072619 What do i hVE TO OFFER BESIDES RAW EMOTION? I WANT TO MAKE STORIES THAT GIVE PEOPLE SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT EVEN IF EE CUMMINGS DID SAY “SINCE FEELING IS FIRST” BUT I THINK FOR ME FEELING IS KIND OF LIKE SODIUM—-YOU’LL GET ENOUGH OF IT; DON’T WORRY. I COULD BE WRONG. I WANT TO GO NBACK AND LEARN MATH AND PHYSICS BECAUSE IT’S INTERESTING AS FUCK AND I WAS TOOLAZY. TO REALLY LEARN IT THE FIRST TIME AROUND. PLUS IT’LL HELP ME BE A MORE RAD AVID TEACHER. Also this “smart” folio keyboard is fucking stupid. PLus it’ll help me stay smarter a little bit longer as I get older. i need a simple, reliable, fast system for storing little bits of ideas, bigger bits of ideas, and having them feed into a process leading to an output of some kind of shareable story or experience? And how do i not let the fact that, based on where I came from, I *should* have at least a housde and 10,000 in the bank NOT get me too down to function optimally? Do I actually need a therapist right now? Maybe? Yeah but The beautiful thing about being a teacher is you can work up beyond where your own limits are. you can be a catalyst. a resonator. a fertilizer. a honeybee. 070719 I said to Megan, “I’ve learned that that little voice is never wrong” but I failed to mention that sometimes in the rush to think things through, it is quite possible (even at my age) to forget to stop and listen to every little thing it’s trying to say. But I am more likely to catch it sooner now, as when for example it sends me an odd dream to remind me that there’s more going on than I’ve yet been able to put into words about for example why I’m reluctant to get married to someone who really just wants me now that she feels too old to have plenty of other options, and who, so I hear from a little bird who’s staying with her this summer, still doesn’t even really give a complete, full, committed shit about who I actually am. I’m not willing to pretend I don’t like to dwell for a long morning moment on the connections between spider bites and deer-faced white rabbits; talking to my mom and talking to a smart-looking black lady, a fellow hotel guest, about whether or not the hotel suite has any cute spring dresses in the communal wardrobe; a fake show of reconciliation and respect from the dream persona of this other woman, the real woman from my past whom Megan is staying with this summer and learning an unexpected variety of things from, who has it all planned out—us getting married when her kids are out of high school and she can start pretending their dad doesn’t exist—and her getting pissed off when i said what i really felt about being left out. Dreams are like good stories—they would be useless if they were any less random and puzzling. Let me just add, vaguely enough because it covers a lot of possibilities, that a lot of shit happened a long time ago, and just because it’s been a lot of years doesn’t it mean it doesn’t matter. And for that matter, just because we’re both old as fuck now doesn’t mean I don’t still have some unfinished business. I started late, remember? It kind of seems like she needs me more than I need her. Maybe that was the case more times in the past than I was able to see. Who knows. Like I said, I ignored that little voice for so long in so many ways. The other thing is, you have to give it some time to get the words and the volume up sometimes. It takes a while, like taking a good shit does now, haha. Cuz like now I’m waiting to hear back from it on whether I *really* don’t want to get married, or am I just petulant and holding onto past insecurities—just being “sensitive” as apparently I am, along with “never plans anything.” Huh. I actually thought I did plan some things. Not the least of which is planning not to put myself in a situation where I’m going to feel like a doddering doofus every single time we take a walk. And right about now the little voice is kind of sighing, and maybe just barely, almost imperceptibly, rolling its eyes, and saying, ok, let me see if I can figure out how to explain this to you.... 070419 Why did megan never make falafel and tabouli HERE for dinner but like the third night she’s at anne’s oh look it turns out she’s not totally incompetent? I think we just get stuck in weird little roles and playacting and patterns. And that’s not even what I’m thinking about most with all this. I’m thinking “she’s trying to steal my kid’s loyalty and affection” and “she’s trying to show that she’s better at being an adult and parent than i am” because, well, because of course I’m thinking all that kind of crap, and then I’m considering alternative narratives and hoping nervously that I’m not fooling myself again. Because the last time I fooled myself with a convenient, romantic set of alternative narratives it was a fucking disaster. But am I going to go to my lonely grave unable to navigate by story ever again? Or is it just that I need a new set of stories?