January 6, 2009


At times, I wrestle with myself; not the beating-up, self-lacerating, kind of wrestling you see on Spike. What brings me to sudden silence, and long absences, is the kind of wrestling not written, or viewed. It is for the confessional, the serious-minded, spirit, clinging to a battered boat.

My emotions (lately) are as windswept as the reflective memories of a Katrina survivor. [If the house I live in could be seen as analogous, I'd board up my heart, and apply for disaster relief.]

Each day, each hour, brings another storm.
There is little I can do to change those I love.

My family is in "serious" trouble...

...and, my absence is only temporary.

In order to be here [here, being, this space] I have to calm myself, gird myself, like a strong levee.

There are no rehearsals, or reversals.


I don't like how I've been feeling. Even to myself, I'm a burden.

I've scattered myself; blown myself, into the wind.

Like dust, an Urn on the Mantle...crying, crying,...

...flying, away.

Hold on, Son, I imagine him saying to me.
Instead, each day is a contest of Wills...

..a contest I'm sure to lose.




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