anonymousblack: ([mom] boys and girls)
look into the eyes, look deep into the eyes, look into the center of it. the origin of it. into the deep and the dark of it, the place where there is no thing to see, no thing but the ultimate function, the reason this matter exists. mother darkness, mother darkness. from whom all things come into being and to which all things will return: in a state of absence, in an absence of being, as and could and perhaps will be:

mother of roses, mother of candle flame, enveloping mother of red velvet folds. mother of the center, of the point of all tensions, at the point of transition, transformation, of transmogrification: feeling become flower, become a kind of opening blossom, become a place where the light changes, transforms into color, takes on a texture. at one level, all creativity is, the basic function creativity serves, is taking some form of action to bring light in contact with some matter that has not had that sort of contact with light before. so light, be with us. so darkness, be with us. so light make your otherworldly mark against the darkness, offer us some depth, make the light work its way back toward: something.

the light loves the darkness but all they ever do is circle one another for they manifest as antagonists, as one thing intended to obliterate the other. and yet in that knowledge they are bound, and yet in that very knowledge they are married: one cannot exist without the other, the very nature of their vehicle needs its opposite to come into form. you feel it. others around you feel it. still others feel it but are in denial, still. this birthing process has been strenuous, dangerous, in play for early decades now but now about to come to crisis. will the scarlet woman birth this child from its secure darkness into the naked light? will the scarlet woman survive the birthing process? perhaps we were intended to die in childbirth. perhaps i would not have survived my firstborn. perhaps it all goes back to that oldest of old human conflicts: the desire to bring new energy into the world versus the desire to cleave to that which we love to the extent of making it sacred.

listen, daughter, every piece fits into every other piece of this. if a piece does not fit, this means you are looking for another piece, not trying to puzzle together that which cannot come together as it is. so, daughter: and so, daughter: and so, and so and so: beautiful light and beautiful darkness. holy darkness and holy light. the warm slippery cling of light to all the aching places. the gathering womb of darkness surrounding that which has been broken and needs time and love to come together again. the dark can wound and the light can wound. the dark can kill and the light can kill. good and evil are a concept entirely removed from darkness and light. an object's surrounding factors of visibility have nothing to do with the virtuousness of that object:

listen. listen. the wind prods at the sheltering canvas, picking at the desert traveler's sheltering darkness. the wind blows in light and sand. the wind blows the curtain free of its hold, dropping the bright room into wavering darkness. what is coming could be on the scale of the difference between light and darkness: imagine a third state, a third relationship. that is not light, that is not dark, that is entirely distinct from light and darkness yet impacts the environment to a similar extent? notice today the interplay between extremes: how one crosses into another, how one becomes its opposite, but then again not really, but then, again, of course.
anonymousblack: (then again maybe i won't)
because it's always water with you. rainstorms and rain showers. rain and rain and rain and rain. rain, but also rivers and creeks, lake shores and flooded quarries, rising tides and receding shorelines. the inundation, the slow rush in. the trickle, the stream, the building roar. institutional swimming pools or broken sump pumps, there's always water, there's always more water, there's so much more water than either of us can take:



still we want more. or still we needed it, or still we have all become acclimated to a certain way of living in this world and how do we navigate on dry land? where can we go without the tides to take us there? yes it is always water with you, tears and tears, the congested sinus, the salivating mouth, the building urgency to urinate. and yet we splash through, soak it cold, let it go to drift: and yet we lose count in the chaos, the rushing in from every direction, the rushing over, the soaking through.

of course it is always water with you because where did we come from? where are we now? where are we going to? creatures of water, swimming to the surface, creatures of water, sharing the womb, creatures of water, twinning into lovers, twinning into that which can be alone in order to compensate for the loneliness of the singularity. lovers in water, passing water between themselves: sweat and tears, blood and semen, goddess of primordial waters, grandmother of primordial waters, grandmother outside of time, grandmother there is no time for water: it moves through us, it moves with us for a time. decades or minutes. into our most secret places or barely rippling the surface:

of course it is always water with you. we pass water between us. we divide and separate, only to roll back into one another as we bead down the window pane. water remembers just as easily as it forgets: water remembers and forgets. water combines with poisons, water carries poisons far and wide: water is a conduit for poison, be it the carrying agent, be it what gathers around the tongue to transfer the poison down the throat: and yet, just as easily, water evaporates from a matter, leaving it dusted and dry, waiting for water to return and move it again. every molecule in a swallow of our sacred waters, that countless eternity in a single drop. where has it been? who? was this once a tear i kissed from your brow? was this once the beer you pissed into an alleyway? no drop of water belongs to one of us if it hasn't belonged to all of us and not simply as a possession but instead a possessing force. water controls our behaviors. water makes us who we are. without water, we aren't anything but then again, what is water without us?

water, i suppose.

because it's always water with you. every half dreamed flood, every imagined rushing over. every drop and every deluge. every flood and every drought: every droughting flood. waters rush up around us, waters wash us through. purified in an instant, purified slowly, subtly, ages and ages. a water's age, which is not a matter i've been prepared to understand. a water's age is eternity. water is always dying and being reborn. on the shore by the ocean. in the dunes on the sand. how the water carries the salt on the wind, making the air mealy, heavy, something to swallow, something that springs forth from the core, something that rushes forgone conclusions back up to the surface.

because it's always water with you.


anonymousblack: ([ben] strap)
the room is empty or the room is filled with nothing. in the empty room, the room filled with nothing, i set down an empty tin can. i set down a tin can with the store brand cream of mushroom soup label torn off. i set down a tin can taken from a stranger’s recycling bin and filled with orange dirt from the nearby construction site. in the room filled with nothing i hold one end of an incense stick over my lighter and wait for the catch, wait for the flare, wait for the slow smolder. in the room filled with nothing i stick the other end of an incense stick into a tin can filled with orange dirt. i drop the lighter by the can. i lie down on the floor next to the lighter. in the empty room, in the room of empty, i lie on the floor. i close my eyes. i lie on the floor and close my eyes. i bring my knees to my chin. i wait for the moment. i wait for the very next moment. i wait.

so talk to me about longing.

you know the pull and tear of it. the dark tangled hair of it. talk to me about the way another’s eyes turned after you again and again every time you crossed his path and every time another crossed your path and every time and every time another crossed himself temple to shoulder to shoulder, crossed himself en route to your temple, took a new name in desire, took a new shape in the way that desire took him. we all take new shapes in desire. we all make new shapes in desire. so talk to me about longing: as if i don’t already know, as if there is an answer in the way a memory bucks and swells beneath, remembering the thrust of it, remembering the start of it, the shake of it: remembering the way we make our way in an absence of ways to go.

there’s a path to it, you know. there’s a path. just a way from one place to another. just a way that makes one place and then another. you know, once something becomes a destination, it also becomes a place. for a long time, i was not a place yet. i was something. i was a convergence of somethings. i was cruel and unfathomable hunger left unfulfilled. the words jumble together. the letters do not make a shape. sentences do not climb skyward but jumble before us in unseemly tangles. you understand that before you knew my name i did not have a name. what i was called was merely a suggestion, a form i could take. before you spoke my name, my name was a placeholder. a proxy to gain my attentions. a means of summoning me to meals or protecting me from getting struck by a bus. before you spoke my name it was not a name, just a sound that came out of people’s mouths in reference to me. an abstraction, a boundary of infinite options, something to be filled in.

what were you before i spoke your name?

who about you’d always been.

unwitting initiates often do not appreciate the process they are taking on until they have finished that process. and so: i do not appreciate the process of my initiation. sometimes i fall back far enough to see the shape of this and it is frightening. it is frightening because: it is potentially illusory. it is equally frightening: because it is potentially true. i cannot prioritize my fear. i cannot quantify the truth. so instead i rationalize. i deviate. i qualify. i wonder if i am intended to work both sides of every true mysteries in my life: the shadow and the object of it, the illusion and the reality. if i am meant, perhaps, to see the way reality supports illusion and the necessity all illusions have in a basis toward reality.

all told, i may well have methods of mood management that are overdo for some scrutiny.

i wonder if i am meant to love in a way that cannot be satisfied. if i will always long. if i will always hunger. if hunger gradually takes me over and blots me out. if hunger eventually becomes my new name. ghost as hunger. haunted by hunger. haunted by desire, urge, the unknown: the desire to make the unknown known, to find the unknown within the known, and back, and forth, and back, step it up, step back, again.

again i see that the the root of all language is desire. language exists because of desire: desire for connection, for satisfaction, for survival. and perhaps all these energies - connection, satisfaction, survival - go back to desire. because desire is what fuels us as much as it exhausts us, in the end. we pull life up into our bodies with every breath to let it leech away into the earth when our lives are over. we exist because of desire, so to condemn desire might be the origin of evil. but do with that information what you will. i was talking about shadows: not just shadows within my persona, but shadows of ideas - how love is shadowed by anxiety, how love is embodied in hate. how enthusiastic fantasy can become unimaginable with one crucial variable changed. how speech is inevitably married to silence. connection. what is connection shadowed by?

the room is empty or the room is filled with nothing. in the empty room, the room filled with nothing, i set down an empty tin can.


anonymousblack: ([mom] boys and girls)
[11.23.2010, journal 10]

i want to be newly falling asleep. easily falling asleep. pleasantly slipping from awareness, sliding down those smoothing surfaces, wrapping myself in the soothing darkness of: sleep. pull the blanket up to my chin, up over my ears, slip down between the cool sheets and make them freshly warm. i do not think another decongestant will improve my mood. at least i'll be able to breath. break it down break it up break it out, refrain refrain, that refrain means both to halt and to repeat. to halt through repetition. to stop again again, to stop again stop. i'd really like to be falling back asleep, i said. outside strangers are shouting.

i'm putting on the crown. you know what that means. do you know what that means? ten years ago, just short of that friend's most recent post-break up pregnancy scare. not realizing my sister was pregnant, unsure if i even had an inkling, though my post-production team will observe that i certainly wrote some uncanny things on the matter, like i do. my oldest friend, arguably my closest friend, she kept going to my ex's parties. i can't complain about it. i never asked her not to go. maybe if i had, she wouldn't have gone, but something in me doubts this. i hadn't told her everything. i'd told her enough, but i wasn't ready to explain everything. around that, i was still intractable and obfuscating. intractable, obfuscating, intolerably intense. all the i and o and oh not now i'd become to her. you see, his parties were something to do. all her friends went to them. all her friends were his friends, too. it's foolish to think she would've chosen me. why do i think that thinking that is foolish? why did i break myself, trying to repair a friendship with anyone who i believed, deep down, wouldn't chose me over my ex-boyfriend's goddamn house parties?

i'm putting on the crown.



don't try to stop me.


all this time, i just wanted to be chosen. refrain: i wanted to matter. i wanted to be a desired presence on my own terms, not another piece of social clutter she couldn't use and couldn't release. i was a good friend on my own terms, taken for myself, not as another compulsive accessory in an already overpopulated entourage. she seemed to have more friends than she could deal with. she certainly had more friends than i could deal with:

and that's the hitch. it was blameless. it should have been blameless. it could've been blameless. she needed something else. something i couldn't understand. i was the obvious excess, the most easily excised. it was in her best interests to be rid of me. refrain from the destructive language: it was in my best interests to be free of her assumptions, of the obligations she insisted. of the endless bowing out of myself. of the shame for who i'd become. of her necessary friends that were his, too. of the possibility that he might become one of her necessary friends: of her insistent lack of understanding. of her emotional clutter piled up on her social clutter piled up on her material clutter up past the skyline up level with the tinfoil moon. pile it up: she didn't honor me. she couldn't see me as a gift. i can't blame her for it, i don't blame her for it, but then and again, why? why? why did this turn into that? refrain: i don't want to be writing this. refrain: i don't want to be thinking about this. refrain: yet here it is again.

in her party dress. her wings that don't lift or bear. unconcerned how my malingering connection to her might, in her superfluous and coincidental connection to him, might drag me back into his life, might trap me under his rock again, might punch my lungs, drag me under, that this time i might not come back. refrain! it didn't matter to her. i didn't matter to her. not like her actual friends. i'd become a concept, a principle, an object. i'd become another thing she didn't want to lose. refrain: i don't want to be writing this. refrain: i don't want to need to write this. refrain: i don't need to write this. i need to be chosen. i need to matter. refrain. stop. refrain. repeat:

i'm putting on the crown.

i don't know what it means or where it might go. what i know is i'm sick of being a queen without a crown. without the straight back, without the towering confidence. i'm sick of being invisible, left between the lines, left of center, left out. i have a crown. it's time for me to wear it. in the back room of the craft store, on highway eighty-three. alone in the grocery store parking lot tears dripping from my fluorescent strained eyes, howling into my dark locked car: i'm putting on the fucking crown and don't you even try to stop me. you don't know anything about it. you've never seen a crown much less saved one in the closets and crawlspaces of your life, you don't know what it's like to have this thing, this certainty, this strength stuffed at the back of the linens that you know some day you'll have to claim but still but wait but now is not the right now i've got to now instead there's something else. or maybe you do, probably some of you do, possibly you're reading this and thinking: yes, that's me, that's true, that's been me all along, but listen: this is about me. this time. this once. so. refrain: shut it. it's time. i'm putting on the crown.

you don't even know.
you won't even know.
you can't even know.


2016 eta: and what about me? because there's always something. that i don't know. that i won't know. that i can't know.

and yet.


anonymousblack: (seven)
in the street in the dark looking at a house with one light on.

on a train in the night with no memory of why i am on a train.

lying in a canoe filling slowly with water looking up at the blank sky.

there’s water, there’s always water. there’s water where there’s supposed to be water and there’s water where there’s not supposed to be water. houses of water. water in the stairwells, water from the ceiling, water where the floor should have been. roads and rooms and roars of water. gatherings on the deep seas. i’m ankle deep for days except when i’m up to my waist. i don't know what they were thinking, designing the building like that. a couple nights ago i dreamed i was staying in maine again and our cabin gradually blended into the shoreline, walls becoming boulders and tide pools, the water luminous and blue green below, the tide rushing up to meet me, the waves in the distance rising up high. this morning a full-moon beach shore initiation suddenly turned into the swim unit. i know what it’s about. i’ll even think, this is about emotion, these are usually emotional topics and dynamics, if not something that soaked me through in the recent past then something swelling up in the horizon. i know what it’s about, but i never know what it means. you’d think it wouldn’t escape me at this point, but it always does.

boxes of audio cassettes. a warehouse full. i want to listen to all of them. i listen to one, layers of recordings over older recordings cutting away from each other, obliterating each other, strange artifacts creating a new experience entirely. i think, this could be something. the tape jumbles. i snap it out of the deck. instead of magnetic tape, water pours out of the casing. this seems odd, somehow, i think. the water rises all around me.

there are mazes and monsters. riddles and restless souls. atomic bombs and slow contamination. there’s always someone watching from the periphery.

is it you?

i’m trying to warn people or i’m not listening to reason. the power went out. water’s running out of the outlets. everything in the storage locker has gone back to nature except for his gun. i run away from the soldiers, not wanting to be saved by a lie. i’m pregnant and scrubbing out mugs for my college food service, white water rushing beneath the grate. i walk out of the dressing room in a trance and perform the ceremony without preparation. all my teeth fall out. i salvage, i salve. i find a lot of flowers. i try to figure out how i’ll have enough to eat. and then at the end of it i look up in the sky and there’s the funnel cloud, headed right for us. again. again. again.

just the that stubborn residue of dreaming, on waking from a dream, this sense that everything in the dream seems so much more urgent than anything i could possibly remember from the dream turns out to be: every simple distinction wrestled from a dreamer’s oblivion! we cling to it, no matter how trivial, we define ourselves with it, like a college sophomore who likes a book or commits to a dietary choice for philosophical reasons: it is who we are. it is so important. we must describe it back as frequently as possible on threat of losing who we understand ourselves to be. like dropping a stone back onto a pile of stones, trying not to blink, trying not to lose that exact form, committing ourselves heart and soul to the rock we just had in our hands, you know, it’s


THE NARCISSISM OF FINE DISTINCTIONS

which personality type we are [INFJ! 4w5! god don’t ask about subtypes!] * what we eat * what we don’t eat * what television shows we like * why we don’t like this specific television show * the many ways in which we are a better person than any other person in the general vicinity but also how we are very humble * what we write in open letters to public figures who will never read them * where we buy things * where we won’t buy things * spirituality! or a lack thereof * politics like fingernails scraping a chalkboard * why our particular variety of hatred and exclusion is not really so bad * why we are magically exempt from the repercussions of not thinking about social issues we have ignored and denied our entire lives * which social networking sites we don’t use * how totally weird we are * how our personal weirdness is actually weird and yours is not * and why of course always why of course


maybe it’s the dream struggling into being, struggling into existence, fighting to be acknowledged? maybe the dream is another part of who we are, something we need to remember or anticipate, something we need to accept, something we need to grieve?

in the dream p. turns to me, all of a sudden. i hadn’t realized he was in the room. i panic, knowing this moment is a gift, knowing i’d been given this moment for a reason, knowing i only had a couple minutes; i had no idea what to do with it. never one for grand declarations anyway, he shakes his head. “you sure are into some weird shit, judy,” he tells me.

“you’re hardly one to talk,” i say, and wake at his appreciative laugh.


anonymousblack: (away)
I am a teller of stories. A weaver of dreams. I can dance, sing, and in the right weather, stand on my head. I know seven words of Latin. I have a little magic and a trick or two. I know the proper way to meet a dragon, can fight dirty but not fair, and once swallowed thirty oysters in a minute. I am not domestic. I am a luxury, and in that sense, necessary.

― Anthony Minghella, Jim Henson's Storyteller



i keep having dreams about the magical powers of language, of storytelling, of deliberate wordings: but the dreams are strange and the scenarios conveying this information seem, more often than not, dramatically out of scale with the importance of the lesson. which might be saying something else about my current variables: are my efforts toward a valid cause? or am i mired in schoolyard bullshit spirituality, level one glamor, illusion, self-deception, and baser desires? well, yeah. of course i am. show me one mere mortal with the ovaries to claim they’ve transcended issues like envy and narcissism and i’ll show you one envious narcissistic motherfucker, but am i so preoccupied with it that nothing else can get in?

maybe it’s not the dream scenarios that are important. maybe it’s more that my symbolic mind is utilizing the most direct language it can to communicate core matters: concepts so primal they dwell outside of workable language. that’s a significant part of what dreams seem to be, anyway. maybe it’s the best i can do, in the dream situation. however, it’s becoming clear to me that these dreams are about mastery and the way i have embarked on that process in my creative work without realizing it.

“open sesame,” he said, so i did. of course i did. what else would i do? a world in which a desire exists is different than the world before that desire. maybe storytelling exists as a means of creating desires the listener (as well as the storyteller) didn’t understand that they had. it’s a gift, perhaps? knowing what you want is satisfying, or so i’ve heard. it gives you power, desire. focus. form. more power than directionless hunger: everybody has that. hell, even i do. how many wives did king sharyar slaughter before sheherezade drew him in with her narrative and sculpted the truth of his will into form? before that it was just: raging hunger, in every direction, devolving into hatred and destruction.

of course sheherezade’s stories have no beginning or end. she’s accentuating our universal state of in medias res as a means of survival. at first it might be a means of disarming the king’s threat, but eventually the impetus of her stories bring a new version of her into existence, make listener desire her continued presence, change the universe. a story, as well as a storyteller, survives in the action of telling and receiving. to stop that cycle?

here’s the thing: we are always telling ourselves stories. this is the story of my relationship with my mother. here is the story of my problematic scalp. this is the story of where i keep my notebook. this is the story of why that notebook is black. even as you read this, you are telling yourself stories: perhaps it is the story of how judith’s grammar lacks strict adherence, or how aggravating it is that she’s always making edits after something has already posted, or you had an uncanny moment of resonance with something a couple hundred words back. maybe you’ve been here once or twice before and your story is of how the last time you read it your foot fell asleep.

listening to a story is also an art form, and the means of mastering it has become obscured in the proliferation of easy self-broadcast methods. we were already too quick to use other people's stories as a launching pad to talk endlessly about our opinions. now we don't even have to wait for such an opportunity to shout into the four corners of the earth: snack cakes are morally reprehensible unless they are gluten-free and the fact that you'd have anything to do with a gluten-containing snack cake makes me embarrassed that i even know you!

what we need to learn is not this preposterous hyperbole of stopping everything to witness a story, because that’s impossible and dangerous, but, instead, marrying the story you are hearing to the story you are telling yourself. let the outer story guide you through your inner story. not overtake it, not disappear in it. submit to the waking dream of human interaction. yesterday i was joking around with one of the apartment maintenance guys and, unprompted, entirely out of thin air, he gifted me with support for a major working theory i have about recent dreams and what they mean for my spiritual work. a good conversation between storytellers can be like that. it goes late into the night. it’s a whirlpool, a beehive, not a ladder or a prison cell in isolation where you chisel your hard-won truths into the walls. as you get older, you stop needing to urgently assert the narcissism of your fine distinctions to somebody you are truly talking to: you can just be with the stories that are before you. if it’s important, it will come back.

i often catch myself thinking of the curved translucent plexiglass hallway to the children’s department of the library where my mother still works when i use certain words in certain combinations. i cannot make an omelet and, quite possibly, there ought to be a local zoning code prohibiting me from further attempts. by the way, i'm not going to stop editing my entries in post so deal with it. i went out of my way to find a second watson-guptill 5”X8” sketchbook for journal fourteen and i could only find black, but the pages in it are thinner and [intersection of stories] i press hard when i write and [intersection of stories] baltimore is so unreasonably humid that from the side the thing often looks like a japanese woodblock print of ocean waves. i used to always crave tuna whenever i watched twin peaks. it’s weird.

‘weird’ is one of those stories that’s always shifting, always changing form and layers. there’s weird and there’s weird. charming weird and breathless weird. spooky weird and weird that makes me want to hide. curious weird and curiouser weird. there’s not really a beginning or an end to the story of weird, is there? is there a beginning or an end to the story of anything? what would happen if we stopped telling ourselves our stories all together? chaos. death. heads will roll, my friend.

it would make for quite a story, i’d say.


anonymousblack: (desparation)
sex is like christmas, but it hurts.
and whatever you get, you always want more.
and if you don't get anything new, well,
at least you can play with your old toys.

and there's always something left unsaid
and there's always something you could have done better
and there's always something that is

probably
(doubtlessly)

killing you





slowly.

and i look where i don't want to look and i think what i don't want to think and i dream and i dream and let's not even get into it like a slap like an involuntary twitch like a matter that could be cancer like another matter that could be cancer at the end of the day we're just out there somewhere down below outside and over

just over
just a little bit further
just a little bit longer
hang on just hang on
i'm coming for you
i am
i will
just 153 more days

i am tired of secret enemies
the beautiful and inaccessible
i am tired of never getting anything done

i am tired of hair falling out
my endless capacity for malicious scrutiny
and the sore spot at my jaw's hinge

i am tired of not sleeping
so maybe i should sleep
but i don't know
this could be considered getting something done

stream of

May. 21st, 2014 12:34 am
anonymousblack: (funny that way)
look, i don't lucid dream. i have lucid flashes, moments when i put it together: geez, you know? not only am i not currently living in my childhood bedroom, but i painted over the lime green shelves in 1989 and then entirely removed them from the wall ten years after that, plus i don't remember this tarot deck as having quite so many cards drawn by eight year olds, so wow, this can't really be happening, can it? or i'll think: well, i really ought to try listening to that album before i wake up, because then i won't get to hear it. and then i'll just go on about my dream, unaffected. if it really, really clicks: if i put the language of "i am dreaming" along with the physical understanding of that idea, which has happened maybe twenty times in the course of my life, i startle myself awake with the recognition.

usually, i just act lucid while still staying in the course of the dream. for instance, this morning:

i'm working with my fellow freedom fighters to get out of the dystopian cliche that constitutes about 40% of my dreams that aren't unimaginable fights with my sister. we come around a corner in a strangely familiar crumbling cityscape and there, in an otherwise burned out stripmall, is a well lit and maintained sanrio shop from the mid-eighties. my eyes fall on the pearly pink storefront and i scream to my comrades:

OH SHIT! FALL BACK FALL BACK FALL BACK

i grab a friend and we run for cover. obviously, the looks i receive are questioning. i press my fingers to my temples and mutter to myself.

"what," someone asks, "what?"

"i've been trying to reprogram a little," i sob. "work out some new symbols for some of my major reoccurring themes. because i can't deal with the standards any longer. but longing is just one of those things i'm going to dream about, so the symbols are going to be there and - dragging you guys into this... i'm so sorry."

"what?"

"any time my subconscious drags out the fucking hello kitty store as a symbol for the things i'll never have... shit is about to get weird."

*

and... yeah.
pretty much.
anonymousblack: (desparation)
i know that things don't always work out. i know that schedules can't always be cleared, the call doesn't go through, we don't hear the bell, we don't get the email in time. i know that a mistake is sometimes just a mistake, a previous commitment just a commitment made previously: nothing indicative of subconscious intent. i know, god i know, that sometimes the money just isn't there. but when you boil it down, evaluate the core of it, the meat of the matter. what is going to jump into your mind in that sort of distilling crisis, screeching brakes, test results, slipping in the shower? what will stick with you, count in your ranks, bring you regret in those last gray years?

what's more important to you, as far as i am concerned: the opportunity or the obstacle?

some of my relationship are long overdue for this assessment, i guess. i apologize in advance for any inconvenience it may cause: but please, bear in mind that your response will intrinsically inform how i proceed with you, going forward.

or, at least, it really should.


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