These (which, my handwriting
was never the best, but is a word
here that looks more like “the hex” —
which I love — but these
days I’ve become the cliché
who can all-too-often barely
read his own handwriting; so
transcribing from paper to
perhaps another draft on paper
[drafts??] before time at the com-
puter to input, type, the part that
seems the most endless of all,
probably because of the limited
timeframes which I’m allowed to
sit at a computer. And so. I truly
never edited for any considerable
length of time, but my situation
over the past few years seems
to have greatly increased my
editing time and process
[process?], while at the
same time, thanks especially,
I am certain, to my transience,
connected also to my lack of
ownership, of a laptop or a
desktop [one without time
limits which have me hop-
ping from library to library,
etc.] or even a decent cell-
phone…. AND [alas!]
there is the problem of
nowhere mine to go, no-
where mine to sit.) Blame,
blame, blame. I do a lot of
blaming. I know. A lot. People
tell me all the time. Perfect
strangers. Today it is just to say
that maybe we are too complex.
For blame. Or remembering your
name. I know. It's me. I do, i swear,
spend much private time “owning up” —
but I take a stand in making certain to
publicly act on attempts to know when
NOT to blame myself, and when to
firmly stick to understanding when
(don't laugh!) I am the victim. Know
when to kowtow. Know when to bow out.
Or when to just bone up. Ow! Just shut up
about it all. You are hurting my head
on a regular but limited
basis. Many people, perhaps
like you, seem very uncom-
fortable with that. But that’s
a horror story and not a thought.
"Let’s have coffee and talk about
this sometime.” With all of the
seriousness in the world, that
request. Because this one is short…
[Or so I thought when I first drafted it.…
and yet:])….
The hex, or these things, while
often wonderful, fun, innocuous,
interesting, odd, not always too
overly dramatic or logical, graph-
ic, sinister without the cynicism,
or, no, I mean the other way
around. I think. Of me. Occasion-
ally (I mean who else?) I am a good
person. I mean I am good, right?
So genuine, so full of crap, without
suffering from the worry
of being too Gemini (a gleefully
sincere lie!). I work hard. Also to
strive for good, to comprehend
what that might mean and why it
might or might not be meaningful.
Air quotes make us similar. Many
things make us forget, grow dist-
ant, relax into that conundrum
like an oxymoron, fall apart. I
fall to pieces. Trying to fix things
shows our simplicity, our com-
plexity, the spectacular spectrum
of our complexions, the horrible sense
of if all. The horrible sensations. The luxury
of baggage. I’m falling into my fading “I’m
right and you aren't” mentality (empathy being
the line that separates adulthood and child-
hood — sadly, most seem never to
find their hidden grown-up. And it has
to be driven attempts, done on regular bases,
at “being as” else. Someone who, preferably,
holds values quite independent from those
of your own (Do you have one? Allow me to
check.), if not at complete odds with it. Shut
up! At least on the surface. We can go now.
Going is growing. You go first. What’s your
cuppa? I am culpable too, sometimes.
Just like you are. Just like Robert Culp is.
