond as each deserves: I would be drowned in sorrow, even more, beyond what I could stand, I would be drowned in sorrow. It is no good.  I must fight to keep my heart alive, must remember: grief is without dimension,  is always unmeasurable and vast.

It is too overwhelming, all of this.  It is impossible to process it, to take in so much pain.  We keep doing this and nothing is going to be done.  It doesn't appear as if anyone is going to do anyrhing significant to curtail this epidemic of violence.  There is something so wrong in this country, look how it manifests about us.

I Tell My Brother There Was A Shooting "Another one?"  He asks how many are dead and I do not know. "They have not said, are checking each floor." He sighs, "this is it, now, each week  there will be another." He tells me he is afraid, does not trust the world. I have felt that way, I tell him.  I feel it, have felt it. It is, I think part of what it means to be an American. We are those people, we are this nation: the ones who die and the ones who kill.