Tag: archive

Burro Schmidt tunnel out in the Mojave. Poked right through the top of a mountain by a man. Spent his life doing that. Chipping away with tools and dynamite. You walk in there without a light and there’s nothing. Black. I might’ve said that already.

Second to that is a patch of trees near Strathcona dam along the Campbell river. Can’t tell you where, but I know it when I see it. On the water’s edge. You’ll see tracks and burned wood in the spring. Walk into those trees and you’re surrounded. A green cage. An awful isolation. Makes you face things.

A quiet walk’s like that. No talking. Nothing forced. Surrounded by the presence of someone else.

Cole died last week. I found out today. A car crash. I wouldn’t have wondered about his absence if not for a message from someone who talked with him regularly. People disappear. That’s how it is. But how, or where, or why. Not considered, especially in this age.

I read various thoughts from people about his death. It began to affect me. I wrote him a personal note about our shared love of literature and short stories. He gathered a group of us together into a short story club. I got to read many stories I wouldn’t have otherwise read. His impact is marked. A strange thing, you know? Myriad connections. Lives we wouldn’t otherwise know. Stories we wouldn’t otherwise have.

I finished the note with, “Goodbye.” I couldn’t maintain composure without it. Another grave to visit for last respects.

Cole died last week. I found out today. A car crash. I wouldn’t have wondered about his absence if not for a message from someone who talked with him regularly. People disappear. That’s how it is. But how, or where, or why. Not considered, especially in this age.

I read various thoughts from people about his death. It began to affect me. I wrote him a personal note about our shared love of literature and short stories. He gathered a group of us together into a short story club. I got to read many stories I wouldn’t have otherwise read. His impact is marked. A strange thing, you know? Myriad connections. Lives we wouldn’t otherwise know. Stories we wouldn’t otherwise have.

I finished the note with, “Goodbye.” I couldn’t maintain composure without it. Another grave to visit for last respects.

Another goal is accomplished. I’ve been riding the wave of satisfaction for months. I want to stay here, this place. Inspiration is so rare to find. It is pervasive. All these ideas flitting around like moths. Subsequently, I’ve been spreading myself thin with half-started projects. Structure is required. As my contract date approaches I have a decision to make.

I broke down during this scene a few days ago. Just a face-contorting punch in the gut. Music, you know? It transcends clutter. Gets to the core of the matter. Right here.

Another goal is accomplished. I’ve been riding the wave of satisfaction for months. I want to stay here, this place. Inspiration is so rare to find. It is pervasive. All these ideas flitting around like moths. Subsequently, I’ve been spreading myself thin with half-started projects. Structure is required. As my contract date approaches I have a decision to make.

I broke down during this scene a few days ago. Just a face-contorting punch in the gut. Music, you know? It transcends clutter. Gets to the core of the matter. Right here.

It still took years for me to let go of learned patterns of behavior that negated my capacity to give and receive love. One pattern that made the practice of love especially difficult was my constantly choosing to be with men who were emotionally wounded, who were not that interested in loving, even though they desired to be loved. I wanted to know love but was afraid to be intimate. By choosing men who were not interested in being loving, I was able to practice giving love but always within an unfulfilling context. Naturally, my need to receive love was not met. I got what I was accustomed to getting. Care and affection, usually mingled with a degree of unkindness, neglect, and on some occasions, out right cruelty.

bell hooks