I fully recognize the annoyance and even guilt I project by asking. I often hesitate and then say fuck it and forward my questions. Did they read and if so – what were their thoughts?  And it can’t be a bullshit response as it’s far too easy to detect.

But what is the hesitation here? Are these revelations and confessions simply too off putting to discuss? And why? Everyone’s got trauma these days – you’re practically deemed damaged for not being damaged. RT? The youth wear their fractured souls like celebratory participation  badges. Everybody got some.

You know me, bitches. You must have had a suspicion.  And now here it is, and I’m met with silence. I honestly don’t get that especially when we are all so willing. Joe taught us that if we are genuinely true to ourselves and honest in our expression – the work will speak that very same truth. And that is the essence of art at its core. The caveat was we were discouraged from that very expression if we were not willing to master our craft. The two are inseparable.

Fade to Black

I wanted her to know. I tell myself I would have felt so blessed to get the full report. The nitty gritty details of … fiction. Was it a lie all along? And Beeba knew the entire time. And Harrison Bergeron.

The cockroach was another time, but I read them both soon after another. I wish I had pinched myself then as I’m traveling there now as it was not such a bad time for me. I wish I’d known.

The question popped up again and again – did I eventually bring it upon myself? The self pity and the consistent funeral reveries, although the guest list often changed. As did the means. Ebb and flow, Max and Ruby. But always a healthy review of the aftermath and how all adjusted. And then whatever the little jewels left behind that would trigger in later times. That smile pays the dealer. In spades.

She told me that if indeed I called it upon myself then I too had that remarkable strength to destroy as well. But she’s not there on days when I’m tiptoeing around that alternative. And questioning my resolve. And perhaps the lingering lethargy is taking far more influence than deserved. Fucker!

I genuinely sensed my truth – not gospel, but that my truth would spur dialogue that I selfishly wanted and therapy could not provide. 45 years ago, we comfortably had those conversations where our only basis of validation was uncovered deep within our growing collection of existential truth. Books and records. Used. Flat, black, and circular, even Uncle Dan’s until they made the move to upward nobility.

You’re losing your thought process, here. Was he really that eager or had he simply abandoned those aspirations that were forever out of grasp. The angel’s arguments could not have been that compelling and if so – they would have then soiled their own expectations or marching orders. The blessings were no secrets – they were enviable. And many. Were the regrets or even unrequited dreams really that traumatic? Warranting of the premature departure? Too fucking easy – the coward’s choice. Foolish. Selfish. Oh, the melodrama! Fuck You, really! Just fuck you!! I don’t care. Just read it and weep.