i think i'd fallen prey to parsimony there once again. forgotten that the good -of love, of skill, of friendship- is achieved only through practice. as enigmatic as it sounds, i just wanted to hurt less, to lay still until i could feel the power thrum through me. that old pit-trap. it's never worked before, what was there to make me think that perhaps it would this time? i was encouraging forgetfulness, i guess. how jejune.
strange, but it's because i love you too much, not too little, and recognizing that, i tried to play my instruments across myself and not others. i can't bear the fact that we all use each other so much. how can we disavow hierarchy when small-group politics are based on largess, and pointed significances of abundance, and condemnation of poverty in all its forms?
i swear. it's not because i've cared too little, i've tamped down on it because i care so much i feel unsafe to exhibit it. i swear some more.
that said, here's to writing! brut!
-disavowal: 'e, your mother was a diphthong!'
-speaking of mothers, my mum has a sudoku book in the bathroom. we complete each others' puzzles, sometimes writing expletives in the margin to comment on tactics. this is basically a conversation we have while exclusively on the toilet. i'm not sure how i feel about that, now that i think about it. she once asked how i played my sudoku and i said by process of elimination.
-i took up smoking again. i quit because i'd done some math and assessed what a waste of time it had been. the math came to something like 7.5 months or 225 odd days of having a cigarette in my hand/smoke in my lungs/being in a smokey room. this lump of time unbroken by sleep or breaks of any kind. health aside, this is a phenomenal portion of time that could've been directed at creating something truly wonderful. i took it back up after about a month because my anxiety attacks crippled me. and frankly, i didn't know how to direct the time to better uses (i was running 5km twice daily). the anxiety i was experiencing was tentatively nominated by a friend as agoraphobia, which literally means fear of markets. and taking market to mean a theatre of socio-political exchange, agoraphobia summed it up perfectly. the smoking has allowed it to subside somewhat.
-of smoking: i've been thinking of my uncle glynn somewhat recently. i'd meant to detail how smoking led directly to his passing, but still find the story overwhelming, and am afraid that my version would be from the vantage of a child, and thus apocryphal. i will try though, soon, and tell the story of how a single cigarette marked his death.