GWB 1.22.1 a video book

GWB 1.21.2 a video book

sing me a rueful old dirge

In America fear was bubbly again. All the creepy clowns were outlawed and nobody liked an incongruent affect anymore. The children were safe in their beds and Poltergeist was just a movie despite all indications to the contrary, the untimely deaths in subsequent years of several key players on the set. I was in the woods and came across a painted face, beckoning me from the shadows. He was smiling but not, shiny and hot, and had hospital scrubs for a clown suit. I followed him to a quaint house camouflaged by the moss, and inside I met others, none of whom spoke a single word. They served me venison and goose off the iron, flame-broiled with the world's animosity. Shriveled balloons were all about the dirty floor, and my feet were followed by the eyes of a cur beneath the table, with a dagger tail and long resting jaw. The scene had teeth. The food was outrageously good and the company so silent and modest. I felt ashamed for I was clothed in the fear of my culture, which made these good people recede to the margins. I thanked them prolifically large, then sang them a rueful old dirge. They applauded like grateful old mimes. My faced turned red as their smiles almost, and stayed that way somehow. My hair fell off my head in one lump into my hands, and my eyes widened as I looked at this wig. I looked around and before me at my empty plate, the utensils had grown twice the size or more. My hands went to grab them and that's when I saw my own hands had swelled up like balloons. The funny old woman with the green painted eyes, she drew out some plastic white gloves like the kind you see in the cartoons. She tenderly took my wrists while staring into my eyes, and pulled them over my hands. Some mangy children beneath the table had pulled off my shoes and replaced them with ones like the others. I got up to leave and tried to cry out but no words would escape from my mouth, and I honked and I bonked and puffed and huffed my way to the door of this godforsaken place. But someone tripped me or else I tripped on my silly fat shoes, and that guy with the cherry nose and beady eyes came and put me in a headlock. Out the corner of my eye I saw the hospital scrubs, lime green, being drawn over me where my clothing once was. That's when the face painters came - to finish me off.

you star

you star
you star
you star

you've not fallen
you've only moved
us

Book Review: Franny & Zooey

Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Franny and Zooey. What was the book about, anyway, if not about what we do to ourselves in a world of criticism and judgment, when we get carried along that way and lose sight of what our indy purposes are, if not about what happens to a family that was once seemingly so united and celebrated for its little unit of togetherness and genius, when it deteriorates and gets cut up by suicide and sending some to war and leaving the rest to smoke and think and worry and carry on in pursuit of something or in pursuit of not pursuing anything, detachment, if not about the funny window into a messy nuclear home life and the quirkiness of moms and sons and sisters, if not about prep schools and homecoming football games and lunches and fainting spells... if it wasn't about all that, to me, it was about something a bit more thoughtful, less fanciful, more serious even grave, gravely concerned with how we go about our lives faced with the butchers and fat ladies, the disappointments, the faded dreams and painful realities, the fakers finally unmasked and left with what if i'm a faker too, the horrifying naked truth somewhere... and alot of this was also covered in the Catcher In the Rye, so you know it was Salinger in that little bunker on his property in NH where he stole away for weeks at a time in his infantry boots and clothes, probably touching his dogtags from time to time not knowing day or night, night or day, trying to get off the edges and into the heart of something even if it left him with no peace of mind, celebrated in a world he once wanted to celebrate him then reclused himself from, the painful residuals of an earlier attachment, having to detach but going on writing all the same and living a pretty damn long and pretty well respected, earned kinda life... not caring about being prolific or getting his work out even while he was alive necessarily... and i love that about the man and the work... and what i most love about Franny and Zooey whatever it was about, was the smallness of the book in my hands, and the spareness of the cover, the clever east meets west font... but most of all, just the way the two grown kids got around-about-way to the heart-centered business of helping one another out. That's what i loved about it most of all.


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it was obvious

i was in pain over life and just breathin was hard
i was reading Franny
then Zooey

i was falling asleep
listening to the world series

bathtubs and smokes
ashes and water and
manuscripts too

nothing's like 1955 anymore
but reading
listening to the world series
falling asleep

i was in pain over life
 just breathin was hard
someone and their make america great again campaign
make america hate again

make america
force america
love america
hate america

we would be stronger together
our future president proclaimed
my boyfriend kept calling and calling
 the ringer was off and
it was obvious

i gathered strength
 all alone

i was thinkin about god
 just thinkin about god
 clasping my hands around my pillow
 lying on my side

made the pain somewhat
made the pain
subside

Journal # 10.26.2016

She fainted just right to get the proper attention from all the boys. One of the boys really wanted to take care of someone like that, a girl who knew how to position herself and lose consciousness just right, so she wouldn't need medical attention just a boy like him to pick her up and carry her to a room to revive her in and hold her hand and give her a glass of cool water and talk to her sweetly. She practiced it and became skillful. The only hard part was figuring out how to really lose the consciousness, because this was something she could not pull off faking. She found she could take a really abstract concept and expand upon it in a way that caused her such mental anguish her body would tremble and cold sweat and if she simply refused to breathe for a moment she could reach dizzy level and then if she stared at the sun or a bright light or something and got ink spots in her eyes then she could put her arm over her face and bend forward and fall off like that. One of those silly abstract thoughts was about the messiness of life and shot off something like this... we were basically living things traveling through time and space, and interacting with what or whomever came our way, anything within reach would get the most attention and we thought about this with disapproval because this was awful, i mean, leaving people and places you care about behind and maybe trying to stay connected somehow through letters or phone wires or nonlocal means of astral projections and yet still sustaining the moment the business of daily life what with all those loves waiting wondering hurting cause they miss you so much and you dissed them somehow... HOW AWFUL!

bigger than big hearts break in smaller than small town america

imagine the larger than large promise of a child born to bigger than big hearts in smaller than small town america, imagine the laughter and popping of cheap champagne in the paint-blistered home as neighbors and family gathered round to see the new love, imagine the tough days ahead and long hours daddy works to support his young family and coming home late in time to kiss his little girl goodnight and share the day's stories with his young wife who knows life is hard but so worth it cause everyone she loves is right there and to fight for is right for them all...

imagine years later the daughter is grown and out on her own, married with two kids and her own smaller than small home and the man whom she loves out working which leaves her alone, and life is real hard tryin' to make it when the economy's gone south in america and she's gotta start thinkin about working herself but she's not sure where, when, or how, and she's scared cause her man is old-fashioned and doesn't want her workin but the kids need basics they cannot always provide the way things are, not to mention her parents are gettin older and need help...

imagine she's got a girlfriend whose sorta lost with no life like hers, who sometimes comes to babysit or just cure her loneliness for awhile, and her friend has some friends who she's becoming friends with, too, and they are all very nice and see how tired she is and wanna help...

and help sometimes comes in the strangest of forms, like when people in smaller than small towns with bigger than big hearts come together for a quick and easy answer cause they ran out of patience and energy and hope, so they resort to small parties and quickening of pulses, alcohol and cheap cigarrettes, some weed and relax, put on some old chart-topping trax and get to dancing, maybe fun loves between former boys and girls, while daddy's out working away the long day, and babies are napping their pretty little heads down, and friends will be friendly and adrenaline rises with a chance for some hope to distract from the powerless normalities around here...

hope in the form of intimacies and attraction, the realization you could still be young again a little longer if you tried, if you let your guard down a little and weren't so old-fashioned, if you let down your hair and wore your old clothes a bit tighter, almost like you still had a chance, it's exciting, and yes there's a seam in this matrix which you all downplay, might be one of them cuts up a line of some shit, and not everyone partakes until everyone does, that kinda subtle peer pressure and understated delivery, and it's no big deal until it is...

imagine how that plays out over several weeks to several months, and now there's a bit of a problem in the judgment department, the insight department has broken down unawares, and some friends get more intimate against all expectations, now emotions involved, just imagine...

home life becomes 'boring' and the life is all 'chores' and the kids are so frustrating though never a 'nuisance' and daddy's always tired always tired always tired, and you wanna feel good again you like how it feels with your friends and alone seems so foreign so scary unbearable, so you go on with your ways which you know have got shady, in the smallest of small town america, what with your biggest of big hearts...

nobody knew nobody fathomed nobody could have seen how it played out in the end, imagine the heartbroken suprise that day they found out you were the one in the news who had died who was found in the most public of public places, naked and alone floating in an eddy in a slow moving wide part of the river. yet no one was really all that surprised, almost strangely relieved in a way, for several years you had broken their hearts as you faded or they faded you out of your home life, or somehow some way your big heart went astray and you kinda lost your mind followin some so-called friends off the map of your motherly responsible path, definitely on drugs and you admitted it, too, and several times the intervention came in the form of coffee and donuts and family in your living room, concerned faces whose concern you tried to talk off, and an angry tired man by your side with two scared and half-hungry little kids you just wanted to hug all the day long, but something inside you demanded be fed, and you long since left and lost your little head though your big of big hearts was the same just the same...

it was like despite all that and the love all around you, nothing could be done to get it all right, something was lacking in money and resources, something was strained past the point of any use, and family could not know how to be... other than deeply and morbidly depressed when the thought of what to do about you came to light. so when you died it was almost like relief to them all, but others around your so-called friends started coming up headlines as well, and the smallest of small towns in small town america was about to make international headlines, you know, cause these young women dying for no good reason was too much for the eyes of the world to pass up for too long, and it turns out there were others in some status and addiction to power out taking great and greedy advantage of the desperate situation of impoverished peoples with the biggest of bigger than big hearts and minds long since lost in the smallest of smaller than small town america...

imagine the manipulations concocted by these exact people in positions of great power in such small places, demanding small intimacies from these lost women to heal their long since broken capacity for real and genuine warmth. and it even went off kinda well or so it seemed, i mean it oiled a system long since cracked from coast to coast so how could that be wrong? or terrible? or unholy? nobody would check themselves and why should they, when you and your friends had been paid for your services and conveniently fit into the transactional nature of corporate america...

 forget the emotions underlying and the hearts beating bright for a chance and some hope, and young half-starved children all waiting extended out into wings, out on the margins where they found you all brutally murdered or left to die with cocaine in your system, or meth or whatever... the biggest of bigger than big hearts forever broken in the smallest of smaller than small towns, that's what.

m x memory -vi

What was (not by law) acceptable? You would have to be crystal (clear) to know that awareness had not changed. Not even by 2023. Awareness is like it was: half-whole. The industrio-technological revolution had consciousness in a blender and someone hit liquefy. The laws could not tourniquet the blood loss. In effect, all diverse perceptions broadcast by sentients and picked up on radios in tunnels, were to be accepted. Resistance, denial of telltale truths, revolt against the pioneers of particularly unpopular ideas, was punished by slow reflexology torture. The pedestrian access to all CNS points of sensitivity. Modern culture placed high value on sensitivity, for it was the easiest way under the skin and didn't cost a damn thing. But desensitivity treatments were about the most malevolent practice around. A desensitized sentient was today scorned and unforgiven... turns out all evolution has the fallout of consequential negative feedback, which angles off the light of the fresh vision and becomes the new bastion of ignorant factions which can be discredited yet never completely silenced by radiating waves of heart-centered caring intention...

simply colorful everything. simply all night long.

What will the weekend be like, i wonder,  going into it alone and willing with a working spirit. i guess i feel better working than anything else anymore, which may be different than i once was. you see i once wanted to be reckless and free of responsibility, and searched a way out of the static. i went alone then, too, but always ready to be with anyone rolling the same way, as i am now. like me they might hold your hand for a moment longer than others, or hold your eyes with theirs. tractor beam. attraction. being chosen could be sacred again, not a consumer driven concept in the great malls of material faith now centrifuges and research labs for the subtle senses, the homes of renowned empiricists now filled by squatters, a luxury activity exclusive to the partially brilliant who move to town from city and sift and shift through the yet to be appropriated. today i would roll more with optimists and cynics, anyone who wants to roll up sleeves and kick ass for their country for family for the home made feeling, keeping to something meaningful even if it's not how you pay your mortgage or rent, your car note, insurance, your phone bill and grocery, your internet connection, electric, wardrobe and water. we may even get out and vote in a couple weeks, after we smash the pumpkins and drive the point home to the vampires. bloody hell. six sense perception dwindling down to three or four. age and race, time and place, seen and heard and felt, we come together then go it alone, swimming slow, canvassing the urban element. leaves fall off trees to the sidewalks awhile, people run past screaming from deranged clowns, tight trance joints in the clubs spilling out past security. social security. no, the future and 2023 are not cold, computer, the silent ones are chosen. they patronize the magazine stand and the cafe. tractor beam attraction. open to living different, no real right or wrong, simply colorful everything, simply all night long. Well, they might hold your hand. a moment longer than the others.

pressured by fronts and driven to tears

we are not so unlike clouds in the sky, are we, puffy and bleached turning gray, you can see through us and other times opaque we hide our secrets inside us, coming for us and striking through they do, yet still we remain intrinsically unscarred or untouched, reflecting it all sea to sea and the earth, where we travel we leave the residue our prints passing silently along, forensics loves a cloud, made of water and vapor we are and capable of many forms, evocative of endless feelingstates, containing our own electromagnetic storms we are carried by winds and made by trial and fire, under certain conditions we scatter and the streets become empty and clear like the sky, monotonous, monochromatic we are pressured by fronts and driven to tears

swan dive off the cufflinks

I'm afraid my cells are not getting enough oxygen but it would take all day and night to try and care for them all, and I would provide 1:1 cellular counseling if I could and send them out whole again. Needy little invertebrates wanna be loved squishy. Just like anyone. I would but I gotta go shopping for a nice suit, Boss julara wool and some fancy matte black flats will do, so I can hit the highway with confidence for the conference next month, and I better find a hairstyle for once in my life. Disheveled cave girl is getting old. LD running and matcha green tea are the only way to comfort the millions of cells facing suffocation. At least they will go out circular smiling, swan diving off the cufflinks.

GWB 1.21.1 a video book

GWB 1.20.2 videobook

i wanna be electric

i got my ticket to chino in the outskirts of la trying to hit the grid and be captured by the cable i wanna be electric and extended stay america ina pocket just between the riveting room for you and me... a queen bed in a salt valley flat in the middle of november a room service setup so not to disturb alone in the center of a spiderweb of circuitry flashing mad in the pan like a siamese fighting fish all the betta to see you translucent of the soft sheets you ink on

Journal # 10.18.2016

I had a great idea but got dehydrated and lost it. It wasn't really mine, I just held it for the world for a moment and gave it away without even knowing. You could call that irresponsible or even tragic. Or just super special. The only painful part was my headache, but I cannot blame that on the idea... Now someone, maybe even you, has it and you could hold on to it and commit it to paper or the internet or the ethernet and let people discover it that way (like I had mapped out, myself, when I had it). Or let it come to them the way it came to me, suddenly, superbly, like it was really mine and not something I found online.

murder by memory -v

There are those fictional and real beings who happen to silently make their way through city streets. Their real or imagined relatives may not even feel them for the blood connect got lost as matters with less import took precedence. Even if you're make believe, you have your fiction to fall back upon. It's a basic human right of the future, just ahead of actualization. You have yourself. Such has been proven on a non-empirical level by five sense deconstruction, boiled down to clarity of the sense beyond and boiling down, I mean the process, was never the most compassionate practice unless you were boiling rocks down to the mineral soup which cures most disease in the distant future. Mineral soup will not taste any better than the idea of liquid rock, but it sure will be good for you and your kids if you have them --not recommended but where there's a will-- don't worry, it won't harden your arteries and even if it did, in the future it's a luxury to live by your hearts. Turns out all this preaching to stay present was unnecessary. Tense-bending will create new dialects in a world where then now and soon become great playthings of the mind, impinged upon by harsh realities, softened by mineral soups. Filling the void where time once meant so much, with a concentrate of former here and now fullness of life --the great store of it must come to some use, if not refuse, some pretty brilliant bastard decided-- was considered a new discipline and people both fictional and real were paid to do it, in something that resembled real currency. You can still consider a lifestyle choice, that's what currency buys, but time will not be of the essence and watches no longer adorn wrists. Some are hidden under clothes of the nostalgic, tugging on ankles and scraping the pavements. Most everyone loves the sound and it's easier than live pets when on walks.

who fell (this fall) in love?

k the self. 2016. october

cloud for sale. sinks in the middle

what with all was going on i began to think the world a dark place i could not find any light for seconds of every day not minutes just seconds not hours just seconds and me i was not sleeping well i had a boyfriend and the mattress i bought off the internet was supposed to float us on a cloud but if a cloud sinks in the middle well i did not know but this one does and what with all was going on in the world i began to think it a very very dark place and even the music i streamed into the audiowaves could hardly make me feel less insecure about our world our dark world our dark obvious future and then well the cloud it sunk in the middle the perfect cloud sunk me into my boyfriends arms and my insomnia went on and on in the dark and my boyfriend he got up and got dressed and left and left me there lying in the middle of a sinking cloud yes floating miserably so in the dark and cruel world you know but when i awoke and raised my head and got out of bed what with my bed what with my bed head and crawled up and out on the edge of this dark cloud and hit those goddam lights right and they were ecologically sound and bright white or not so and soft warm like the way i like them like old school kinda uneconomical old fashioned bulbs from way back when maybe the nineties remember then? and when i got up and fixed my bed head then said fuck it and put a hat over it all and looked me in the mirror and laughed and got my instant coffee made in the shade into my big silver bullet of a thermos in a cold and dark cruel world shattered by old yellow light from the eighties well... got my self to my insecure job ten miles away tryin not to do the old california rolling stops at the stop signs on the back roads dark and uneasy and unstable like sometimes but the highway and the stoplights led me to an open road below a very open and energetic sky for there yes there just above me and my politically disinclined am radio listening loser of an october preceding elections and what was it that blew the dark cold cruel world away but that gorgeous full wonderfully years of light brought forth like an opening in the sky for us harvest moon

a coverboys covergirls world

when we supposedly die, of the living only the closest to us remember us for very long and some of them keep to themselves, going to work coming home and maybe thinking aloud sometimes in a language the cats and dogs cannot decode, so only a trace of us remain, supposedly, and the witch hazel closes the roads and leaves us separate somewhere beneath the moisturizer beneath the foundation of a cover boy's Covergirl world... only those closest to the ones who remembered us remember someone remembering us, whomever we are, in black and white or monochromatic, sepia seeping slow into the imaginations of someone else's great grandchildren, who wear the looks of believers on buses to schools, and play on the playgrounds in old-fashioned ways, under timeless suns sucking up light and commonplace clouds through their straws, easily, atmospheres removed from the old pressures we once shared, before we learned our division, mettlesome in the worlds we changed and changed us, brought us up and down back when,  gave us the resilient half smiles we wore for one another, and shared with the world sometimes, filling them out for the ones closest to us, supposedly, as we laughed recreating other faces from the outside in, in a purportedly powerful way, carrying beyond anyone's wildest dreams across time and place and various things, young and mettlesome just like always, and never dying at all, anyway

Journal # 10.11.2016

i got all your friendliness, you made me soft in the abdomen for us, we could have shared a smoke and a crazy secret, a kind of bluetooth pair. vital was the origin and splitting off the infinitive, in a low-pitched bad news lesion in motion. i wish they had been there, the ones bobbing between bookcases with their fingers at their lips. but it was only me and you, clicking with exclusion. the time has been measured and planned in your head, now you needed only to conduct an orchestra of one. i was in great demand, apparently, before i stumbled off in tails tattered, in league with papers, my reaction mute, understated, in shadows long and growing... my darkness, unwanted, degraded in your spotlight.

once i got back to my dear beloved light of my life, well, i had some trouble it is true, pulling tooth was blue, but my man spoke of god and my friend she spoke of other important good things to do, and yes i undressed. yes i took my silence and rest, the blonde mouse he showed white belly up for trusted scratching. catfish hung back in the shadows. when i got myself up i rose up, i felt real, i wasn't any such pale as the spotlight made out, i wasn't any bit angry toward you or the world, vitality was mine again in the doing what needed to be done. another usual kinda day. the kind i keep then to myself, and to myself a secret melody. 

Review: Bombardiers

Bombardiers by Po Bronson
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

The book is overall an easy read and almost like watching tabloid television, what with all the misfit mortgage-backed security salespeople and the anecdotal narrative. I had a lot of laughs. It is helpful to hit the ground floor running as there is a lot of industry jargon. I briefly worked an institutional sales floor -in a past life- and you can tell the author was in the business; this is an inside job. I think the character Mark 'Eggs' Igino may be a foil for the author. He's the new guy who seems to have both talent and a conscience, and we hang our hopes on him to maybe find a way out of an ultimately degrading profession. Everyone's in the game for quick money and devoting a few solid years (body, mind and soul) to 'the company' for financial security for themselves and their families. The company gets to treat them like dogshit. They bounce you at any time for any reason with 15 minutes notice. They bark at you like a boot camp drill sergeant. They spy on you and steal your phone records, all in the name of protecting trade secrets. They use your vices and vulnerabilities against you to keep you docile in your chair for 12+ hours a day. The author tracks the lives of several company men and women and they do indeed have the elements of the horror stories we hear about a life in high finance (misogyny, greed, deception, adultery, addiction). All wrapped up in a closed system of money chasing money in an abstract, global, electronic market. One of the telling moments is when Igino demands to hold a real-live paper bond in his hands so he can see what he's really selling - the company is horrified! Good luck getting out because your ass is owned!

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GWB 1- XX - 1 a videobook

Journal # 10.08.2016

This morning I found myself splashed across the walls like water. This morning I woke from a nightmare being hunted by a man with a shotgun. Before dawn I am docile and careless, the sheets you tore up and me within them, before you left for your job and an eighteen wheeler and ten thousand gallons of oil. If only I can gather my self and my focus, today, the cell phone my natural enemy flat-backed on the dresser. This morning I shower and untangle my hair. I wanna good cut, I wanna change, I wanna punk it out with a streak of black and some sharpened angular curled tight at the nape of my neck in the back. The necklace my friend gave me several years ago, the silver icon hangs just below the the new one on the thinner chain, the hanging dove I got to remember my own ancient history. The light comes up blue in the city around me, loyalty and new love arises in me and I don't know how to handle it. How can I fall in love again without fear? I cannot withstand another fall from great heights. A burgeoning skepticism clings to the edges, the water mark, and won't wash away down the drain. I wanna live is all i know anymore... i wanna live or there's nothing left.

GWB 1.19.2 a videobook

some friend

some friends
you cast out for them

too small

they have to be tossed back
to the sea

do over

Not all was well, there was a zap and i got zapped, I don't know why it was me but it was, i didn't need a charge this morning i already had my green tea extracted and my acid was lactic the ultra didactic. Someone was having a bad day. Someone really hurt me and thought it was okay. Someone deserted me and i got zapped. What can I say? Someone didn't mean it, they were having a bad day? I wanted to have patience I wanted to be tolerant I wanted to be loving I wanted to be kind. But i got zapped and i kinda lost it, today, not all was well so i gave myself away and traded bullshit for bullshit on a five minute text exchange in the pits of interpersonal refuse calling out a hater like i had nothing to lose. But i lost it. For a moment i lost my sunshine my peace of mind and got zapped. Oh well. I'm gonna forgive myself and start the day over.

Journal # ten four

The theatre was replaced by a store, on the street dead-ended at an r.v. park and a crown jewel, on calendar day ten and four. the grasses there were brown as the ground of an aftermath island by a category storm, planks of wood in a dance as they logged the water and dove by drift and distances great, colored settling on ocean floors for schools of fish. we painted on better days that shook a palm tree head of gloom. and so you stood a-looking mournfully out to the deserted street by the window of my room. the dust was swept up and circulated off of the street in the midsummer heat, damselflies at the mercy of cats and lizard wind. you turned to me with a look asked for help. i could not but inexplicably mirror your distress, and in a moment was i your mistress.

murder by memory -iv

the murder by memory series. parts i-iii go way back.
i hesitate to proceed with it, as it moves into something more like philosophy than simple creative writing. more like activism.   -k

torture was clearly a primitive defense of any society, forcing noncompliants into submission to meet specific aims of a culture. less clear was how a supposedly highly evolved culture involved in numerous humanitarian causes could keep it insular and protect the rudimentary institution of torture. if culture was to evolve, torture would cease to make sense. if culture was to be evolved, it would shutter the chambers and send all devices and mechanisms to their proper places behind glass cases in the future museums devoted to the betterment of the lives of the victims of torture. yet culture, like its individual constituents, tends to return to the primitive defense mechanisms when under duress: repression, regression, projection, reaction formation, and sublimation. and then covers it up in denial... torture. what would it matter the criminal or the crime? the use of an instrument reflects back on the one using it. if i pick up a sword and run it through someone, i am now a murderer. even if i kill a murderer with their own very sword, i am -nevertheless- a murderer, too.

chalk it off as existential slowburn -iv

i don't wanna do it. i don't wanna tell you what i think will happen here because i always had hope, always in life i had hope. i wouldn't want to describe a terrible thing to you. i wouldn't want you to misunderstand. it kills me how we fail to come across sometimes. love doesn't need convincing. i doubt you believe in us anymore, actually. can i say that? whereas my sense is you have tried hard and i have tried hard it's just our ways of living here have shifted drastically from how we were raised and it's an ever moving picture whereby we are ever trying to adjust. so, you see, i can and forever love you. i am that way for life, i know i am, and you say you are, too, but i don't know. i don't know why this fucking thing happened and please don't ever tell me again that i'm some broken record, okay, i don't even carry a philosophy to support that kind of talk - about waste and wastelands. i am humbler than when i met you. you gave me this. i am more quiet, it's true, but not necessarily withholding or despising you for talking to me, as you presume. alot of it is just me internally looking at my situation and wondering how i could ever have imagined my life being any less than tragic, in the end... i love you. we've been through a lot and i won't forget you, all i can do now is just live through it with you until maybe i need to live through it without you? i don't know. it's different looking one day to the next. the light. it's just blinding. i gotta close my eyes sometimes.   -fin (from an old letter never was sent)

chalk it off as existential slowburn -iii

... i was foolish. i tried to convince you i loved you. maybe it was all i was capable of - a desperate time - we hardly spoke anymore, one of us bound to be triggered or hypersensitive or so very much in disagreement we would rather be silent and avoid the pain, stuff flared up anyway when we couldn't keep it in any longer - yet love doesn't need convincing - i've never felt like such a colossal failure, it's really fucked, the enduring pain of being alive and becoming more aware of whats really going on with everybody, so few people really making it and us, sad and repeating, start out so well like we do, overcoming adversities and falling in love, making a family where there was none, then stricken by some or other corruption, watch sanity slip away in the residuals, wicks away, sad reminders of love affairs we dusted, wondering how they could be so indifferent to us now, realizing in hindsight how i could be so insensitive sometimes, life gets stressful and the bond between two people begins to fray if it cannot hold. love shouldn't need convincing but we go there anyway. chalk it off to existential slow burn.