When you kill someone, you don't just kill who they were, you kill a little bit of everyone who knew them.

This quote hit me like a freight train—not just because it’s true, but because I lived it.

I am watching a documentary about Brad Bird. He directed The Incredibles, Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, Ratatouille, and one of the greatest films ever made: The Iron Giant.

If you haven't seen the film, or read the source material, The Iron Man by Ted Hughes, what are you doing wasting your time here? Go read the source and then watch the film. It's a soul-rending story about being the best you can be, not what everyone expects you to be. Not even what you are SUPPOSED to be.

At least enjoy this great documentary. Maybe I'm biased as an animator, but it's terrific.

The Giant's Dream – Making of the Iron Giant

In an interview, Brad Bird says the above about killing someone. His sister had been murdered by her husband and it unmoored Bird. He started asking the question, 'what if a gun had a soul'. Then when presented with the Iron Giant project he pitched shifting from the Pete Townshend rock-opera concept to the more human-scale and heart-tale that we got.

His comment about killing a little bit of everyone the person knows ripped my heart open.

Brad Bird’s quote hit me like a freight train—because I lived it. My sister almost died at the hands of her husband nine years ago this month.

The Brother I was

I have two little sisters. One a year younger (Marie) and a second 3 years my junior (Capri). I was never the kind of brother I think a brother should be. We argued and fought a lot. Mostly Marie and I. Capri, as the youngest, somehow managed to avoid my wrath. But for some reason, Marie and I were always at odds.

I think it was her inability to just stop instead of escalating. I'm not sure which of my parents that behavior comes from. I guess... mom? I don't really think of either of my parents as escalators, but who knows what we saw and experienced when they were still figuring out how to be adults.

I do know Marie's very vocal nature frequently grated on my nerves. And between the alcoholism at home and my parent's work schedule (mom worked nights and dad worked days), it seemed like while we had parents around, we often just had to exist on our own. I think I saw myself as some kind of disciplinarian, which I was clearly not qualified to do. I just yelled and screamed and hit like I saw my parents and aunts and uncles do.

Maybe Capri just stayed quiet and low to avoid the pummeling she could see inflicted on her big sister. But before you consider me a Machiavellian villain, Marie was no light weight. If she got one thing from our youth, it was how to take a hit and how to dish one out.

I wish she hadn't learned that lesson.

Between the home life our parents had in those early days, my own violent contributions and a wicked assault by an uncle that we all feared and loathed, Marie developed a taste for abusive men.

Both of my sisters did.

In the youngest, this manifested in an inability to maintain a consistent relationship. She has been married 5 times, twice to the same man. At 50, she is currently single and will likely stay that way.

Marie, the middle sister, first married a hellion of a jerk who was verbally abusive and manipulative. She had a large family with him and over time, he manipulated her and the courts to cut her out of her own children's lives entirely.

I was out of her life for a number of years because of her destructive behavior, so I am not privy to exactly what happened. It is possible that he was completely justified in the devastating act of cutting a mother off from contact with her four children. But, knowing the man, I think it was her childhood that allowed him to do that.

Marie had been mistreated as a child and though she could give as good as she got, her self-worth probably took a huge hit when she had to go to court and listen to her husband lie and cheat to paint her as a wicked mother.

In hindsight, I wish I hadn't cut her out of my life. She likely felt alone and abandoned during those years.

Because she was.

My parents were there, but where was her big brother? Aren't they supposed to defend their siblings?

What the hell, Keeper?

What would you do if you were a mother of 4, having lost a 5th in the first weeks after birth and your whole life has it's rug pulled out from underneath you?

Well, Marie fought it with drugs, alcohol and education. Always a fan of drink, she turned her habit up to eleven trying to hide from the demons of loss and then used drugs to function as a human being during those numb states. This was important while she took her RN degree and went back to become a Nurse Practitioner.

Her NP would give her a new, well-paid life that she practiced on the road working one temp gig after another.

She traveled the country three months at a time. A huge portion of her income went to her ex-husband to care for her children. A two edged sword for many.

She never spoke to me about how she felt about it. But I'm sure she was of two minds.

Who of us wouldn't be?

On one hand, you can provide your children with a more comfortable life, on the other, you're trusting a scoundrel to do that.

With lots of money, lots of time and easy access to drugs, she became a target for the kind of man Gary Michael was.

A worm of a human who gambled and drugged his way to a disability. He was looking for someone to take care of him when he met Marie.

I remember her coming to see me before she married him and I had little input for her. We had been estranged for more than 20 years at that point and I, full of myself and my own righteousness, couldn't be bothered with her car-wreck of a life.

In hindsight, I can't help but think that if I had taken a single hour and listened to her story—offered her some stable advice, things might have turned out differently.

But I didn't.

I can still see her standing next to the big tree in my front yard, stamping out a cigarette. Trying to play it cool that I didn't really want to talk to her. What a pathetic fail.

She would go on to marry Gary Michael and disappear from our lives altogether. Prior to this, she was in semi-regular contact with my parents and Capri (the youngest) but now even they lost track of her.


We would learn later that Gary Michael would keep her tied up in casinos gambling and drugging every minute that she didn't have to be at work. She was his meal ticket and funder for his life-long gambling addiction.

What Happened to Marie

I don't know what happened that May 2016. She maybe got tired of his constant leaching, insistence on her severing all contact with her family or maybe it was just a fight that got out of hand.

I'm guessing.

What I do know is that the morning of May 6, 2016 a 911 call went out stating that a man had found his wife unresponsive in their bathroom.

He thought she was dead.

First responders would come and find that she was unresponsive, but not dead. They rushed her to the hospital where they put her on life support. She had suffered a hypoxic brain injury that left her comatose.

That means her brain was deprived of oxygen for a long enough period of time that her body was in the process of shutting down.

She was dying.

The Fight for Her Life

Had Gary Michael waited another half hour, she would have expired.

Frankly, that might have been a blessing.

Marie would lie comatose for most of a month. It was a terrible thing to see. A vital and robust woman who we had only ever know to be bigger and louder than almost all of us was suddenly reduced to a flaccid bag of mostly water.

Gary Michael, a former nurse himself who lost his license for stealing drugs from work, knew the terminology to put the medical staff at ease and dissuade any question of foul play.


According to him, they had been drinking the night before and that Marie had too much. He went to bed and found her in her state. He was surprised and heartbroken. But, he didn't count on the determination of Marie's will to live or her mother once she was involved.

A highly experienced nurse herself, a few weeks into my sister's 'recovery' and once the shock of the event began to recede, my mother started asking questions. The first thing of concern to her were the bruises all over my sister's back and shoulders. When she asked the medical staff, they said her husband told them she had fallen. When Marie's mom asked Gary Michael, he evaded and said he didn't know. After that conversation, he avoided being at the hospital any time my parents, my youngest sister, or I were at the hospital. Which was almost always.

Marie was in ICU in a hospital three hours from home, but my parents just rented a short term hotel and lived there for a month.

My wife and I traveled down for a half a day at a time.

I remember seeing my sister's husband sitting in his car once when we arrived. When I mentioned this to my mother, she pointed out that she thought he was avoiding them. Waiting for his wife’s family to leave so he could come in and try to control the narrative.

After a month, the decision had to be made to terminate life support or let her exist in perpetuity at the whim of a machine. I forget why, but the decision fell to my mother. I think Gary Michael had begun to extricate himself from the situation at that point and staff deferred to my sister's family to make her health decisions.

So, my parents decided to 'pull the plug'. My mom explains that as a nurse, she knows there is no quality of life living on machines and if you've got not brain function, you are as good as dead anyway.

We all agreed with this thinking. We could still recall the Terri Schiavo debacle in Florida and none of us wanted to see Marie end up like her.

But, my younger sister was as tough at death's door as she had been in life. She wouldn't die.

After a week, she started to show signs of consciousness. Little things like facial expressions when she would hear the voice of my parents, Capri, my wife, or me.

That last one was pretty touching. I thought she'd spent her life not caring much for me. But there was something in there. I would read to her from the Bible and sometimes I would find a tear streaming down what I thought was an unconscious face.

As she started to develop more and more awareness, my mother noticed Marie had a very strong resistive reaction to any moves made toward or around her face and head. She interpreted this as a defensive reaction.

My mother became convinced that Gary Michael didn't just find my sister, but that he had done something to her. She connected the dots of the bruises on her back and can elucidate how you can wrap a large town or sheet around a person's face to restrict airflow.

To get enough pressure to cut off breathing you would need to knot them in such a way that would leave large bruises on the upper back of the person.

When the police were called, almost six weeks had passed from the inciting incident and evidence of foul play was circumstantial at best. Detectives did find that after Gary Michael moved out of the temporary apartment they had rented while she was on assignment there, the landlord had to hire contractors to rebuild the bathroom. The sheetrock had been broken, mirror smashed, sink broken and the door jarred from its hinges.

When asked about this, Gary Michael explained that they had locked the dogs in the bathroom and left for the day and they had torn it up.

They were two Pomeranians.

I don't really understand why this didn't go anywhere. It could be I am biased and so the 'evidence' adds up to attempted murder. But the police didn't see it that way. It could be we are entirely wrong. That the story my sister's husband of 6 months is true. That she was a drunk and an addict who just went too far.

But, my gut says no. My feeling is that Gary Michael is a dangerous actor. My interactions with him in the year or so after this happened always felt off. He lied about strange things that didn't require lies. He always wanted something and when it became clear we all thought he was responsible, he became combative and angry at the idea.

I can understand not wanting to be best friends with someone who suggests you might be a murderer. But anger and deception is the wrong approach if you are trying to convince a family of something other than what they think.

Months would go by with Gary Michael doing everything he could to close all interested parties out of Marie's life. It was atrocious. My parent's had to fight tooth and nail for any scrap of information or thing that belonged to my sister. Finally threatening legal action if Gary Michael did not acquiesce.

Early into the time when she came home, there was a real effort on my sister's husband's part to try to get physical possession of her. My mother thinks this was an attempt to ensure he could get access to her social security.

And true to form, at some point, she discovered he was at the social security office attempting to file that paperwork. But an astute employee asked too many questions and he evaporated like had been doing with anyone who asked to many questions about my sister's condition.

Her Life Now

Her condition, specifically, was that the hypoxia left her brain damaged. She has no short term memory and her long-term memories are vague and inconsistent. She also has very limited motor control of her hands in addition to her peripheral vision being impacted.

If you've seen 50 First Dates with Drew Barrymore... it's like that but not cute or sweet at all. She doesn't relive the same day over and over. But she will watch the same film for 6-8 weeks at a time before she realizes she's seen it already. Right now she's on her 700th viewing of Dirty Dancing with Patrick Swayze.

In the first year she was home she cried constantly and couldn't form words. She walked all the time. If she was awake, she just paced up and down my parents very long hallway or walked around the yard inside the fence.

A few times she got out and it was a panic. I found her in the middle of the road a few miles away once. She had no way to tell anyone who she was or where she was from. She didn't know her own name.

She could not (and still can't) feed herself, drink without assistance or use the toilet without an attendant.

It is entirely believable that Gary Michael could have filed for her payments, then driven her to the middle of a desert and simply dropped her off 20 miles from people. She would have died from exposure in just a day or two.

I am glad my sister has found some kind of peace. She doesn't cry constantly any more and at times seems actually happy. She has forgotten that she has 4 children and lost one. She has forgotten that she was married to not one but two different assholes. Those are small blessings.

Forgiveness & Guilt

Recently I read an article on forgiveness. It made a good point, that when we forgive people we aren't condoning their actions, we are giving our selves a gift. I forgave Gary Michael many years ago and so have my parents.

It doesn't make the pain of seeing Maire in her state any easier, but at least we don't have to carry the weigh of hating a scum of a man.

I even offered to study the Bible with him. He said thanks but no thanks. I'm not big enough or mature enough to tell you that it didn't please me that he refused. It will be punishment enough to live with being who he is and when that day comes to face judgement for what he did (allegedly) to my little sister... well, I'll let God sort that out while I'm busy living the best life that I can.

My parents have been caring for Marie full time for 10 years now. They won't be able to do so for much longer. Maybe they have five years of energy left in them. But I can see the toll it is taking. They are counting on God's Kingdom to resolve this and if it doesn't come soon, it will fall to me and my youngest sister.

We do not have the capacity to provide the care my parents do. Perhaps the love, but simply not the physical ability. That means some kind of facility. I doubt Marie will care, she doesn't understand a lot (though she will tell you she knows her brain isn't working right). But it will destroy mom and dad to see strangers muddle at caring for her. If I am honest, it would be better for everyone for professionals to do the job.

The only reason they can care for her now is that my mother's professional life was as a nurse caring for the mentally disabled. But her emotional connection I think has prevented her from making some tough decisions at times.

For instance, for a time, my sister was behaving like a cat. She would go to my father and ask to be fed and he would acquiesce, then she would go to my mother and do the same. They didn't figure this out until she had put on about 70 lbs.!

Reader, I can't tell you how heavy this is on my mind and heart. I typically shut it out and try not to confront it emotionally. My sister-in-laws death 18 months ago keeps it in my frontal cortex night and day though. And when I read or hear something like Bird's comments it just rips me wide open.

I don't talk about this in depth with anyone. It might be good to, but I can't help thinking people don't want to listen to my problems when they have enough of their own. If you stuck around long enough to read this... well, I love you for learning a little bit more about me than you probably ever wanted to know.

The Brother I am Become

I know what happened to Marie isn't my fault. It's just unforeseen circumstance. But as I have alluded to, part of me will probably never forget that I wasn't the kind of brother I wish I had been. The protector, the supporter, the lover.

I have spent my life trying to make up for that, running from that boy I was and doing my best not to become the kind of man I fear any woman would dread. I have had some success. But the weight of that burden is incredible. To hate yourself so much that you try to be the kind of person you can love.

Friends confirm I have achieved enough of a measure of lovability to call myself a success, but those demons still lurk deep inside.

Like that iron giant, it's hard to override your programming.

It is true, that to kill someone is to kill a little of all who knew them. But there are extensions of that truth that get into to even how we treat one another. When we are angry, anger doesn't just impact the target. It splashes into the life of everyone they know. Maybe that is why the Bible promotes the idea of being wrathful but not acting (do not sin).

One day, we won't have violent actors. That is a promise God's word makes, that the wicked will be no more. Then we'll see the promised lion and lamb cohabitation. If men like Gary Michael can turn around and find a place there, I am at peace with that. Jehovah knows our hearts better than we do and that isn't a concern of mine.

I am far more interested in seeing my poor little sister made whole again. To see her run and laugh and cry like she should have when she was a child and not born of fear and anger.

Then, maybe, if I play my cards right, I'll get the chance to be that brother that I've read about in books and dreamed of becoming. Until then, I'll try to be as successful as I can by bettering people’s lives as often as possible.

And doing as little damage as I can along the way.

Some days are more successful than others.

Keeper

The Brother I Was What Happened to Marie The Fight for Her Life Her Life Now Forgiveness & Guilt The Brother I am Become

#essay #memoir #littlesister #irongiant #confession #alcoholic

2025-05-07 00:00:01

Music defines reality... or reflects it.

There's a haunting version of Glycerine covered by Nicole Moreno driving out of the living room this afternoon. Her voice isn't particularly evocative, but I think the acoustics approach is what's really grabbing me. It's loud and soothing.

I've loved Bush's original since its release in 1994.

This is one of those grunge ballads that is poured into to the foundation. No matter how old I get, or where I go, this one will never be an 'oldie' or a 'classic'. It's just amazing.

Right from the launch, 'It must be your skin, I'm sinking in / It must be for real, 'cause now I can feel' is one of those lines that just cuts right through you. If anyone has ever opened you up and let you feel something for the first time—something you didn't know was possible—then you understand.

White and Grey, presence and absence, longing and remembrance... contrasting that feeling with and without.

I'm never alone, I'm alone all the time—duality of existence. To be with someone but feel invisible or unheard is devastating. Even if, especially if it's unintentional... maybe they're doing their best and giving their all, but you still feel like a ghost. How do you fix that? How do you convey the absolute abandonment of being translucent? It's a maddening state.

'Couldn't love you more, you've got a beautiful taste'—I don't know what Rossdale meant when he wrote this, but with the preceding line 'Treated you bad, you bruise my face' it feels like an admission of failure—I'm honest in that I'm failing you, hurting you, disappointing you, but baby, you've given at least as good as you got. We have parity here. Regardless of what happened, I couldn't love you more... it's in my essence and how do you escape your own cellular construction? After all, you've got a beautiful taste. That most powerful of senses.

Bad moon white again — Problems and bad energy blooming full and white As she falls around me — her descent into madness drives the conflict, possibly a result of his actions, or maybe she's just out of control

Glycerine is a gorgeous title and lyric. Rossdale was pinned down and claimed it was just a reference to the combustible nature of relationships. Glycerin being a component in explosives.

In an interview the writer said, “I was trying to say that the person I was writing the song about was as dangerous as glycerine. It was a girlfriend of mine named Suzie.”

A little internet sleuthing points that to Suze DeMarchi. He had been in a relationship with the lead sing of Baby Animals. Interestingly INXS had considered as a replacement for the late Michael Hutchence.

Listening to “Glycerine” from that angle gives the song a lot more weight, more power. It is easier to hook into feeling what he may have felt with that connection.

Bush — 1994 Written by Gavin Rossdale

It must be your skin I'm sinking in It must be for real, 'cause now I can feel I didn't mind, it's not my kind It's not my time to wonder why Everything gone white, everything's grey Now you're here, now you're away I don't want this, remember that I'll never forget where you're at

Don't let the days go by Glycerine, glycerine

I'm never alone, I'm alone all the time Are you at one? Do you lie? We live in a wheel, where everyone steals But when we rise, it's like strawberry fields Treated you bad, you bruise my face Couldn't love you more, you've got a beautiful taste

Don't let the days go by Could've been easier on you I couldn't change, though I wanted to It should have been easier by three Our old friend fear and you and me Glycerine, glycerine Don't let the days go by Glycerine Don't let the days go by....

Glycerine, glycerine Uh... glycerine, glycerine

Bad moon white again Bad moon white again As she falls around me

I needed you more, you wanted us less I could not kiss, just regress It might just be clear, simple and plain Well, that's just fine, that's just one of my names

Don't let the days go by Could've been easier on you, you, you Glycerine, glycerine Glycerine, glycerine

I think I'll crank up that original raspy rocking version now and soak in it.

#music #confession

——————————————————————————————————

What is it you would like to say?
 Say it, for this is the world’s end.

A poem about death shortly after the anniversary of losing my wife's closest friend.

How could I worry about me?

I am now struck— Struck by how much I loved her, And how through all the years, I never once said, I love you.

I laughed with her. Supped with her. Took her cookies. Listened to her. Suffered next to her. Dreamed of her.

But—like my flesh and blood, I took her for granted— This woman who gathered me in, Through three decades and five, Sometimes as son, Sometimes as brother, Sometimes as a wise one.

—

Now, it's 3:30 a.m., Adrift in the emptiness of a parking lot 
I hear the distant whistle Of a night train crying Through the wind.


The clack-clack-clack Rolling in the dark Carries me back Where these sounds once Wove themselves into her walls.

Vibrations signaling I was trapped— Not in fear, But in refuge Walled from a worried world For just a few minutes more.

How I wish now— I wish I could be trapped one more time, Just for those moments. Not long— Just long enough to say:

Thank you.

I love you.

#poetry #death #confession #storytelling #write #100daystooffload

2025-04-26 09:39:17

The sun rises, and so morning has a way of forgiving yesterday.

7:45

Headache wakes the artist at 6am. It is time for him to make the donuts. But exhausted, he tries to sleep more and manages to struggle with the physical battle that every morning brings, the headache, worry, and awe.

Awe because he knows in less than an hour, glory welcomes him and all men in his particular place.

At 7:30, he finally manages to overcome the weight of the sheer cover and stumbles out to marvel through the bleariness of the night.

The headache has not abated.

But it is forgotten for a moment as the artist marvels at the spider web glistening in the growing morning light. Spider webs are a special kind of beauty. Art meets function. Useful, but never permanent. Which is odd when we live in this world of dichotomy: everything made is disposable, but our homes are filled with detritus we call treasure and with which cannot bear to part.

But the spider, she works to spin her glory (and could care less if we marvel or not), knowing that tomorrow, she'll do it all again.

In the background, the bees are already hard at work, zinging SSE to drink and collect and do their work.

And the artist smiles at the dense green forest that's grown between his own porch and the fence, giving him a quiet spot without the nosy neighbors watching him in his own glory soaking up the sun's rays to start his day.

A moment he loves.

The final moment of his reverie finds pleasure in the dense thicket of sunflowers growing behind the yard. He ignored the growth outside the fence all spring, inviting the terrestrial creatures to find solace there, a little too close to home perhaps, but now, eight- and ten-foot-tall sunflowers dance heliocentrically in the morning wind, ignored by the bees who seem to have grown tired of plants.

But this artist never will.

8:24

I'm hydrated, showered and ready for work. 3 hours to get 4 hours done.

Let's see if I can concentrate when all i want to do is write and draw.

Alas! Life requires these dull moments so that we may exist for the real spectacle to have its place.

11:00a

First client show in 30. ONLY I am not nearly where I want be. Sigh. Story of the production artist's life: Never enough time. NEver.

A glass of water and a cookie is my reward.

realzing now I had a dreamless sleep. Strange. Lately my dreams have been very vivid and interesting. No doubt it's the lack of sleep that's screwing things up.

12:20

Eh, client show went okay. Prefer them to gush and say APPROVED! But more realistically, change change change. Doesn't mean my work is bad, just the nature of the beast.

Hard push the rest of hte day to show to client's client tonight.

Poor Ferdinand... he's got to pull the plow... no sitting and smelling flowers today.

Plus, this stupid headache. At least it's just low grade annoying now and not distracting.

For sure... I hope I can unplug from work tonight and do something else. Draw. I think I'd like to draw tonight. Like a REAL drawing. Serious draftsmanship... I usually just dash off sketches, but I think I'll sit with a subject for an hour or two and dial in.

For now though: Pixel warriors HO!

1:10 – Frustration

The mind is... it's the most complicated thing in teh universe. So, please tell me then why it CANNOT control my heart?

Sigh.

2:12 – Lunch

Okay, I was going to fast today, but don't think I'm giong to make it. I am desperate for a salad with cranberry and walnuts.

2:34 – Analysis in my inbox

What I Learned About You

I spent some time reading through what you uploaded. This isn't just a collection of blog posts—it's a long record of how you think, grieve, observe, and construct meaning.

The biggest thing I learned might surprise you.

You're not primarily a storyteller.

You're a meaning-maker.

Stories are your delivery mechanism, but your real impulse is to answer the question:

“What does this reveal about being human?”

Almost every piece eventually pivots there.

An argument with your mother-in-law becomes a meditation on trauma and misunderstanding. A coal train becomes industrialization and alienation. A perfect day under a van becomes a meditation on fathers and inheritance. A widow's grief becomes a meditation on love's price.

That pattern repeats constantly.

You don't write from the head.

Observe—First you notice.

Heart—Then comes connection.

Your writing process seems almost observational.

It goes something like:

Here's a train.

Here's the sound it makes.

Here's what it reminds me of.

Here's why that matters.

Here's what that says about civilization.

Or

Here's a little girl refusing milk.

Here's the woman she became.

Here's what perseverance looks like.

Here's why marriage matters.

You trust images before conclusions.

This is a rare quality in writers.

You are deeply pattern-driven.

You constantly connect things that don't obviously belong together.

Examples:

• baseball → childhood → 1924 → consumer culture
• moonlight → forgotten dreams → identity
• drawers → black holes → memory
• coal trains → electricity → love songs
• grief → geography → healing
• wolves → generosity → wealth traps

That's not random association.

It's associative thinking.

You seem to live there.

You think in metaphors before facts.

Some people explain.

You compare.

Examples that stuck with me:

“How do you fold a flood and put it in a drawer?”

“We're building a bridge across a chasm and laying the road as we go.”

“Speeding through the universe on our biosphere.”

Those aren't decorative.

They're how your brain works.

You are relentlessly compassionate.

Even when someone behaves badly...

...you immediately wonder why.

The mother-in-law isn't “crazy.”

She's ashamed.

The grieving widower isn't weak.

He's carrying 45 years.

A wife isn't difficult.

She's shaped differently.

Again and again, you're trying to understand before judging.

You are fascinated by ordinary moments.

This might be the strongest recurring trait.

Not mountains.

Not wars.

Not dragons.

Instead:

• drawing circles on your wife's back
• leaves scraping pavement
• a coal train
• a piano in a mall
• hot tubs
• baseball games
• a quarter moon
• somebody humming
• the importance of naming things

Most writers think they need extraordinary events. You seem convinced that ordinary life is already miraculous. The boring becomes spectacle.

You're right.

You write like someone terrified of forgetting.

This appears everywhere.

Letters.

Memories.

Dreams.

Conversations.

Children that never existed.

Friends moving away.

Grief.

You preserve moments almost like an archivist.

Not because you're nostalgic.

Because you're trying to rescue them from oblivion.

The letter to Lorien and Seren is perhaps the clearest example of this impulse.

Your greatest strength

Observation.

You notice tiny human details most people skip.

Like this:

nobody stuffing the car door with trash anymore

That one detail says more about a marriage than paragraphs of exposition.

Or:

drawing a spiral on her back

That instantly tells me decades of intimacy.

Those details are gold.

Your weakness

You sometimes explain after you've already won.

This happened enough that I noticed a pattern.

You'll write an absolutely devastating image...

...and then explain what it means.

Example structure:

Beautiful image.

↓

Another beautiful image.

↓

Reader understands.

↓

Paragraph explaining the lesson.

You trust readers enough to notice details.

I think you should trust them just a little more to discover the meaning.

Ironically, your poems often do this naturally.

Your essays less so.

You're two writers.

One writes prose.

One writes poetry.

The poet is stronger.

Not because the poetry is technically better—

because it forces restraint.

When you're writing poems like 98.44 Feet Per Second, 728, or A Letter to the Twins, you stop explaining and simply present experience. Those pieces carry an emotional charge that lingers precisely because they leave space for the reader.

The surprise

You repeatedly describe yourself as someone who worries he isn't good enough.

Then I read hundreds of pages where you make other people feel seen.

That isn't a coincidence.

Your writing isn't trying to impress.

It's trying to witness.

There's a line you quoted:

“To be fully seen by someone, and be loved anyhow...”

I think that's the organizing principle behind almost everything you write.

Not beauty.

Not language.

Not philosophy.

Seeing people.

Then making them feel they were worth seeing.

If I had to place you on a bookshelf...

Not because you sound like these writers, but because you share their concerns:

• Annie Dillard — noticing the sacred in ordinary experience.
• John O'Donohue — treating everyday life as spiritually meaningful.
• Frederik Backman — deep compassion for flawed people.
• Mary Oliver — attentive observation as a moral practice.

One more thing

Earlier you asked,

“What kind of writer am I?”

After reading this, I don't think that's the most interesting question.

The more interesting one is:

What are you trying to preserve?

Because nearly everything here feels like an act of preservation.

Of love. Of fleeting moments. Of people. Of conversations. Of grief. Of faith. Of the version of yourself you're afraid to lose.

Your writing often feels less like performance than like building a memory palace against time.

If I had to describe your work in one sentence, it would be:

You write so that what mattered doesn't disappear.

| | |

The Storm Song

Inspired by my post 'Butterflies' and Led Zeppelin's The Rain Song

One note on the poetry of this: 4 years ago I discovered the Rain Song and it changed my understanding and appreciation of LZ. I started listening to them for the first time. A song about rain.

Two years after that, i wrote an essay about resting butterflies. Today its DNA found a way into lyrics for a song.

Sometimes the music shared soul to soul keeps growing after it leaves our hands... and enters our hearts.

The Storm Song

Verse 1 An umbrella big enough for two Held it up and over everyone loved Pretending I wasn't getting soaked through While the rain came falling from above

Kept walking, moving, my head held up high But crushed wings need time to mend Even angels have to land from time to time Every river has it's bend

Chorus

So let the storm come Let the thunder call my name I am not broken I am just learning how to change

Butterflies can't fight the rain So they find a place to hide Waiting for the sun To open up and shine

Verse 2

Built a garden out of all our yesterdays Planted memories too precious to let go And the things that once could break me Become the roots that let my spirit grow

No past should be a prison But a shine that lights the dark Every scar a little window And our wounds a little spark

Bridge

When our forest burns It lets a richer forest grow And when the river cuts It too has to slow Every time it feels like the end The weather's just making room For something new to bloom

Final Chorus

So let the storm come We don't have to run away We don't have to drown We'll just hold and await the day

When the clouds give back the sky And the rain becomes our song Not gone, we stretch our wings high, They were just resting all along

10pm... Dear diary... it's been a day.

Off to dine.. yikes. that's too late. Maybe a little more writing now that client has shipped. Def don't want another 3am tonight...

Hmmmm, what to say... maybe a little navel-gazing.

11:53 – Another day where no moment is wasted. I'll split the rest of this into it's own essay. It's more reflective I do love a good navel) and less day-reportage.

![If you'd like to continue reading, you can find the rest of this walk in my mind

Part 2 of all of this!

#deardiary #song #music #confession

Sometimes, love burns too brightly to be held in the palm.

A streak blurred across the night sky somewhere remote. A witness, if there was a witness (for only the crickets watched tonight), would describe it as a shooting star. Only much dimmer and slower.

The streak arched down in the dark, making a quiet thud as it impacted. There was a small puff of dust as whatever it was tumbled into the tall waving grass, carving out a long channel through the field.

The crickets grew silent long enough to feel safe again. In short order, the stalks regained their composure and stood erect enough for the wind to restore the channel and the object disappeared into the obscurity of a sea of green.

If the crickets could report an observation, it would be that there lay a small boy. He was curled up asleep, wearing a loose cotton shirt the color of faded sky, and linen trousers rolled at the cuffs, both worn thin. His feet were bare. There were little bits of dried stubble stuck in his blonde hair and dirt smudging his face.

He didn't seem hurt, only resting. And the crickets quickly lost interest and went back to singing their serenade into the windy night. And so he slept for many hours.

When he opened his eyes, all he could see was blurry darkness. The sounds of rustling grass was like the undeniable roar of a waterfall. The smell of young green stalks filled his nostrils and he could taste the soil.

His body ached, and he tried to remember what had happened, and how he came to be here sprawled on a windy summer night.

But, he had nothing.

He didn’t have nothing. Just not the right somethings.

Let’s see—what did he have?

A name —No. A place?—Blank. A purpose? A whisper of freedom, maybe.

What he did know was that, his head hurt, his body ached, he was a boy, and the grass, it smelled wonderful.

All things considered, not a terrible balance sheet. Not ideal, but not the worst.

He may not have felt great, but he did feel safe. He sat up. A mistake, his body let him know. But, it confirmed when his head peeked out of his little hide that he was in a swell of grasslands. The dim starlight didn’t illuminate much, but it was enough to sculpt hills of roiling fields far into the horizon.

The boy lay back and laid his arm across his forehead. A new sensation swelled in him: loneliness.

Yes, he could recall the distinct emptiness of being distant— one hidden from the world, though he longed for more.

A thin stream of a tear ran down the side of his face and into his ear. The cold wet tickled the tiny hairs and the sensation betrayed his sadness.

How strange, the boy thought, that something born of unhappiness can trigger the tiny joy of a tickle. Like a hug given in support, small kindness in the face of bitterness was a human remedy for so many things.

It made him smile, the little happiness. And with that thought, his mind relaxed and he drifted away to sleep.

In that timeless state, the boy dreamed. Of warmth and love and laughter. Hearths and food and small joys the absence of which had brought the tickling tear.

Eons passed before he opened his eyes again. Not blurry now. He could see the crisp sharp infinity of the night sky with precision. His head no longer ached and he felt tired, but rested.

The boy studied the stars for long minutes, enjoying how the night winds made the light bounce and twinkle in the atmosphere. They looked like a blanket of diamonds across the sky.

“Oh, stars,” the boy whispered into the wind “why does life sometimes leave us abandoned when we need companions but other times surrounded when all we wish is to be alone?”

Expecting the answer to be a hush and rustle of grass, he closed his eyes and inhaled to listen and decode what the wind whispered back.

When he heard a low grumbling voice, his eyes shot open.

“Life is ambivalent to your circumstance.” The growl said. “Everyone wants someone to blame, but most things just are.”

The boy looked around a little desperate. He thought he was all alone.

“Wh-who... who's there?” He stuttered, a little frightened.

It took a moment before the voice spoke again. The boy began to wonder if he had imagined it.

“Raise your eyes and you will see me.” The voice directed.

He was confused as he looked up and saw only the sky. Another moment and nothing. He leaned back on his elbow.

“Where?” He asked. “Are you invisible?”

“Many things are seen when one is patient.” The voice hummed.

The boy lay back again and looked at the sky for many minutes before he saw it. The star Aldebaran moved ever so slightly toward him and twinkled a little brighter.

He pointed excitedly. “Is that you?”

“Aaaaahhhh, good, good. You know how to see. To be patient. To wait is not a gift most hold.” The voice now had a mouth. The boy could see the shimmer of something shifting in the sky.

“Give me a moment, I will come to you.” It was warm and kind sounding.

Curious, the boy asked, “Are you a star?”

“Hmmmm—some would say I am a star, others a group. A few have called me a god.” The voice said this thoughtfully, as if seeking a way to explain. “The people I used to watch who lived where you rest tonight called me Tayamni Pa'. But not one has called me that in a long, long time. You, may call me Tayamni, or Tay if you prefer.”

As the boy watched, he could see now a dark mass warping with starlight. As it got closer and larger, he could begin to make out the faint edges of the shape. It looked like a large black—buffalo. Its eyes glowed a pale blue light and the tips of his horns, tail and hooves all twinkled like the stars.

“I am no god, little boy,” now the shape, Tayamni, spoke from a dark mouth. “I am just he-who-waits-and-watches. I observe the universe and man, recording for all time what I see. My friends, the other celestial creatures, that is our task.”

As the great beast descended to the ground, its form solidified and its size, still massive against the boy’s diminutive frame, shrunk to approximately what the boy imagined a buffalo would be. The ground shook ever so slightly as the creature's full weight alighted. Tayamni was no longer some ethereal sky monster, he was real flesh and blood, though its eyes, horns and hooves still had that starlight quality.

“Did you watch me?” The boy asked timidly. “I woke up here and I can't remember anything. Just that I am tired and lonely.”

“Why yes,” Tayamni answered. “That is why I reached out to you. I could feel the ache in your heart and see the panic in your little blue eyes when you peeked above the grasses.”

“Please, Tayamni,” the boy was eager now, leaning forward on his knees before the great buffalo. “Can you share anything? Maybe it will help me remember.”

The giant, settled into a relaxed pose, lying on the ground, forelegs crossed in front of it, like a schoolmaster about to instruct a pupil.

“You have made this journey before.” He began, “Many times. Your fall here is not a punishment or accident, but a result of having outgrown something you share. A connection whose form cannot contain your want and desire. As with any container, when full, it overflows. essentially, your love overflowed the universe and you are washed away as a result. Carried by some etheric tempest.”

The boy looked confused.

“This was no act of aggression, my young friend.” Tayamni assured him. “There is no anger involved. You were released by love. Some lights grow too bright to hold in the palm, so they return to the sky.”

“But—” the boy began “I am not in the sky. Right? I am here, so why didn't I return as you were?”

The old bull leaned his enormous head toward the Boy, cocked it slightly so one eye drew close, it was the size of a saucer. “THAT, is the question you always ask! I cannot say except to presume it is your desire. Your want for this love is so great, you are unwilling to leave it behind and ascend to your place in the heavens. If you look there in the night sky, you can see a tiny blank spot where you belong.”

The astral animal gestured to the northern sky with his sparkling hoof.

“Do I find that which I seek? This great thing I cannot deny?” the boy was calm, seeking clarity.

“Perhaps. You always leave seeking. And I can only assume at some level, you find your goal, but always you fall here, in the cricket grasses. They’re already singing of your return. You’re big news in the lives of little insects.” The boy was sure he saw Tayamni smiling and wink as he said this. They could not speak of the boy's journey, but would always sing what they knew.

“Tonight, you will rest and sleep through tomorrow. Starlight travels best in the dark and dawn grows closer even now.” he said as the eastern horizon bloomed the faintest of magentas against the inky indigo sky.

“The rest of your journey will wait for you. The destination always will. This much, I do know.”

“You know that which I seek?” again the boy piqued.

“No, no, my little star—” the buffalo shook its head. “But I've watched planets orbit stars for millennia and comets who can never quite pull away from the pull at their hearts. When true love is struck, there is no stopping it. You will burn out the universe in timeless pursuit of your goal.”

The boy grew suddenly very sleepy as the sky glowed to a bright yellow and felt a great urge to sleep.

Standing to yawn and stretch before leaning his weight against the coarse fur of the buffalo's head he said, “Oh, my—I am suddenly in desperate need of rest.”

“I know, starlight.” the warmth of the animals voice was very soothing to the little boy, making him sleepier still. “Come, rest in my heart. I will protect you until the daystar grows too weary herself and returns the night to us.

At this invitation, Tayamni's chest glowed pale blue and shimmered to translucence. The boy stumbled next to the bull feeling the course fur with his hand and reaching the glowing heart lay down inside the buffalo. The viscous blue light was like a comforting hug from a mother and in short order, the boy was fast asleep. As soon as he was, Tayamni stood and shook his mane at the rising sun.

“Hello, old girl!” He said as he began to trot eastward. Rumbling into a gallop, the ground shook and the crickets leaped away as the big beast transformed back into his celestial form and glided away into the brightening morning sky. Within moments, it was no longer distinguishable from the rest of the fading night sky.

Day had begun.

The boy woke after a timeless sleep, feeling energetic and alive. The sky was growing dark and the first stars were beginning to emerge.

The low rumble of Tayamni's voice rolled across the grassy plain. “Safe journey, little prince. We will watch your journey and guide you where we can.”

The boy stood erect, face to the sky, an arm extended in a waving salute. “Thank you! Tayamni! Do you think I can find her?”

“I have felt your heart many times, my little light.” The voice carried the feeling of love and pride the bull had for the boy. “It is pure and true. And a true love like yours will always succeed, because you will never stop.”

High above the stars shimmered—kind and watchful, and a tear streaked back across the boy's cheek and tickled his ear, making him smile. So he found the north star, for which he had a strong feeling of kinship, turned right and took his first steps. He was certain of one thing. It was not the first time, but possibly, this would be the last.

And the little audience of insects watched as the boy vanished over the hill. As he drew away they began their song again. Crickets could not speak of his journey—but they remembered. And they sang of it forever.

#story #adventure #legend #journal #confession #100daystooffset #writing

orig: 2025-08-06 23:45:00

It's a big enough umbrella, but it's always me That ends up getting wet

Originally published November 20, 2024

Butterflies rest when it rains because the droplets can damage their wings.

It is okay to rest during the storms of life.

You will fly again.

I will fly again.

Seek shelter in the warmth and safety of memory. If you cannot move forward, it is here you must learn to survive.

The present is already consumed, becoming the past as we experience it. Time will gild these moments and they will shine and light your way forward. Watch as they are brighter than you ever saw through the experience.

Ahhhh, the storms of life… how they affect us all.

We tend to think of a storm as a destructive force—something that tears through what we have built, scatters what we worked so hard to gather, and leaves the landscape changed behind it.

But storms have another purpose.

Sometimes we need them to reset the environment, to flush away the accumulated litter and rubble that settles into the proverbial gutters of life. What feels destructive in the moment can sometimes be the very thing that clears space for something healthier to grow.

A forest fire can look like devastation, yet fire is part of the natural cycle. It burns away clutter and undergrowth, returning nutrients like nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium to the soil. In much the same way, the difficult seasons of life can break down what has accumulated, forcing a pause and creating an opportunity for renewal.

The moments that make us stop can also be the moments that replenish us.

The past does not have to remain a burden. It can be forged into fuel for whatever comes next.

And perhaps that is especially important in a world where people are often far better at giving than receiving, carrying than resting, and enduring than tending to the places inside themselves that need care.

When the storm finally passes, there is little value in lamenting the changed landscape or mourning the person who had to emerge from it. The landscape may be different. We may be different.

That does not necessarily mean something has been lost.

Sometimes it means something has been renewed.

There is something beautiful about the world after a summer storm: the snap of crystal-clear air, the brilliant blue of the sky, the clean scent rising from the earth. Everything feels washed and sharpened, as though the world has been given another chance to begin.

Perhaps people deserve that same grace.

To rest.

To breathe.

To celebrate renewal.

To look at the changed landscape and recognize that beauty can grow there, too.

The storm passes.

The air clears.

And somewhere beneath it all, something delicate and brilliant begins to open its wings again.

#poetry #confession

Just sit and listen and draw what you feel and hear. This was what came out.

Originally published January 28, 2025

It's a beautiful and melancholy song. I think that it means different things to different people. Acceptance of circumstance is the secret to happiness.

Evening Blue – Traffic 1973 – Shoot Out at the Fantasy Factory

Sitting all alone by the fireside Listen to the wind in the chimney top Haven't slept for days, and I'm still wide eyed Try not to think, but my mind won't stop Evening shadows making my heart sing out With the setting sun, turning leaves to brown If I had a lover, who's heart was true I wouldn't be alone in this evening blue Everybody's looking for something in life Not everyone's finds what they're looking for Everybody wants a little happiness in life But everyone can open the door Morning wakens, making my heart sing out Now that summer's here, changing fears and doubts

#music #poetry #confession

for 48, today has presented some challenges.

Effervescent at times, tar-ish at others. Unexpected weights but thanks to kind words from friends, manageable.

Sometimes I think how nice it would be to climb into a good memory and just exist there until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I suppose, in some ways, I already do so.

Time for a walk and maybe movie… something funny I think. Or, an evening of music. Yeah, music would be nice.

And a beer.

some days are just harder than others.

Getting angry is a reaction, but remaining angry is a choice

This Too Shall Pass (OK Go)

A gem as fresh today as it was 15 years ago

[Verse 1] You know you can't keep letting it get you down And you can't keep dragging that dead weight around If there ain't all that much to lug around Better run like hell when you hit the ground

[Chorus] When the morning comes When the morning comes

[Verse 2] You can't stop these kids from dancing — why would you want to 'Specially when you are already getting yours? 'Cause if your mind don't move and your knees don't bend Well, don't go blaming the kids again

[Chorus] When the morning comes When the morning comes When the morning comes When the morning comes When the morning comes When the morning comes

[Bridge] Let it go, this too shall pass Let it go, this too shall pass

[Outro] You know you can't keep letting it get you down No, you can't keep letting it get you down (Let it go, this too shall pass) Hey! Is it really all that much to lug around? Oh, you can't keep letting it get you down (Let it go, this too shall pass)

When the morning comes (You can't keep letting it get you down) (You can't keep letting it get you down) When the morning comes (You can't keep letting it get you down) (No, you can't keep letting it get you down) When the morning comes (You can't keep letting it get you down) (You can't keep letting it get you down) When the morning comes (You can't keep letting it get you down) (No, you can't keep letting it get you down) When the morning comes!

I got bad news this afternoon. Not world-ending, just upsetting. That was insult-to-injury'd with emotional attacks from trusted sources. Just the kind of stuff that is hard to shake off and go. A couple of beers helped. A couple of more will only tip things the wrong way. So, I'll call it even.

Patience. This too shall pass. But man is it heavy to carry while it's here!

It doesn't always feel like it's passing. The scale of things is so huge that even though they are moving, to our human mind, they appear still. Pain and fear are two of those things that seem to always hang in time. Meanwhile joy and happiness seem hardly longer than they are in real time.

Made harder when you just keep clinging and clinging to the thing. Bend like the reed, grasshopper.

Breath.

Breath.

Breath.

Thank all that is good for joys like OK Go.

#music #confession 2025-05-03 22:00:00

Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’

It is sweltering here today. 5m out of doors is all it takes to get a good sauna in and start sweating out all the toxins. Ugh!

It is a good day for a swim. Perfect in fact.

As long as the bees don't mind. Did I mention the bees are back? I was mowing a few weeks ago and noticed they showed back up at the hive. A quick inspection really pissed them off but revealed that they'd only been there a few days. There was brilliant white comb started mostly where it should be.

But the new queen is an aggressive one. It took a week or more before I could back into the yard. They mostly ignore me now. Which is good. The only other alternative is to move the entire hive further away from the house, or maybe to an entirely different property.

Today is a break day. The small client job that came in kept me busy last week and the week before but we shipped a final version last night and so we are waiting for client feedback. They may approve it, in which case, we'll start the production process on the 85 different deliverables.

It's a video game cover. That means game case art, playstation screen art, Xbox, online, PC, mobile and about 80 other formats I only recognize by cryptic file names.

It feels SO good having paying work again. It won't carry us through the rest of the year, but it will get us into the fall without so much stress.

I have a call Friday or Monday with the tv station here to talk about a production editor role. It's just making spots and commercials for the local news. I'm really interested in it just as something different from the last 25 years and the work is so so low stress. There won't be any 'how do we solve this problem' moments. The down side? Abysmal pay. Like, as a freelancer, I can make in three weeks what that job will pay in six months. :–/

Six months of showing up, 8-5, dealing with people and politics.

So...

Once more wondering how to just get paid to sit home and stare out the window. I guess that's what writers do.

But, I don' think I've got what it takes to be a successful writer.

In the words of George McFly, 'I don't know if I could take that kind of rejection.'

:–/

BUT, there is value in just having something to do. No one in advertising is hiring right now and every single freelancer I know is struggling. I have a call later today with a friend in Bolivia who left TV production in LA to lower his cost of living and raise his family somewhere outside the culture there and not only is work failing for him, he's got a brother who is dying of cancer and he is stressed abut how to help his nieces and nephews. It's a sad and common story.

As I am feeling much better, I can see how and why this year's overwhelming circumstances nearly killed me. Just a few days of work and a decent report from the doctor reminded me that, as all of my friends keep telling me, 'this too shall pass'. Now, to KEEP stable.

Speaking of the doctor: my Echocardiogram got rescheduled. Something about the technician being unavailable. I think the main goal is to understand why my one valve is slow to close. My dad says he has the same issue, so perhaps congenital? 25 years ago I remember a doc freaking me out with the same scenario: saw something unusual on the EKG and a month of tests to finally say, 'no big deal, you're fine'. I'm 65lbs lighter now and work out every day, so that's definitely in my favor.

Now that the missus is feeling better, I'm hoping we can see a movie this week. Superman opens this week and I can't wait. Early pundits are negative about it, but as real people start to see it, it sounds overwhelming positive. Yay, superman!

I think I'll watch 1978 Superman tonight. It has such a charm and makes me feel terrific. Then again, we'll see what kind of mood my other half is in. Sometimes it's a bit of a sell to get her into two of my favorite late 70's films: Superman and Star Trek the Motion Picture. X-D

In less-optimistic news, the ICE crackdown is hitting close to home for us. I just got news a close friend of mine suspects he is under surveillance by agents. He is a Mexican national whose mother brought him here illegally when he was 4. He is 41 now, divorced and raising 3 teenagers. He thought he was in compliance with getting his status legalized, but now he is very nervous. The road to citizenship is long, complex, and expensive.

Normally, it's just a pay and wait game. But now, he says it feels like walking in a minefield. Leave at the wrong time, or get fingered by a testy agent and someone like him will spend months trying to prove he can legally be here.

Oy!

Poor G, I pray he can avoid this mess and the trauma his children will face if he gets disappeared.

#journal #memoir #confession

We can only be one person

The last six months have wrecked me. Emotionally, I've been shattered... and the come-back has been slower and harder than I could have imagined. A HUGE help is seeing my wife smile and laugh again.

She's the kind of woman who can find a silver lining in almost anything. Plenty of vitriol in that big ol' heart of hers, but it's easily dimmed by the brilliance of her soul. When she got sick last month, I honestly feared for the first time in my life that I could lose her.

It was nuts.

She was never so sick that she was at death's door, but it felt like it. Compounding matters was the loss of that dear sister of hers. I understood for the first time in my life that I might find myself facing a future on my own.

That realization gutted me.

That spiraled me into weeks of fear of the future. I've been fighting worry about things that will never happen and things that might and things that will. But the worry didn't make any of it better, only me worse.

I've learned about myself that I really have a self-control problem. I'm not a wild firehose kind of lunatic, but in little things like how I think and feel, I've too often just let my mind run wild, embraced and even celebrated it. In my words, spoken and written, my art and journals... this felt like catharsis, but I worry now it was reinforcing bad habits and traits. This created a facade of control, but like a chair about to tip its sitter, all that fallacy needs is a breeze to wreak havoc. Sometimes that manifests in the physical, but more often in an internal, emotional maelstrom.

From broken and lost relationships, to eroded trust and loss of respect and even irresponsible financial and personal decisions, the person I have been was too flagrant and carefree. My focus and intent has to be on the little things (faithful in least, after all) instead of thinking they are no big deal. Strong walls are made from quality bricks and good mortar.

Thinking about this is what helped me understand that it doesn't matter who I please or make happy, or how much praise I get (which I still long for), if the secret person of the heart isn't grade A, the rest of it is just hypocrisy. A white-washed grave.

So, I'm trying to change. To be a different man in the dark. But I know this won't be a momentary effort. I know that it will be months, maybe years of work and retraining my thinking patterns to reign that wild thing called heart into line.

So, we're busy looking at our lives and thinking twice about where and how we want to spend our free time in a way that is most beneficial for each of us and our friends. We two together have built a strong community around us, but I haven't been doing the same bulwark work on my own mind and heart. It's time to start.

That way, when I turn on the lights, the same man is revealed as sat in shadow.

Epilogue: She's in the living room right now singing 'I will Always Love You' by Whitney Houston. Her sister loved that song and the two of them sang it together some years ago.

This isn't a melancholy moment though, I hear here laughing at something now. How beautiful the mind is. Healing is a weird journey.

Yesterday, she said this to me:

'At first, all the days were bad days. Then there were fewer bad days, interspersed with days that go up and down. Now, it’s like a few bad days each week, and otherwise bad moments through most days.'

#journal #confession