Bad Dreams, and Clairvoyance

Last night I had a bad dream–the second one this week.

The dreams are familiar. Both of them I’ve had, or parts of them, before. Which isn’t comforting–I wonder why I’m having these dreams, because they are so randomly disconnected from anything I’ve experienced. To be clear, I don’t think they have meaning. Dreams are random.

I also happen to dream that I can fly, by flapping my arms, with some degree of frequency. I attach no meaning to this particular night time mind wandering. It also just so happens, that once I recognize I’m flying, I know that I’m dreaming, and then can no longer fly. The lift my arm flapping produces gently decreases till I glide back to earth.

Last night’s dream found me on the property I grew up on. I was standing on the lawn, and a boar was rushing around. I wasn’t chasing it, it hadn’t escaped from anywhere, it was just wandering. Then it would rip stuff up with it’s tusks. First, it was just the ground, it ripped the grass up. Then it moved on to other things, and all the while I was just watching. But then, right in front of the house I saw a bird that’s native to our area. This particular bird nests on the ground–and if you get to close to its nest, if moves from its nest, and fakes a injured wing cooing to attract your attention. Anyways, from where I was standing I could see that the bird was pregnant–somehow its body was translucent and I could see that it was full of eggs. So full, that it was puffed to much larger than normal size, and struggled to move.

The moment that I saw the bird, the boar saw it too. I saw its head twist in the corner of my eye. For a moment we both just looked at the bird. Suddenly, I knew what the boar was going to do. It charged the bird, and I knew it intended to kill it. I started to run to stand between the bird and boar, but the boar is too fast. We are neck and neck, and I swing my foot to kick the boar. I’m a second late. Its tusk slices through the side of the bird, and the eggs spill out in a goo. The bird is dead. And then my foot makes contact, kicking the boar aside.

Then I wake up.

In the second dream, I’m in a Catholic cathedral. And the central chamber seems huge. But, it’s divided into squares, and each square is tiered like an amphitheater, and is some kind of bright white sandstone. I leave the section that has the priest at the pulpit, and start to wander to the next one. I won’t go into all the details of this dream, but the bad part is the cathedral itself–I feel disoriented and lost. Not in terms of spacial location, but in terms of life. The dream ends with me just outside of the cathedral, after talking to a priest. I’m about to leave and I’m asked out by a woman who is in her mid-forties, who I noticed in the congregation. She tells me she has four kids, she says something about “Being honest this time.”

Then I wake up.

So dear reader, perhaps you are particularly skilled in the arts of psychoanalysis, or perhaps you are gifted with dream interpretation. In either case, I’d love to know why these things put me off so much and left me with a lingering sadness. Now is your chance to show the whole world, or the 10 people who read my blog, that you’re an oracle of exactness. Speak!

I wait with bated breath.

d.r.t.

The Snow

The warmth from the running car, masks the chill of the cold. “Goodnight”, I say as I swing my legs onto the driveway, and step into the unplowed snow. “Thump” the door closes, and I’m very quickly left alone. I exhale into the cold, and start walking towards the house.

From here I can see that all the lights are off, except mine. The house is still, and the only sounds are: the wind blowing through the trees, my footsteps, and my breath. The snow squeaks, and crunches, as my feet sink into the cold drifts. The moon’s pale glow, illuminates my path. The barren trees cast long twisted shadows, and the evergreens are an indistinguishable mass of darkness.

I continue to trudge towards the house. The driveway is long. I stop. I look up, staring into the vastness of space. My warm breath spirals upward, dissipating into the night.

There are so many stars. I’m so small.

I start to pray.

d.

It’s About Time…

I always wonder what goes through these peoples’ hearts and minds

Ah, the liberal. One of the devil’s craftiest inventions. No doubt they are right at the top of Jesus’ arch enemy list. If I’m not mistaken they come right after cobra commander, and fun.

Shame on these people–they do a disservice to the text, to us, and Christ.

The Et. Cetera & Dr. Genius

I don’t often write into the student newspaper, but at one point I had hoped to do book reviews. I always seem to take on too much at the start of my semesters, though. Like many others, this idea went by the wayside.

However, sometimes I reply to letters, or articles. Recently I did just that.

Below is a letter I sent into a fairly funny, and completely ridiculous advice column, written by ‘Dr. Genius: a certified genius’. Before you skip ahead to the good bit–you’ll need to know that I wrote in pretending to be a woman because Dr. Genius’s last article was giving men dating tips. Most of the tips are featured at some point in the imaginary date I’ve described; you shouldn’t have any trouble picking them out.

Unfortunately, his original post isn’t available online; you’re kind of getting half a joke here.

Dear Dr. Genius,

After reading your reply to last week’s question, I was struck by the breadth and depth of your romantic wisdom. And, I couldn’t help but wonder if you might be able to help me with a romantic problem.

About this time last year, I was asked out by one of the many, many, dreamy men at Regent. At first my heart was aflutter, and I was giddy with girlish excitement. But, the date itself was a let down. To begin with, during dinner, he wasn’t very good at holding a conversation and talk inevitably reverted to him boasting about his career as a NBA pro-basketball player. Now, I’m not one to throw out the label ‘liar’ without cause. But, at five foot nothing, with what might be termed a ‘fat man’ build—I was skeptical. I think he probably sensed this, and overcompensated by making me watch him do his ‘moves’ in the restaurant parking lot after dinner.

Then, on the way to the movie theater he would look over at me, open his mouth like he was going to bite me, and would wink. At first it was just unsettling, but after the third time it became creepy. I’ll never forget the movie. We had decided to see a romantic comedy—and midway through, I looked over to see if he was crushing on Hugh Grant the same way I was. He was staring at me, and when we made eye contact he opened his mouth, and winked.

Dr. Genius—please help. Its been a year of terror since this date. He calls me once a week, leaving messages that start with lines like “Hey Baby, yeah–I’m calling you ‘baby’ now”, or sometimes, he mentions some kind of dragon. I’m not sure that he’s well-in-the-head, and somehow he is in all my classes this semester. What would you do if you were in my shoes?

Scared and Scarred

Anyways–the real joke was on me. Dr. Genius reduced this eloquent letter to something pretty much equivalent to this:
How do I get a guy to stop liking me?

And you thought life didn’t contain tragedy.

P.s. The answer, by the way, is to love him. Yes–that comes straight from a certified genius–you can pretty much take it to the bank.

P.s.s. At one point in my academic career I may have signed my tests “Tim Fraser super genious”. Uh… yeah.

What do Augustine, Pirates, and Seductive Body Wash Have in Common?

Last night was a particularly exciting Friday night for me.

First, I went and played soccer. Then, I came home to make myself some dinner, and went out to buy some beer. I was feeling adventuresome so the plan was to buy beer that I was unfamiliar with–which is easy enough. In looking around, I came across two Belgian beers, and it was mostly the labeling and names that sold me.

The first beer was Piraat which Wikipedia tells me doesn’t mean what I thought it meant. Of course I have a thing for pirates. If I’d been born in a different time, I’d like to think that I could have been a Drake, Black Beard, or Sparrow. I suppose, of course, I could move to Somalia or the Straight of Malacca, and take up modern day pirating, but I get the sense that sea-pirating is an industry in decline. Today, you’d be out of your mind to take up whaling as a viable career option–even if your name is Ahab, and you can throw a harpoon clear around the world. It simply isn’t wise to pursue a career in a dying field. It is tragic that pirating is a relic of the past. Imminent death and ethical quandaries aside, what could be better? Sail and stab by day, sleep and swashbuckle by night.

Anyways, Wikipedia tells me that “Piraat” is really the Belgian word for “devil”–which makes me feel a little hoodwinked. Who doesn’t think of a pirate when your beer’s name is ‘Piraat’, and you’ve got a giant ship on the front of the bottle? Also–it’s been brewed since 1784. Which, if I know my history, is prime pirating time. When I was in the liquor store, I may have imagined a group of pirates just getting off their shift, hitting the local pub for the drink bearing their name. Sort of like how Foster’s is Australian for beer.

I don’t want to tell you all the secrets of the male psyche, but todays blog is probably hinting at a few clues as to what is wrong with my psyche. Men are just a broader generalization of me. Pirating can be exchanged for: a spy, a super-hero, a G. I. Joe, an epic explorer, or a king.

The second beer, the one I actually drank, was called “Augustijn.” Which I assumed was the eastern orthodox spelling of Augustine. Turns out that’s not right either–unless you, like me, count Belgium as part of the eastern orthodox church. My purchase of this beer was really contingent on some things that I’d read about Augustine. I’ve been reading The History of Christianity and the author says “Augustine… has become the most influential theologian in the entire Western church, both Protestant and Catholic.” The Author of The History of Christian Thought puts it a little stronger: “His influence over Western thought–religious and otherwise–is total; he remains inescapable even over 15 centuries after his death.”

The thought was, I’ll drink what he drank. I mean, even if the quotes above are only half right–Augustine is kind of a big deal. Furthermore, he was born in 354, and the beer has been brewed since 1295–so the company really lucked out in finding his personal beer recipe after it was lost for all those years. I’ll just say it once; divine intervention.

In the liquor store I may have envisioned me and “the Hippo” kicking back with some brews. In the vision, I may have been teasing him about that whole pear stealing incident.

Generally then, it was the catchy name that caused my purchase. Which might just be a general principle that holds for most of my purchases. While I was out, I also purchased six bottles of body wash. Six because it was a great Air-miles deal. 80 Air-miles for every 3 purchased.

Some people might remember when it wasn’t okay for men to use fragrant body washes–or body washes at all. A time did exist when soap was the only male option–’needing’ shampoo was even a little girly. A real man rubbed the bar on his scalp–if he washed his hair at all. But now, thanks to the people at Axe & Old Spice, capitalism has toppled another equality barrier and male body washes are widely acceptable. Between the sexy women, funny commercials, and names like: Game Day, Smooth Blast, Live Wire, Show Time, and After Hours–who wouldn’t want to wash with these products? The only way the product could be more appealing is if they had tanks and heavy machinery on the labels, or if NASCAR drivers signed them.

Now, if you’re a woman, I probably know what you’re thinking. It’s probably something like: “Dang, our secret is out. Giggle, giggle. Of course we (meaning sexy women) are uncontrollably drawn to men who wash with these products. And, giggle giggle, of course the smells are so intense that as ‘good’ girls we go ‘bad’–but really? Has capitalism really taken away an ‘equality barrier’? Are you maybe not using that term correctly?”

That is a good point. But, you shouldn’t get all emotional because ‘Live Wire’ doesn’t give you a chance. Part of the problem is in your genes. I read a study that concluded that what women find attractive is like 80% based on smell. Unsurprisingly, the other 20% is based on a complex formula balancing: how competitive you are when you play sports, how many bicep curls you can do, and how you look shirtless.

You’re just wired for sensuous experiences–don’t fight it.

d.r.t.

Hooky

Yesterday, I did a few things that I love. I spent the evening with friends–cooking, talking and staying up till I was sleepy. The highlight of the day, though, was sailing. Not that it was a great day for it, and not that it was perfect. But, it was immensely enjoyable.

I’m not sure what it is about sailing that I love, and I won’t pretend to be awesome at it–many people are much better than I. But, I don’t tire of it; yesterday my hand was starting to get muscle spasms because I’d been out sailing so long. The sensible thing to do would have been to turn around to go in–but I was just going out for the second time–so I continued. Some weeks, if the wind is good, I’ll sail every day.

One of the things about sailing that I think resonates with me is that it connects you to your surroundings in a very intimate way. You learn to feel the wind; you learn the rhythm of the waves.

Perhaps, reader, you have seen a bad movie in which someone claims, or you’ve read somewhere in a book, that the sea was ‘calling’ to someone. You may have dismissed it as poor writing, or as a bad metaphor–which would show that you aren’t a sailor.

I understand what it is like to be called by the sea. It starts in the wind–at first you’re just more aware of the wind. You’re siting in your back yard, and you see it on the upper branches of the trees, or on the long grass of a nearby field. With time you start to recognize that you’re always aware of it–that you sense it, and find its absence agitating. Then you start to find yourself wandering along the water. You might not know why, but you find yourself watching the sea. Staring at it. Mesmerized by it. Feeling it tug on your heart with each little gust.

You might still be doubtful of the personification. Calls to me? Like it can talk? Like it has a personality?
Tempestuous. Stormy. Angry. Calm. Serene. Placid. Sailors have called the sea these things for a reason. Sailors know that some days the sea asserts that it is powerful. And, that rather than repeating itself to deaf ears, the sea will let you be. But somewhere in the distance a wave may be building–lets call it your wave–and it plans to deliver an underscored message to you.

I’m sure sailing tells you something about me, maybe that I don’t like to be crowded by people; I’m a bit of a loner; I have a staunch personality. I don’t know what exactly it says. But, if those things are true–but here is a glimpse of how I celebrate nature, and what I enjoy most about this world:

The sun is spilling reds and pinks over the horizon as it sets, and the wind is pushing our boat further and further, faster and faster, from shore. The bow pierces another wave, and warm salty spray licks up onto my face. I ease the sheet, and we accelerate. A gust; I lower myself in the harness and look out to the horizon. My free hand dangles down into the water, and I feel the tactile water skimming through my finger tips. I smile, and close my eyes.

D.R.T.

Part 1:The Coffee Shop

Sometimes I like to sit in a coffee shop and write. It somehow seems appropriate and I think it has something to do with being in an environment where I’m surrounded by people, but not involved with those people.

Today, however, I am involved. Not by choice though. You see, I seem to have writer’s block. I have before me a list of perfectly good topics–interesting, thrilling, emotional topics. When it comes down to writing, though, I’ve not been able to make any headway. Furthermore, I paid $4 for this ridiculous drink, so leaving before today is productive isn’t an option.

After about an hour of struggling in futility, I found myself drifting around the room. Taking stock of my fellow patrons wasn’t easy. I didn’t want them to know I was sizing them up. I would glance ever so briefly at someone, and then turn away, before they could sense my eyes.

In truth, the shop wasn’t particularly busy, or exciting. To my left is an old man reading the paper. He is dressed neatly in grey trousers, with a matching tweed jacket. I can’t know for certain, but I’d guess that his socks are pulled up to his knees. Further left, is the friendly, but frumpy clerk; and further still is a group of women who seem to be going through a morning ritual. At a table quite close to me, on my right, is another man about my age. He is somewhat tall, with dark features, and a melancholy posture. He is brooding before a table stacked with books.

My second glance at the man on my right is somewhat more liberal; it is less of a glance, and really more of a peer. I’m curious about his books and two titles are visible. Albert Camus’The Outsider and Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nausea. The titles seem predictable, and I can’t help but wonder if he doesn’t also have some Kierkegaard dispersed through the pile. He too, appears to be writing–which reminds me of why I came here, and paid for an overpriced drink. I’m just about to turn back to my work, when I notice a singular tear running down his face.

Just Take a Deep Breath, and Calm Down.

In keeping with the theme of the last post, music will be my topic for today. And, no doubt you’ll be surprised to hear this, but I’m not as hip as I once was.

You see, sometime over the last year I’ve come to realize that my music taste is pretty bad. Which, is a little strange. I’ve always thought of myself as a little bit ahead of the game. I mean, yeah–I know Ace of Base isn’t exactly with it, but its nostalgic. No–Enrique isn’t hot and hasn’t been since the early 2000s, but I have a special place in my heart for lame pop. But Coldplay, U2, Modest Mouse, Counting Crows–these are perfectly respectable bands right?

Turns out the answer is no if you’re not an angst filled teenager, or a 30 something soccer mom.

For a while I refused to believe it too. I though “I’m still hip, I’m still trendy,–just look at my semi-cool runners.”

Anyways, it turns out that my music taste consists of bland pop that has been fed to the masses. I’m not hip at all. My two year old runners, are, well, two years out of style.

Thank goodness a former housemate is ahead of the curve.

Here’s what I’ve been listening to for the last year that you haven’t:

Alexi Murdoch-Something Beautiful
Alexi Murdoch-Orange Sky
Matt and Kim-Daylight
Comme Des Enfants-Coeur De Pirate
Patty Griffin-Poor Man’s House
Patty Griffin-Long Ride Home
Willy Mason-Oxygen
Great Lake Swimmers-Moving Pictures Silent Films
Fleet Foxes-White Winter Hymnal

Now, after you listen to these you’ll probably be thinking something like “why does hip have to be so slow and depressing?”

You probably aren’t asking me in particular, but I’m going to tell you anyways. Slow and depressing shows you’re deep. I mean, lets not kid each other–its hard to be you. You’ve got that inner angst thing going on–you’re tortured by how hard your soft life is, and by how you were born a delicate flower in a world full of invasive weeds.

Now–if I was you, this is what I’d be thinking. “Really? Did the guy who’s last two blog posts talk about a ‘wounded heart’, being ‘hurt’, and being ‘lonely’–did he really just call me a delicate flower?”

Yes, yes, I did.

You see, if you’re a delicate angst filled flower who is trying to be hip, and you happen to find yourself crying before you go to sleep every night ’cause life is just so tough, then I’d like you to think of me as a big bottle of industrial strength Round-Up. And, this blog right here–is you getting a light sprinkling of my Round-Up-ie goodness.

Yeah–that’s right, at some point the narrative in this post became gibberish.

Don’t get all angsty about it.

The Soundtrack to My Life

Music permeates our existence. It lets us create, celebrate, dance, mourn, worship, and reminisce. Here are a few things that music reminds me of. [Sorry, so many music companies have issues with letting people embed links.]

Everyone Is Free to Wear Sunscreen – Baz Luhrmann

You are my first real girlfriend, and I’m calling you because this is one of my favorite songs at the moment and I want you to hear it. Later you’ll choose “our” song. But in my heart, this is the song that will remind me of sitting in your kitchen at the start of our relationship. I am happy when I think about being there. And, think that it was good.

Mothers of the Disappeared – U2

You’re listening to this song while I ask you if I can go to the upcoming U2 concert. You hear the line “Midnight, our sons and daughters, cut down and taken from us” and glibly say “what a pleasant though.” I realize that I won’t be going to the concert.

The World I Know (Acoustic) – Collective Soul

It’s dark, and this song is playing as we drive along. We park and start walking along the waterfront, and before long we’re talking like we always do. The first night I met you I thought you were stunning. And, in hindsight, I’ll come to think that you wanted me to kiss you by your car. I wanted to–but am terribly awkward so I don’t.

Tonight, we’ll take some pictures with my new camera. They’ll be bad. But we’ll also get a passerby to take one or two, and when we pose you’ll put your arms around my neck and pull me closer than I’m ready for. I will like it.

You’ll write me an email before I post this, and it will be our first contact since this night.

Charmless Man – Blur

I’m standing in a field. I’m dripping sweat, and have a hockey shin pad tied to my right leg. My right arm aches. The machete I’m swinging is dull, and I’m doing a terrible job pruning these trees. I hate my job. Sweat and sunscreen keep leaching into my eyes, causing them to sting. This song comes on my headset radio, and I will later buy the album because of it.

Romeo & Juliet – Dire Straights

I’m in university, and I like a woman I’m sort of getting to know. I don’t know it, but she likes someone who will become my future housemate. Later, we’ll become good friends, and find ourselves in a foreign country together. This song, which I’ll listen to repetitively while I have a crush on her, doesn’t “apply” to us. The song will, however, “apply” to another girl who we’ll spend a great deal of time discussing. I’ll try to date this other girl, and it will fail.

We will wonder if we should date, but won’t because you’ll find someone else.

I Believe in a Thing Called Love – The Darkness

I’ve just asked you out, but you’ve said no. Within a few months you will start dating someone else. And, will post a line from this song in a public space. I will assume that it’s about your new boyfriend, and this will be the first time I am hurt by you.

It won’t be the last.

Lightning Crashes – Live

The three of us we’re driving: windows down, music up, and the wind blowing through the car. It’s dusk and your sitting in the back seat asking me if I like this song. You are the first woman I will have real romantic feelings for. Years in the future, we’ll be hanging out and you’ll stick butterfly stickers all over the inside of my car. You’ll say “This is the last time we’ll hang out that I’m single.” It will be.

The Freshmen – The Verve Pipe

I’m in high school. We’re writing in each others yearbooks. I write “For the life of me I cannot remember what made us think that we where wise and we’d never compromise.” I imagine you reading it much later in life. I imagine you being struck by how profound and true it was. But, you don’t like that I’ve quoted a song. Later, I’ll be offered drugs because of you.

You’re a good friend.

The Scientist – Coldplay

The windows are open and the three of us are hanging out, playing Worms. This album just came out, and this song is playing in the background. I will be glad we lived together, and won’t every really express it very well.

Settle Down – Breaks Co-op

I’m angry–angry at you. I hate that I sunk more and more of myself to make this work–when it felt like you didn’t want it to.

It will be months before I start to deal with my anger, which will continue to snowball out of control until that time. Eventually, it will eat my insides out.

My recovery will start when I realize that staying angry is a way of pretending I don’t still care about you.

Mother-in-law – The Coasters

At first I find it strange that you’re married. I’ll find I don’t know how to act around your husband. This song will remind me of Saturday night oldies, and your house. I’ll grow to like your husband, and to be very happy for the two of you. But we’ll be in contact less and less, and then the two of you will move away.

I haven’t seen you, or your husband, for a few years.

Straight to Hell – Danny Michel
It’s dark. And, I’m waiting outside the club for you guys. I’m uncomfortable, because I don’t go to clubs very often. Inside it’s packed and dark. We find seats right at the front. More and more people pour in, and he gets on stage. I love his mellow sound, and the way he pulls a bunch of different things into his songs. You will drive an hour and a half to go home. And, I’ll realize much later that I should have offered to let you crash at my place. I won’t see you again, until just before I leave the country for a year. Too much time will have passed, and we’ll make awkward small talk.

Runaway Train – Soul Asylum

It’s fall, and the leaves are turning. But right now it’s warm. And, I’ve just gotten off the school-bus. I go down to our market to see how much pumpkin money we’ve earned.

I lie in sun listening to an old portable radio. I’m 13, and will grow to love the smell of pumpkins, and the prickliness of the stems. The smell and feel will remind me of my youth. And, the memory will be better than the original experience.

drt.

A Wounded Heart (Or, the blog that wasn’t yet.)

For more than a while the idea for this blog has been kicking around in the back of my head. But, now that it comes to writing it, I’m not sure that I feel its going to be as good as I imagined.

So I’ll stall.

Yesterday, and early this morning led me to pondering what makes up beauty. My housemate and I, as well as, two friends went to Mission, B.C. and then down to Mt. Baker in Washington. We slept under the stars on a vista not far from the top. I awoke to a beautiful sunny day, and to the realizaion that we’d been sleeping in a location with a beautiful view of the snow covered mountains and of a lush valley.

Many different things can be called “beautiful”, and so, the question is what is essential to them all? What defines beauty?

I don’t think I have it all figured out, but I do think I’ve figured out at least a minimum requirement. And, I think that’s contentment. You see, the view I woke up to could have been improved. It could have had a clear blue lake, fed by a waterfall–which would have made it that much more spectacular. But, it didn’t. And, it didn’t need one. The mountains were beautiful in precisely the way they presented themselves. If they had been any different they wouldn’t have been those mountains.

Now, lest you get me wrong, beauty isn’t made up entirely of contentment. And, contentment doesn’t necessitate beauty. But, I think that contentment with whatever it is that is described as beautiful, is a necessary condition for beauty.

Sorry about how long this post is going to be… but I didn’t post last Sunday. So I feel like I owe you–which brings me to my second stall. Someone said to me recently “You don’t write anything personal on your blog, and sometimes I don’t get the point.” Well, assuming you read this “random person,” the reason I don’t write personal things is because I’m trying to avoid something.

You see, of recent–meaning the last year or so, I’ve been dealing with what is rightly called loneliness. In fact, its been since early high-school since I’ve felt lonely. I’d forgotten how it feels. And, how bad it is for me. The battle isn’t over yet. In fact, lonely isn’t the right word. “Alone” captures it more.

I won’t go into the details of why–but the truth is that if you’re reading this, chances are that I really like you. In fact, I can’t think of one person I’d rather have read this, than call me up or email me. You see–one of the problems with blogs is that they are is some sense the commodification of me. Commodification–the analogy isn’t perfect, but here is how I think this goes down. You role in here whenever you want at whatever time you want, read what I have to say, probably don’t post a comment, and roll out. We don’t dialogue. We don’t talk. You get a little dose of my thoughts, figure out where “I’m at”, and then leave like a phantom.

I don’t think that’s a good thing. Now–I know that some of you call me/email me and that for you people my blog is an additional supplement. You can’t get enough of me–I dig that. But, don’t let reading my blog be our primary source of interaction. I guarantee you that if you blog, I don’t read it, or if I do I post comments regularly. Have you ever wondered how technology de-humanizes people?

I’ve just told you how.

In a way, this space is me. But, at best it is a poor knock off. In part, because my thoughts are more polished when I write, but in part because once something shows up in this space I’ve already processed it. You are reading old news, so if you try and fire up a conversation about something here one of two things will happen. I’ll either regurgitate what is here, or I’ll be disinterested. In either case the conversation won’t be impressive.

Don’t get the impression I’m angry here. I want you to be interested in me. I like that you like my thoughts. I’m happy to give you a privileged view into my life, and to narrate that view. But the truth is, you calling me up or emailing me, would mean a whole lot to me–and it’d be good for me. Don’t do it right this second, but do it sometime.

At this point I just don’t have the emotional energy to write more. As I mentioned the original idea for this post has been coming for a long time, and in itself it is an emotional topic. Here is a teaser:

We’re all hurt by someone, at some point.

The question is, what do you do next?

drt.