Would That I Might

I woke up a little later today, closer to seven or seven-thirty, and not at the predawn hours that have become my norm over the past month or two.  In part it is because I was up and down through the night.  I think that I did, actually, wake at my normal time, but I had been forcing myself to go back to sleep so much that I just stayed in bed and closed my eyes once more.  I still was up early enough to get my writing done without any interruptions, which is nice.  I suspect, though, that I am going to find that waking up this late was an anomaly.  Maybe I am wrong about that and I'll get up around seven or eight from now on, but I am rather doubtful.  Besides, I really don't think it made much of a difference, as I suspect I got just about the same amount of sleep last night, just with more interruptions.

What Persists It does no good, or has not done so this far along, and I want to know what to do to change that, want to know what will work. I keep doing what I must. That is true. I need to do it, I know that, I know it is important to continue.  That is fine. But what is wrong? Why is it only this? I need to know what to do that I am not doing, what will help to make things better, to change things so they are better, so the effort is not a waste. Do not pretend that it is about attitude or accepting how things are now. Those are not answers. They are lies, are meant to placate, are a false appeasement. The problem cannot be solved that way.

Melissa is not feeling well.  She spent the day in bed yesterday and I am suspecting that today might be similar.  Unfortunately, I think that is going to leave me in the hot seat, as we have a bunch of things coming up this week and Melissa had a few obligations that I don't think can wait, so I will probably need to do it all without her help.  It has me a bit overwhelmed at the moment, but I don't know that there is much I can do about it, really.

Those things are done for now at least.  They must be done again, are not done and over but at least they are done and I can move forward, can focus on other things instead.  That is the point of doing it now, of getting it done at this point instead of waiting, or maybe I am wrong about that and there is a deeper reason. I suppose it is never done, is just a cycle that repeats and I am in the middle of it whenever, always in the middle because it is always a cycle and I am always in it. I don't finish, it just ebbs like the tide.

Today was one of the first times since I shifted to a morning writing routine when I really felt like procrastinating. I didn't get out of bed until around eight or so, which is quite late for me these days.  Even so, it wasn't because I was sleeping well or anything so fortunate.  I was up and down throughout the night, but I was tired enough that, even when I did get up at 6, I just went back to bed after a few minutes. I have to admit that even when I did get out of bed, I was not really feeling like getting to work, but I did it, anyhow, because it is a commitment I made to myself.  Also, I didn't want to slack off and wind up needing to do my writing later tonight.  I am afraid that could just disrupt my new routine altogether.

Why did she call me when you are the one she made plans with? I do not like being interrupted and I am upset by it, am mad, even,  though who is to blame or what I could do even if I knew? It is not anything that can be dealt with in those ways. I don't have recourse. Maybe that is part of the frustration, though it is enough that I was inside a thought and it was shattered. That is enough for me to feel unsettled by it. That is the real problem, the loss of something, the disruption itself took away what, in just that moment, mattered most to me.

I am not feeling all that great at the moment, if I am honest.  There is a lot of stuff going on that has me upset, some of it family related, some of it dealing with other issues.  Melissa and I have been dealing with a ridiculous car problem, for example.  Our car is new, less than a thousand miles on it, and it has been stuck at the dealership for three or four weeks because the thing refuses to start and they cannot find a way to fix it, and I just don't have the strength to deal with all of that, especially with so much else going wrong.  My brother and I are barely talking at the moment, and I am not certain how to deal with that, but  feel like our relationship is shattered and will never be alright again, and I can't help but feel that it is largely our Mother's fault, which makes it very hard for me to deal with her, either.  I am feeling overwhelmed and miserable, and it is all just too much for me at the moment.  I don't really know what to do.  At least I am

I do not want you to talk with her about it I thought I told you that, but now it is too late and you asked and I need you to not have done that because the answer was cruel and not acceptable and that it was the answer is a reason for me to feel worse, to feel like I am being pushed away and told I am  not family any longer. I don't have a way to survive this. I did not want you to talk with her, that needs to be understood and you need to fix it.  You did this and it hurts me that you did it and that is not fair, I know it is not fair. You didn't mean harm, you were helping by taking responsibility for finding things out and I am not alright  with you having asked, I won't be alright in the aftermath of you having asked. But you did it and I am not certain how to deal with that or that I can.  It is not alright. I don't know what to say or do but it is not alright. I can't deal with another thing that is not alright which can't be changed. It needs to not be t

There is something nice about getting my work done in the morning.  Today, for example, Melissa and I have quite a busy day planned for ourselves, and in the past, when I was doing my work at night, I would always know that I had that hanging over me, waiting to be done.  It wasn't as if I was obsessed about it or anything, but it was there in the back of my mind, especially the awareness that I would need to stay up to do that work.  Now, though, I am done already and don't have that concern, and there is a subtle but definite shift; as a result I'm just a bit more relaxed, I think. I suppose that makes sense, though I hadn't really considered it much of a stressor before, I think that waiting do my work after everything else was a bit of an encumberment, and getting it done in the morning has, perhaps, liberated me ever so slightly.

Undone I have not,  not yet,  but I should, should have, even. It is not clear why I am waiting but I know it is just fear even if I am not certain which fear, quite. There are many that could be involved in this. I have no doubt it is not one thing, that it is more and complicated. Still, it is a simple thing and I should act before much longer. I know all of that. Still, I am hesitant, am hesitating,  am not doing it. I will, I tell you, I will do it, today,  maybe, or tomorrow. I will do it, though. I will.  That is true. I promise, that is true.

Last night, Melissa and I went out to a reading by Ross Gay.  I actually first met Ross when I was at Sarah Lawrence as an undergraduate and he was in the MFA writing program.  We used to play softball together in games organized by the poet Thomas Lux who was my advisor and who headed of the poetry department.  Ross was always a very warm and positive presence, as I recall.  He is a large man with a large, joyful presence, and I remember that being true of him even way back in the day.  His recent books have reflected that, with essays focusing on joy and gratitude. The reading itself was great, and I had a moment to chat with Ross, to reconnect and reflect back on things, albeit briefly.  I do not have many people that I am still in touch with from that period of my life, really, and it meant a great deal to have even just a few moments of reminiscence.  

I asked him Asking is nothing but beginning a process of wondering at whether it is true and what will come and if I have done what I must to make it possible, to facilitate things. I do not know, cannot know. It is all happening far off, where I am not and cannot be, places I don't know, am not able to observe. It is just darkness, until I am informed, if I am informed, which I don't think will happen in most cases, in the situations where the answer isn't the one I want, and I don't want to wait and wait when there isn't hope, but how long is there before it shifts and becomes nothing at all, becomes impossible. I don't know.  There is no knowing. It is just an emptiness. That is the only thing that can be had if there isn't an answer. There is only the question itself, unresolved, hanging  in the space above me.

I recently had to be taken off of a medicine due to a matter of family history.  The medicine in question was one of the new class of inulin mimetics which have recently gained notoriety for their effectiveness in helping with weight loss, and I can tell you that it was making a very big difference for me.  I had lost around fifty or so pounds and was on track to lose quite a bit more.  In fact, when the issue came up, I had just started on a higher dose about a week earlier and lost close to ten pounds during that period.  At the moment, I am still on the medicine, but we have been reducing the dosage over time, and almost as soon as the dose reduced, I had regained that last bit of weight.  Soon, the dosage will reduce again, and I expect to gain back even more of the weight.  All this is rather devastating, if I am honest.  I have struggled with my weight all of my life, even when I was a child and this was the first time I've ever felt that changing in a real way.  In the past,

I Already Think This Is Futile I should trust that it might work, that maybe, with time there will be an impact, a change in things that results from an accumulation. It has only been two days and I can't judge from that, or shouldn't judge, I suppose if I am being more accurate, since it is clear that I am judging, that my distrust has grown. Really, I never trusted it, not from the start.  It seems silly and a wild, desperate, attempt, not anything real or realistic. I do not have much hope but I am giving the effort. Still, what happens when it does nothing? I am not alright with there being no answer. I can pretend to trust this for a bit, can place my fears on hold a moment, but I know it won't last, and if there is nothing? If this does not help, what is next?  It can't be going back to the way things were. I can't accept that again, not any longer.  I can't be stuck with the only answers being the ones that never work.

My therapist has been out of town since the beginning of the year but I think she will be back this week.  It has been a bit difficult, if I am honest, with numerous things that have gone wrong over the past month, and I have found myself struggling a bit.  I had other people I could have called, and she made certain I had the information for someone else in the area in case I really needed it, but things haven't been quite that bad.  It will just be good to have that support again.  There have been so many different things to deal with, and much of it has been distressing.  Therapy can't really make things better, I don't think, not in terms of actually changing the situation that exists, but having that support can be vital.

Dawn Poem Light has come in the window, now, has arrived here from far off.  It travels so much distance to get here. I can't imagine that journey, longer than the world is wide.  It comes and I do not think of that distance, do not notice it, not most of the time. Now is different, this thinking and writing, it is not typical, and I don't even know why I started considering it, except that it is morning and it was dark minutes ago. It is possible to notice miracles but it takes effort.

I have been working on my flash fiction for a while now, and in focusing on that, I have put aside a few other projects for the moment.  It is important to me, though, that I don't let them just fade off into nothing due to attrition.  I need to start adding them back as an active part of my daily writing routine, but I worry that will disrupt my new practice.  It may be that I need to find other times to work on some of that stuff, since writing in the morning isn't quite as open ended as writing at night.  There is a part of me that worries that I've let some of this stuff go to long already and won't be able to get back into it again, but I won't even be able to figure that out until I get back to work on these things.

I do not want to tell her that I am feeling this way because I know it will be a problem, I know it will be revealing a danger inside me that cannot be left unchecked. I don't like that, even if it is only me who is in danger, if the only harm would be that kind, I do not want to let her know. I must, of course, unless I am listening to that voice. It wants to be unconstrained and unwatched, to have its options unencumbered. I do not know what I will say when the time comes.

I am still finding it hard to write a new story each day.  Sometimes I am able to do it quite easily, but other days it is a struggle to get hold of an idea that seems to fit the shape of a story.  I try, at times, to just rely on real life, to write something that is more memoirish, I suppose, and not fictional, or just barely fictionalized.  This can work, though I am not always comfortable with it.  It often feels like I am being very revealing, and sometimes I worry about other people in my life being upset by something I have written, about what I have said or revealed.  I need to get over that, I know.  It is not that I shouldn't care about them and their feelings or opinions, it is just that I shouldn't let those concerns inhibit me when I am doing the writing.  I should realize that, just because I have written it, that doesn't mean that it has to be shared with the world.

I waited too long and things broke and I can't fix what is wrong now, have no way back to what was before, but I want  what can't be without what was, without that being fixed. I need to know a way to repair things, to make them right again. It does not seem that I am allowed to want that, that I am permitted to even ask for what I need. I've been told  it must be this way, is this way, is not going to be otherwise any longer.  I must be alright with that, I am told, must accept it, must. There isn't another way. But I can't.  That is the truth. I won't and can't and don't and it isn't changing any more than the rest is. It is as impossible, is the same as the rest.  It won't change and I am not changing, either, not in those terms, anyhow. I suppose that means I am doomed. I can't find another interpretation, as much as I would like to.

It is another extremely early morning and I do wish that I could have gotten a bit more sleep than I did.  Really, I am probable sleeping about the same amount as I have been, but I used to stay up quite a bit later.  Now that I am writing in the morning, I'm getting to bed at a reasonable hour, but I am not sleeping any longer than I used to, even if believe that I would benefit greatly if I did sleep a few more hours.

I have accepted that it won't be different I do not have the power to alter it by my actions. It won't change, and that is the way it is, and I know that, recognize it as true.  Things won't just be better because it is what would be best. The world is too solid to be shifted by such things. Still, I know, too, that I won't change, that my needs won't be different just because they are not met. Thirst won't vanish because there is no water. I know it won't change, that the world is not one where those things are likely, and I cannot expect better than the way it is already, just as I know that can't change the necessity for it to be otherwise, for it to be better in those ways that will not manifest, that are not allowable expectations.  I know that what I need aligns with what I cannot have. That is what you have told me, and I have understood it, am not arguing it is wrong, only that it is not alright, that I can't be alright. That is what it means

It is another early morning.  I was up before six, I think, and have been at my desk for a couple of hours already.  I'm glad that I am getting my work done in the morning, to be honest, and it does seem to be a positive change, in general, for me and for my lifestyle.  I know it has been good for Melissa that I am not staying up working, because she likes to wait for me before she tries to sleep, so she winds up very tired in the morning.  I still wish that I could get a bit more sleep myself, really, but I am glad that, if I am going to wake up this early, I'm not wasting the time just sitting around or something.

You Are Not An Innocent in This I went back for myself because I knew I would be mourning it, soon, would be banished and unable to return, and so I went to have closure and try to gain something, to have something special I could hold and remember and instead, I had you and all those people you invited.  It was not good and I am not fine with it and I need you to own the harm you did to me. You want to feel safe, demand that things not be done that cause you upset and pain. I cannot do that  until you do something to make this right. Of course, it is too late for that. The only way I would feel better is if you made it different and we can't change the past. I don't have another solution or a way to heal this. It is for you to find that, if it is possible. I hope it is, really. I don't like this pain that you burdened me with. I would be glad if you could relieve it.

 I am still letting the idea I mentioned yesterday develop.  In the meantime, I've written other stories, but they are mostly just filler, I think, are really just my keeping the promise I made to myself that I would write a new piece of flash fiction each day.  I have a far better sense of the story itself than I did yesterday, but I also recognize that it contains a certain set of elements that must be orchestrated properly to pull off the particular trick that I want this story to perform for the reader.  I think that I am close, though.  It is just a matter of figuring out a few small, but crucial details and then, I think, it will all fall into place.

I did not know what to do so I did nothing and pretended that was enough, even though I know it is only nothing and that something is needed, is required. Nothing is not useful here and I know that, but it is all I had the strength for after the rest.  I was trying and doing and it was not nothing at all, was something, was a thing that I was doing and it was happening, and then things changed and I knew they changed, I knew it was not right or good and that something would have to be done, but what it was, that was unclear to me. I could have done something and it might have been the write thing, it might have corrected it.  Really, I know things I could have done but they were too much for me, would be doing it all again, starting over as if nothing had been done at all, as if iI had done nothing to start with, and I was too tired for that. I had done too much, too many things, was not going to erase that, and so I did nothing and pretended that something hadn't gone wrong.

I figured out a good idea for a story this morning, but I didn't feel quite ready to put it on paper.  I feel like it is going to be a bit complicated to get this one exactly right, and I have a number of technical parameters that I want to consider about it as well, so I put it aside for today and am hoping that I will figure out the rest before tomorrow morning.  One thing that is good is that I do have a strong sense of the plot elements and of where I think it is going to end.  The real challenge is in trying to tell the story in a particular way, as I do have a device in mind for it.  I know that at least a portion is going to be in the form of a letter addressing the main character, but I think it needs to only be a portion and probably near the beginning.  Also, I am wondering a bit about the specific tone and implications I want for the ending, as I can see a couple of different ways that it could be designed to impact just what emotional tone it lands with.  I think that I

It began and took on forms that it must have known were ready, waiting, there to be filled in and turned to something and I did not know what was or what could  or had to or did and did not. I started, but only started, and that was enough for me to do.  The rest was already waiting, I think. I think that I did not think, is what I am saying, that it was not any kind of thinking but only a following, an opening up, an allowing of more. It was all waiting. The only necessity was readiness.

I like the story that I wrote today, but I feel as if it is a fairly basic version of something that I will return to at some time in the future.  It really was inspired by a line that I read in a collection of letters, though that just suggested an idea to me.  The line was intended as a throwaway comment, a kind of snide, sarcastic remark about the end of the world, and it just tickled me in a certain way that opened up into an idea for a story.  I think, to be honest, that I want to make it into a short play at some point.  It is already very much a story told through a single conversation, so it wouldn't really be that much of a shift.  I'm just certain there is more to explore with it, though I am glad to have written a version, even if it is just a fairly basic first draft.

A Warning A thing might have happened and if it did happen  you should be concerned about it having happened and it might have. It is possible that it occurred and will have repurcussions. That is all we can tell you unless you click the link and then you can find out more, once you click the link, and pay us, of course. Then we can tell you what it is and if it happened. Otherwise you can just worry about the possibility. It will remain only an unknown threat, a potential danger. You don't want to leave it hanging, do you? That's worth trusting us, joining us, giving us what we ask. Something could be wrong and you could know about it. Maybe, if you did, there would even be something you could do, though we aren't suggesting we can even help with that part.

Something went wrong yesterday, it seems.  I came up to the office and found that I had this page sitting, empty, on my computer.  I was certain that I had written something here and posted my blog entry, but it seems that was a mistake, so I am making up for it right now.  I will be back soon, once I do the rest of my writing for today, which makes this feel a bit redundant at the moment, although I do still feel obligated to get it done.  I feel, in a way, guilty about not having posted a blog entry yesterday, although I am still certain that I did write something to post.  I don't know what might have occurred that I am wrong about that.

I almost forgot or that is how it felt, for a moment, during the transition. There was a thought. That is what I mean. There was a thought about other things and not what I know was next, not about that but about after that, but as what could be next, as what I would do. I suppose it is best to just say I had a moment of forgetting, maybe, or that the routine was out of my thoughts. I do not know why I am interested in it enough to write this poem, except that I wanted to write one and this was easy to grasp, was ready and present and already in mind. Is that the reason? I hope not, but it could be. I mean, if I had forgotten it might be something, at least, but all I have done is say what didn't happen as if I am still worried about it as a possibility. Maybe that is the truth that I am trying to find here, something about that fear, about remaining afraid even afterwards when it has been averted.

I woke up at around four this morning and couldn't get myself back to sleep.  I didn't get out of bed right away, which may have been a mistake, but I only say it was a mistake, now, because I didn't fall back to sleep.  If I had been able to, I would be happy I had stayed in bed.  Instead, I just tossed around uncomfortably, probably disturbing Melissa and certainly annoying myself.  At a certain point, I made the choice that I wasn't going to get any more sleep right then and got myself up, came here, to my office, and started writing.  I already had an idea for a story, so it was not really that difficult of a thing to get myself going.  I suppose it may even be early enough that I could try to get another few hours rest, perhaps...

The Facts Is it what I know or what I do not know or something between those, something I do know but don't understand or have left aside and not considered or forgotten about altogether, a thought in the corner left to rust or go feral or become a shadow or whatever it is unconsidered ideas do with their time.  I have answers and I have questions and sometimes I know which go together, but that can feel rare,  and the vastness of the rest, of the uncertainties and the vagaries and the rest that I can name or not name or not even know about enough to wonder if there is a name or even a word to use that would come close. I don't think it is the same thing as it was before, but it is, isn't it? Or is that another assumption. I am always assuming things, even the doubts I have about whatever it is that I assumed to be my assumption, even that is just something I expect should be there. It must be waiting for me, I think. That has to be,  or else nothing is certain, but I say i

I think that shifting my work to the morning has been good for me, overall, especially since I have been getting up so early lately.  In truth, I think that the main reason I am getting up so early is just that I haven't been up quite as late, since I'm not sitting at the computer into the wee hours trying to get through with my writing.  I don't sleep very much at the best of times and rarely can sleep more than five or six hours at most.  Often, even that is asking a lot, I think.  I do think that working in the morning has been good for me, though, even beyond my getting to bed at a more reasonable hour, though I suspect that there are advantages to be found either way.  I think that, for example, being tired can help me to step back and let more unconscious thought take over, just because of the tiredness itself, as an automatic byproduct of writing late in the night.  That can be quite impactful and can result in my writing things I never would have under other circums

Things Are Different, Now, Or Feel That Way. at Least Each day there is more and less, too, or it is the same, really, is not changing except in my mind, in what I notice of each and every and how and why the things go the way that they do.  I don't have real answers and my perspective is nothing special or substantive.  It is not even all that certain, has not been solid for a long while, is changing and shifting and unclear, even in my mind. I don't have answers or good questions, not any longer. I can't say that anyone does. It seems this is the way, now. I could be wrong, that may be my own assumption based on misunderstandings of the altogether wrong things. The best I can do is admitting that, and my ego  is eager to point out how rare even that is, because I am still fragile and self-absorbed and wanting to be special.

It is early but I have already done a fair amount, I think.  I sent out a new submission packet, as well as reaching out to an author who I recently met to discuss their being a guest on my podcast.  I had intended to do those things yesterday, but I was busy and distracted and, also, procrastinated on it.  It is strange to admit how often I feel like I am just being lazy, despite the amount of work I know that I do accomplish.  It is not that I am lazy, really, it is that I don't always do the things I should for one reason or another.  I still get things done, just other things that are not always as pressing, even though they can be just as important, but in other ways.

This Is A Different Poem Than The One I Started Out Writing There was much in common and I did not expect it, did not plan to find those things waiting, but they were there and I am glad, really, or, not quite glad... That seems, I would say, small? Trite.  I do not know what the right word is to explain why it is the wrong word, but there must be better ones. I could think of them, but now I have been distracted by thinking on it too long and writing all my thoughts about why it is wrong and I don't recall what the write idea was. It was about resonance and the connection I felt, the shared commonalities. Glad works, I suppose, but it is not enough, also. I was not glad, or was more than glad? I do not know why I am still writing that. It has taken over, has become a center to itself.  I fell, again, towards obsession, towards obsessing over details that exist on the edges and are not the meat of the matter. I don't have a cure other than accepting it is not a disease.

I am feeling pretty good about the stories I am writing this week, or at least the last few days.  They have felt more like stories, I suppose, though I am not certain just what that means, really.  In part, it is that I've often been writing things which are more like micro-memoir at times than actual fiction.  I don't really think there is a problem with that.  Stories drawn from real life are fine and good and I often find, when I don't have a good idea for a piece of pure fiction, it is not difficult to think of a real event that is worth exploring and describing, or feels as if it would make for an interesting piece of writing in some way.  That is fine, as I said, but I am glad that, at the moment, I have been able to put together some really interesting pieces of fiction.  It may be, in part at least, that I am not always as comfortable with the kinds of personal revelations that sometimes come out when I write stories that are more true to my life, but part of being

I worry about that poem If you were to read it... It says things in it, it says true things about my thoughts and my feelings and they way I am, about how I consider you and what you have said and expresses doubts and concerns.  I am afraid and the poem is blunt, I think, is honest about what is wrong or what may be wrong or what I am uncertain of and do not trust.  It is  not a kind a poem.  It is not. I know it is not a kind poem, at all. It is an honest poem, though. I worry about you reading it, one day. It may be you won't understand, if that day is far from now and you have no context, have forgotten certain specifics or do not associate them with the poem.  Maybe you will read it and never know. What scares me most is that you will understand and I won't know. I worry it will sit between us. I did not write it to communicate with you or do any harm. It was not the intent. I don't want you to read it. It was not meant for that. It is not a communique. I wrote it as a

Melissa and I went to an event last night with the artist and writer Jonathan Santlofer.  She actually took a class with him a number of years ago, and was the one who suggested that we go.  To be honest, I was not certain what I would think of it.  He writes mysteries, which is not a genre that I read all that often, but he was a very entertaining speaker and there was quite a lot that I connected with.  For one thing, he is dyslexic and discussed certain aspects of that experience that felt very familiar to me.  Beyond that, though, a great deal of what he said about his process as a writer and his approach to his work resonated with me about my own writing.

There was a connection even if it was not clear why it should be or how real it would become or if it was simple coincidence and the illusion of more that comes with certain perspectives, with the situation viewed from a particular angle. I do not know if there is more or if there is even anything, if any of it was or is or will be. I do not have a great trust in my initial perceptions. They were motivated. I had reasons to want  things to go a certain way. Maybe that was enough to bias my perceptions. I might not have observed what was really present. I might have allowed myself to choose the interpretation that I wanted from the start.

I have a general premise for a story in my head at the moment.  I'm not going to get into the specifics here, because I think that often is a bad idea.  Telling about a story concept can relieve a certain kind of pressure that is necessary for compelling the actual writing.  I am bringing it up more as a way of observing my thoughts and process, and recognizing that I need to develop the idea into something that has a real ending before I get into writing it.  I don't know if I need a very specific end, or if it is more that I need to find the trajectory of the plot beyond the premise, but I certainly feel like I need to figure out what the ending is going to do, in the sense of what I want the reader to walk away from the story with.  I am not sure I know how to get from here to where I need to be in order to write it, but I am going to trust myself to figure it out.  The fact that I am making the choice to even prepare in this way feels like important progress in and of itsel

You want me to tell him and I do not want to talk to him again, and if I did talk to him I would not want to say anything nice or kind. I would want to be honest and discuss all the things that are wrong. He does not understand  that he has done more harm, that things are degrading, are getting worse again. I blame him.  He would blame me, I am certain.  We are both wrong and both right, but  I can, at least, admit that much. The things I want are the things he promised already. He won't admit that he obligated himself. He made the promises but they are nothing because he wants to break them.

It is just a bit over a week since the new year began and it already feels like this is going to be a difficult one.  I've already had a number of things happen that are really upsetting, and I am not dealing with it that well, to be honest.  The only thing that I am optimistic about in the moment is stuff with the house, though I know that I am kind of setting myself up for disappointment with that, in the end.  Right now, it is all just playing around with the possibilities.  The architect we are working with came by yesterday to discuss plans, and the idea for what might be possible is really great, but at the moment it is just a drawing and we don't have any idea of the budget that would be required for turning it into something real.  I am trying to be aware of that and not get myself too invested in one idea of how things could go.  In part, it is also a response to the fact that so many other things don't seem to be moving in a positive direction for me at the moment

You worry that I am being unrealistic about this It concerns you that I am dreaming and might be going too far with my dreams, letting it become an unrealistic fantasy. I am not a realist, that is true. Realism bothers me. I don't want to be bound  by those constraints, but I know that is the way things are, that the world is limited, has limitations. We are bound, so I should be aware and not go too far, not get hopeful and dream, become expectant.  Reality will come back at me. It will limit me.  It will change what might be into what can be, instead, and that is a difference. I know the fear you have and I understand it. I do get caught up in my desires, build them up and refuse alternatives. But I want to be hopeful, want optimism to be a part, want the process  to include more.  It is open. I am being positive right now. I know there is a danger of it becoming a want that cannot be fulfilled. That is always a danger for me. I am not certain what to do about that. I am not cert

When I was a kid and wanted to learn about chess, my Dad got me a few books on endgames.  I didn't really understand this, as I wanted to learn how to play and wasn't really sure why the thing to learn first was the last part of the game.  I can understand that now, but I didn't then.  In some ways, I think this is similar to where I am, at the moment, in my fiction writing.  Many of the stories just don't have any kind of real ending.  They are premises that trail into mystery, which is an approach and I think can work.  Shaggy dog stories, for example, are valid and can be worth writing.  Kafka certainly made them work, for one.  But I would like to find my way towards doing more than that, even if I also continue writing those kinds of stories.  I have to believe that the fact I am thinking about this is a good sign, is evidence of some progress in my understanding and approach.

I did not tell them about the time you drove off in the car that had hit me as if he was right to do it.  You were mad at me for being struck and drove off with him as if it were fine, as if I deserved it. That is what happened and you still believe I was the one who was wrong, still think I am the aggressor. I did not mention it to your friends but I wonder what they would think of you. I am certain they would question it, would, at the least, change how they think of you as a mother.  I wonder why I am hesitant to be honest about who you are with the people whose opinions you care about. Why should I be? You are so careless about everything that involves my wellbeing.

I wonder, sometimes, if I am really writing flash fiction or if I am just writing strange little prose poems instead and calling them flash.  In the end, I don't know that there is a real difference, to be honest, but I do wish that I were better at writing things that felt more narrative, I suppose, that felt as if they had plots and events unfolding and a real sense of beginning, middle, end.  It may just be that I am not inclined towards that kind of writing, that my mind works in different ways.  I see stories in a strange way, I know, so it is not all that odd that I write things which don't always fit what most people might consider as a story.  It may also be that I am developing and learning, as I have said before.  I am not certain. I do hope that I am making my way towards something, though.  That has to be the case, I think.  I don't believe I could work on these things each day without it being a process of change and growth.

I do not like the way things are or the way I am and the way I am is not going to change without things changing, without an alteration of the circumstances and I can't do anything to make it better. I have been told that. It is explicit: I have no control over the outcome. I can try.  That is all, and that is no good. I know it is not possible for things to be different just because I want that, even if it is necessary that is not a reason. But it is still the truth. I need it to change and it is impossible for it to change and I am not certain of how to deal with that. I do not like the misery.  I do not want to be this way, but it can't be different while these are the conditions of my life.

Melissa has expressed a great deal of appreciation for my shifting my schedule towards writing in the morning.  It has made it a lot easier for us to get to bed earlier.  It has probably been good for me, as well, though I am getting up quite early most mornings.  I woke up around five or so today, though I didn't get out of bed straight away.  I waited until it was a bit closer to six.  Really, it might be the same as when I was staying up, at least in terms of the amount of sleep I am getting.  I'm not all that great at sleeping.  A few hours of it might be all I can manage.  I think that is probably true;  I think it remains that way even when I am quite tired.

I am reluctant because it is nothing I want, is not what I am interested in doing, is not who I want to be or how I want to be known. I need you to understand my feelings about this. I thought they were clear but I have heard you talk and your message was clear, your intention was obvious. I do not like that plan. It terrifies me that it is a trap.   I don't know what to do, though. It feels too late, already. I need you to be responsible for that but I know you won't understand. You think you are doing the right things and I am too much of a cowerd to tell you the truth.

I am still rather uncertain about my flash fiction, but I am keeping at it.  I hope that is enough, at least over time, but I suspect I am going to need to learn more, to get some kind of help or direction.  I don't really know what that would be, exactly, but I am going to try to see if I can find some decent resources.  I am sure that they exist, it is just a matter of finding something that will work for me and provide a bit of guidance to help me figure out what I am missing at the moment.  When I was studying writing in a formal sense, I was focused on poetry, so it makes sense that I feel a few gaps around writing fiction.

They called again They asked if we are ready, and we are not ready, are not close to ready. We will not be ready soon. It is what I told them before. I do not want them calling about it. I have explained this before, that it distresses me and is no good. We will let them know when it is time. Things have gone wrong.  We are trying, are hoping that we can make it better, but it is not close, is not anything close to ready. It is only just beginning, if we are honest. I don't want them to call again.  It is not alright. It only makes things worse.  I told them this before and they do not listen.  I want to have them listen, but I know that they won't and I will get another call and it won't be very long, I am certain.  It won't be long enough for things to be better.  I don't care if they want an update.  It only does harm when I have to talk with them. I am already in distress. I can't deal with them too. 

I have been continuing with my morning writing sessions and I think it is a positive shift for me, at least for the moment.  I wake up early a lot even when I'm not getting up to write, and now I'm not needing to stay up quite as late in the evening, since I'm not sitting around trying to get my writing done.  I expect that I will start wanting to do more writing in the evening again, and I am wondering if that will be a good way for me to try and expand my practice once more, since I did cut back on how much I am writing each day recently.  I do want to expand the amount of writing I am doing once more, and maybe having two sessions each day will help with that, but I don't know that I am going to push myself towards that so fast.  At the moment the shift towards writing in the morning feels like enough to focus on.

It is not and will not and cannot and does not Even when it must.  Even when it is only this, when it is needed, is necessary, is all that can be and nothing else is anything, is possible.  It is all stuck, is all intractable, is stuck being what it has been, what it cannot be, what is no good and not wanted. There isn't an alternative any longer, and that's true in both directions. What good is there in saying it? Nothing can be changed anyway. It has always been a trap, it might even be true that it was always too late.

I am kind of getting into this morning routine.  I know that I will, at some point, do an evening session again to make up for the day that I missed, but right now I am okay with letting it slide somewhat because of the way it has impelled me to work in the morning.  I know, realistically, that shouldn't have to change just because I decide to do some work at night before I go to bed, but I know myself well enough to recognize what has motivated the shift and I don't really want to mess with it at the moment.

We were never told the truth before we arrived and it was not what we expected, was not anything good, not for me. To be honest, it was cruel of them. I needed to be able to go home and feel safe there, and wanted there and a part of things, really a part, as if it was for us, as if we had been invited because it was for us.  It wasn't. We were pushed to the side. It was the last chance I had to be there and I was an afterthought. I have not expressed that.  I kept silent at the time, which I think was a mistake. I wish I had been willing to be crueler. I think it would have helped me if I had made things as bad for them and all those people they invited. I think I should have made it clear just how much they were hurting me. Now, I have nothing at all except bad memories.

Once again, I am writing this early instead of late.  I had intended to write twice yesterday, to make up for my not writing on New Year's Eve, but I decided to let that slide.  It is more important that I got back to work, really, though I do think I will try to get another session of work in today, if I can.  I do think it is good for me to be writing in the morning, though.  I like that I've gotten back into that habit, at least for the moment.

Something came back in the night and I felt it pull me, felt myself churned out, tossed into the universe, pulled out from myself. It was a dream, I think, or maybe it was not and it is something else that happens in the night. It did not feel like a dream, not like other dreams, at least. I cannot say what that means or if it means a thing at all, but I felt it.  That must mean something. Whether it was real or not, it matters that it felt that way.

I wound up skipping my work last night, but I made up for it this morning.  It was not a real plan, it just sort of happened.  Melissa and I were having a low key New Year's eve and I decided in the moment to just go with the flow.  I suppose it is inevitable that I will miss a night here and there.  It's not as if this is the very first time it's happened.  The real key is in getting back to work the next day.

It will not be and that is not alright, but it is what is true, and that is not changing, is not going to change, but what good is that? It is needed, is required, is what is necessary for things to be alright, for there to be a chance of anything being alright. The impossible way is the only way. It won't be alright because it is not  going to be that way. I won't be alright. I don't know what else to say. I am not certain what can be done but it must change and the change can't be in terms of what is needed. That is the nature of it being a need.