Something about seeing her in psychosis during the time that I was last in love with you, as I am certainly not in love with you again, brings me great sadness. Actually I don’t love you now and I never have.
Because you love her and there’s only one way this will end.
Selfishly, I asked you what of yourself you didn’t like as way to fall asleep.
Somehow I’m riding on a level of confidence, I didn’t believe I any longer possessed. It must be the drugs and certainty.
I finally got in touch with an older artist I used to work for. He’s 86, and tells me that candidly, at his age, there's no obligation to keep doing the work, the novel and the paintings and the shows and such, the only thing the keeps him going was the passion of being in love with a woman. It occurs to me that I think he‘s mistaken me for someone else. He doesn’t want to stay on the phone long, but I tell him of the prospect of freedom that one at times feels just by living in Los Angeles.
It’s not a lie in and of itself, but it’s not the truth entirely, not a truth realized certainly. Which is to say that something here is not to be believed.
Ten years of the same thing, advancing in no direction and so not an advancement at all.
Too many people believe in art, who want to make it, and do for the feeling of importance. Do not do that.
Frederic asked if I knew how the publishing regime works, and while I had an idea, I didn’t really know what he’d rely. That your agent spins on an element of your (the author’s) manuscript citing the desire to get full approval from the editor, and so you go ahead and change that element, perhaps it’s the end of the story, something significant no less, but of course the Editor also frets about some other idea in the text, so you get to revising again, at which point you’re rather nervouse because as it turns out you need not just the approval of the editor, but the committee who cosigns the Editor’s decision, and then at their behest with the concitomenat notes attached, you send in one final draft for the sensitivity reader and at that point you, if this process pleases you in any real way then it turns out you too are just an aesthetic bureaucrat.
You think I care about your pity and resentment. You’d never dream of an endurance like this. It is not the aversion to loss, it is the largest embrace of it, because you do not simultaneously receive loss and gain at once.
The somatic logic is obvious and operates on the order of hypnotism, but to accuse me of psychological projection? That bears out in no reality for which I’m the point of view. I don’t want anything generally, so how could I want and therefor expect anything from other people, especially when I ultimately feel quite comfortable blaming myself for literally anything that happens to me. This is the purpose of projection is it not? Please, stop trying to steel my spotlight, you ego freak.
My failings in not being able to supposedly tolerate any one emotion does not manifest narratively, like it does for you. I certainly wish it did.
Where were you when I needed anyone? Your politeness betrays your sentiments, but I already knew them anyway, and why I didn’t need to you spin out. As if saying anything makes it more true. That’s how a fool’s truth works. You’ll now come to learn all that I’m so incapable of forgetting.
Ever the shore works hard to widdle away the sedimentary stuff into oblivion, as if that concomitant detritus settles elsewhere like the inside the core of an unimagined planet.