The Clarity of Night

The Anachronist

2012-02-02T18:59:00.002-05:00

she walked
the cemeteries
where trees
had grown tall
believing that
with the tickle
of a name
on the brain
she would
dis-cover him

The Lights

2012-01-27T19:46:00.002-05:00

the faraway sun calms
from its day of storms
and the crystalline heavens
glint in the blackest cold

Aurora could be the words
to ignite overhead
I could burn to surf
the Borealis

you might look up
at the blue curiosity
or question my green
fluorescence

you might even stop
or remember to forget
all the silent reasons
to recall me

An Intriguing Interview with Theresa Weir (aka Anne Frasier), Author of THE ORCHARD

2012-01-20T07:59:00.001-05:00

(On the night of January 11th, I sat down with best selling author Theresa Weir, who also writes thrillers under the name Anne Frasier, to discuss her latest major release--her memoir, THE ORCHARD. Although the book has gotten a great amount of attention for its study of American farm life and the environmental damage of pesticides, I saw it as something much more dark and personal. Read on to see just how deep we delved.)

Jason: Hey there! Great to see you tonight!

Theresa: Hi! This is my first time using internet chat, so go easy on me.

Jason: Piece of cake.

Theresa: I have my glass of wine, so I'm all set.

Jason: Excellent! We should all have a glass of wine. Maybe the Clarity readers would like a glass. Anyone??

So your book, THE ORCHARD, is a memoir. It touches a bit on your childhood, but mainly focuses on your life from your early twenties through your marriage to Adrian, an apple farmer in Wisconsin. I was very much engrossed in the book. The people were marked by a particular kind of isolation and darkness, which they struggled to understand and overcome.

I'm probably going to focus on very different things than most of the other interviewers you've talked to. Are you ready?

Theresa: Bring it!

Jason: At the beginning of the book, you establish a fundamental theme, an undercurrent, with two mini-stories. One of them is a legend, and the other is fact, because it happened to you personally. Tell me a little bit about the legend--the little girl whose father was a pesticide salesman. Set it up for us.

Theresa: This is a story I used to hear all of the time. About the pesticide salesmen who drank pesticide and herbicide to prove that it was "safe." You can Google it and find people who witnessed it. I don't know if Lily, his daughter, was real.

(BTW, the wine is EXCELLENT.)

Jason: Lily's father used to take her on sales calls, right? The father would speak to groups of farmers and try to sell the pesticide. The father said that the pesticide is safe enough to drink. So he drank it.

Theresa: Yes. The herbicide companies were so desperate to prove that the products were safe.

Jason: But he didn't stop there. He shoved the glass in the face of his little girl and tells her to drink it too.

Theresa: We all tend to do what we're told. (Until we wake up.)

Jason: In the course of the book, we learn that pesticides are anything but safe. In fact, apple farmers had a tendency to die of uncommon forms of cancer. But that's not why I find the legend so intriguing. Parents are supposed to nurture and protect their children, aren't they?

Theresa: Right. And children trust their parents to do what is right.

Jason: This father uses his daughter in a particularly devastating way. He puts his needs (financial/reputation) so far ahead of hers that he is willing to make her drink poison. And she does. Why? Is more than just doing what you're told?

Theresa: I think the father and his daughter represented what was going on in the whole farming community. People believing what they want to believe.

Jason: Lily has learned a terrible lesson. Not only can she not count on her father to protect and nurture her, but he is willing to directly harm her. She has learned that she is unsafe at the most basic level. That she is alone. She probably drank it because she trusted him. Even though her mind was screaming not to trust him in that moment. We don't want to believe such things are happening when they are. In midst of the storm of emotions, we default to the assumption of trust. We only tend to accept the horrible truth later.

Theresa: Exactly. And children in farm families are sacrificed for the farm. I don't know if I can say for money, because a lot of it deals with a lifestyle and culture. It might actually go back to when farmers had a lot of children in order to help farm.

Jason: ~QUIRKY QUESTION ALERT~ I want to ask you to put yourself in the shoes of that little girl for a moment. Imagine that your father, the salesman, is now very old and has dementia. One night sitting with him in a quiet, darkened nursing home room, your mind turns introspective as you watch him sleep. You are grown and married. You are not outwardly affected by your childhood, but may very well be internally. What do you say to him as he sleeps? What do you speak in that dark, quiet room?

Theresa: It's a tough thing to deal with a father who possibly abused and neglected you as a child. Because of the fact that now he's a vegetable, and you can't really say anything. There is nothing to say. You want to know why, but he's too far gone to even know that he's done anything. And it's funny that Alzheimer's patients often rewrite history and see themselves as the hero of their own stories.

Jason: I can see that. There is too much tangled up to even say. Even if it is just out loud to yourself, and he won't hear it. It doesn't feel like anything is worth saying, because it doesn't unravel the mess.

Theresa: I see everybody as victims. Maybe I'm too soft, but that's how I see it.

Jason: The second little story is something that happened to you. A neighbor, an adult woman, badgered you into eating wild mushrooms that she prepared. You didn't feel comfortable saying no to her. What happened afterward?

Theresa: Ah, yes. I ate the mushroom, then found out it was poisonous and that I would die a horrible death. (Of course, it wasn't poisonous.) So I waited to die. And I didn't tell anybody, because I figured they would be mad. The book was originally titled Waiting to Die, and it was broken up into sections where different people were waiting to die.

Jason: Not even tell your mother? Did you literally think that they would be mad?

Theresa: No, I didn't tell my mother. I thought she would get mad. It was years later that I told her. I guess dying was better than facing her anger.

Jason: Here's a basic question. Was it more common for you to have to address the emotional needs of your mother, or your mother to address your emotional needs? Which statement sounds more natural to you?

Theresa: Oh, yeah. The emotional needs of my mother. Definitely.

Jason: In your story, I see you as Lily after being after being made to drink the poison. Something taught you that you were unsafe and that adults were not there to nurture and protect you. Adults were a threat. It infuses how you describe that event. It is very natural for children who have to deal with an onslaught of emotional needs from their parents to have thin emotional boundaries, because they were denied the chance to fully form before having to deal with someone else's needs. The emotional state of the parents affects them very quickly and strongly. On the other hand, they feel like if they ever have emotional needs, that they are on their own. There is no one to help them.

Theresa: So true about how I thought of adults. They couldn't be trusted.

Jason: So with that childhood behind you, we find you living in Wisconsin in your twenties working in a bar owned by your uncle. Although it was an out-of-the-way place without much excitement, I feel like you were in a state of non-threat. Not especially happy, but not especially anxious or sad either.

Theresa: Yes, I was working in the bar and living at my uncle's. That was definitely a non-threatening environment. (Illinois.) My uncle was a softie. That was the other thing. I did have a lot of other people in my life who were very positive influences.

Jason: Adrian, your future husband, walks into that bar. How did Adrian interact with you differently than other men? What was unusual about him?

Theresa: That's a tough question. He acted somewhat aloof. That's what I really recall. But I knew better. He kind of treated me like one of the boys. We were both really young and inexperienced.

Jason: In the book, he seems to really draw your attention. And your uncle's. Adrian was even dressed differently. Just a really strong sense of differentness, if that's a word.

Theresa: Well, he was the golden boy of the community. People knew of him, but he rarely left the farm. And of course he walked into the bar dressed in a black suit after attending a wedding. He was knockout handsome, so people notice him.

Jason: Your final description of him in the book was the biggest tear-jerker-kind-of-moment for me, but I get ahead of myself.... The "courtship," if we can really call it that, was certainly unconventional, wasn't it?

Theresa: Yes. I certainly didn't have any interest in going on conventional dates. That just wasn't me at all. And it wasn't him. We got married 3 months later, lol!

Jason: How was he different than the people close to you who failed you?

Theresa: I'm not sure he was that different. In some ways, I think he did fail me. Weird to say, I know. He was never threatening. I guess I could say that. He never scared me.

Jason: That was my next question, actually. Could his aloofness be similar in some ways? Aloofness forces you to bend to another's emotional needs. They aren't necessarily there for you in return.

Theresa: The one thing I never touched on in the book was how funny he was. We were really funny together. Like a comedy team. But I could never make that work in the book. It didn't fit. I wrote some funny scenes, but removed them. That's true about the emotional aloofness.

Jason: After you were married, you were in for a shock once you moved into the "hired man's" house on his family's farm, weren't you? Adrian kind of disappeared on you.

Theresa: Yes, I felt like this toy he'd brought home. He didn't even move his clothes to our house. And he continued to eat many of his meals with his parents. Bizarre!!! It was like he didn't leave home and just came to visit me in that little house when he wanted to play.

Jason: When I first talked you about the book, I said that I felt it was about prisons. The traumas and threats suffered by the children in the story (Lily, you, and Adrian) create an emotional prison. If the world is inherently unsafe, then where do you turn? Where is home? What is happiness? Isn't happiness just the moment before the "bad" comes back and destroys the stability you were trying to build? The resulting anxieties, distrust, and isolation box you in and limit you. Most of these "prisons" are very intangible. It's impossible to see the bars. Even for the person trapped within it. But Adrian's prison was different, wasn't it? It was much more tangible.

Theresa: I think that was extremely perceptive of you. I don't think anybody ever mentioned the prisons to me. And when you brought it up, I thought, yes! That's exactly it. Because often when we write, we don't recognize the themes that are right in front of us. And yes, about Adrian's prison. He was trapped. It was tangible, but it was also mental. If he'd left the farm, which he wanted to do, he would have felt even more trapped because of the guilt he would have experienced. First born son and all that.

Jason: True, very true. He had a heavy emotional prison too.

Theresa: I think the prison observation could start a whole new line of self-help books. But you're okay, I'm the one in prison.

Jason: (It takes a prison to know a prison.)

Theresa: (lol!)

Jason: (It took me a long time to measure the bounds of mine.) So, you found yourself alone in that house. It didn't take you long to say f-this. What did you do?

Theresa: (I think if a person decides to stay in the prison, they have to make the best of it. So one book could be don't hate on the prison.)

Jason: (Interesting! That's not a view that would generally be my nature to accept. However, if you break the bad forces that the prison is causing, you can be okay in the after-calm. It's when you are pushed and pulled and don't know why that is the problem.)

Theresa: Well, he had a lot of growing up to do. I couldn't accept being left alone in that house. Like a toy, like I mentioned.

Jason: You decided to leave the house and him.

Theresa: And some people get mad when they read the book and say, damn girl, how did you stand it? And why in the world did you stay? But I wasn't used to being treated well by anybody, so I really didn't think about it too much. It wasn't a big deal. But I did actually pack up a couple of times. But came back. And yeah, one time I hit and killed a horse in the dark. That was awful. Awful. And then I had no car of my own.

Jason: Right. But something changed not too long after. He opened up to you, didn't he? He stepped away somewhat from his family. He admitted that he had second thoughts and pulled back on the marriage initially.

Theresa: Yes. I think he matured. And he began to see that the "adults" in his life were very often wrong. This wasn't something he'd dealt with or questioned until I came along. So I suppose I brought that with me. That most people are full of shit. Or a lot of people are. Or that you have to be able to sort it out. He accepted it all without question.

Jason: In your book, if we look up at the stars from the prisons there, one mythical hope glimmers. One thing has the potential to save you and Adrian and defeat the hold his parents had over you. Of course, it's a tragic kind of hope. The kind that would make everything right, solve all the problems, and slay the dragons. But real events never live up to fairy tales.

Theresa: Right.

Jason: And the name of that hope was "Sweet Melinda." Tell us what that was.

Theresa: Yes, Sweet Melinda. Adrian always wanted to prove himself, and the success of the Sweet Melinda apple that he was cultivating would have given him a voice on the farm. Because he was never allowed input and was always treated as the worker bee. He called himself the worker bee.

Jason: He grafted those trees. They were his creation. If he succeeded with the Sweet Melindas, he would rise up. He would have earned power for himself. The feel almost mythical in the book. Touched by the gods.

Theresa: Right. The sad thing is that he was one of the most intelligent people I've ever known, but his mother and father never saw him for who he was. He was just labor. Free labor.

Jason: The early indications for the apple were amazing. Your description made me want to eat a bushel. But when you finally got a full crop, and the moment of truth came, what happened?

Theresa: He'd been fighting the codling moth for years. His father had fought the codling moth. This was actually something he and his mother fought about. I didn't go into it in the book, but he tried to tell her that she was having him apply pesticide at the wrong time. But she wouldn't listen to him. They fought EVERY SINGLE DAY about it. And she wouldn't believe him. He told her the old trees were infected and they HAD TO BE CUT DOWN before they destroyed the rest of the orchard. She wouldn't listen. She refused to do it. And the codling moth won. He was right.

Jason: The moth got the Sweet Melindas?

Theresa: Yes.

Jason: You cut open the apples, and the moth larva had eaten the inside, right? Infected from within.

Theresa: But the Sweet Melindas actually represented the whole orchard, because most of the orchard was contaminated.

Jason: When you were faced with the loss of the Sweet Melinda trees, you were ready to do anything, to use any chemical, legal or not, no matter what the cost, to save them. That was your initial reaction.

Theresa: Yes. There was the contemplation of doing whatever it took to save these perfect apples.

Jason: Why aren't we so prepared to do the same for ourselves? Why aren't we so fierce in protecting ourselves? Fascinating question.

Theresa: I know. It is a fascinating question.

Jason: In a profound way, Adrian was relieved to develop terminal cancer. It was most likely from the pesticides he was constantly spraying and becoming drenched in. And his mother reacted with intense anger at him.

Theresa: She called him a coward and told him he wanted to die. The wanting to die part was actually true. It was his only way out. In his mind, anyway.

Jason: So much pathology in her statements, I can't even begin.... He did finally escape the prison when he passed, but it was also your liberation too. In a way, at the end of the book, you seem like a different person. Your children are clearly a solace to you. Like some of the wounds may have healed. (Although never all.)

Theresa: Yes, with his dying, we were all able to escape. The "kids" are a solace, but I do worry that they will always be somewhat damaged by everything that has happened. I think we all kind of feel that our lives ended when we left, even though we had to leave.

Jason: ~FINAL QUIRKY QUESTION BARRAGE~ What is the nicest thing one could ever have said to Adrian?

Theresa: That he was a wonderful father.

Jason: Did he worry that he wasn't?

Theresa: No. I think he knew he was a good father. He was everything his parents weren't.

Jason: Perhaps that's the key. Perhaps he would have very much liked to know that he broke the dark and abusive cycle. And I saw that in the book. For example, he never let your son spray the pesticides.

Theresa: Adrian's dad spent zero time with him. Adrian was with his kids all the time. And right about the pesticides. I think that's when everything solidified for him. He had to break the cycle.

Jason: Last. Lastly, what is the nicest thing that someone could say to you?

Theresa: I think the same thing would go for me. That I was a good mom. I think he and I took our dysfunctional upbringings and together we became really good parents. Or at least I like to think so.

Jason: I know what that desire feels like. In a strange way, maybe it's the opposite of the abuse cycle. Just as illogical though. By giving our children something we needed but didn't get, we seem to feel better ourselves. Like -1 + 1 = 0. We have restored balance to the world.

Theresa: Yes. That makes sense.

Jason: For the record, Theresa, I think you succeeded. You rose above the prison and become the mother you didn't have for yourself.

Theresa: I do adore my kids. And I always wanted them to have the freedom to do whatever they wanted to do.

Jason: Here endeth the interview! Your memoir is one I won't soon forget. I really think it should be read for its psychological content as much as its environmental content. I encourage everyone who was intrigued by our talk tonight to go out and grab it immediately! I loved the opportunity to talk about the book. And to hang out!

Theresa: Thank you! All the way around. Have a wonderful night, Jason.

Jason: You too! And thank you for sharing these difficult issues with the world.

The Promise

2012-01-10T18:17:00.002-05:00

I'm sorry, but I'm just thinking of the right words to say
I know they don't sound the way I planned them to be
but if I had to walk the world I'd make you fall for me
I promise you, I promise you, I will
--When in Rome, The Promise

The high school chemistry teacher droned.

The class fidgeted. Some even talked quietly in the back. The teacher wasn't aware. He lectured in a strange little bubble with his eyes half-closed. Like meditation.

A guy in the second row glanced at the girl next to him and rolled his eyes.

She smiled.

The guy didn't have to listen. He already knew the material. Once, he thumbed through the book just to make sure he would get to learn something new before the end.

"I'm going to kill myself," someone whispered nearby.

"If you do, please take him with you," another said.

The guy turned again, and the girl looked down at her desk.

His normally ordered brain spun. Not enough traction. And his throat felt tight.

"Hey, I could--" he whispered, but stopped.

She looked up.

"I could, um, help you with this stuff. If you want. This dude is the worst."

"No, I've got it," she said. "He's just putting me to sleep."

His brain still spun, but now his throat was tighter.

He told himself to keep his mouth shut. That was the smartest thing.

She smiled at him again.

He smiled back.

Brought to Mind

2012-01-02T13:03:00.000-05:00

dark path
shadowed by starless night
curves back and back
where figures mill about the bushes
auld eyes glittering
lang syne silent
I walk ahead and ahead
but my vision is long
when I turn back
to the glittering eyes
growing more numerous
for every inch of terrain
I gain
and I know
they'll never catch me
through the twists and bends
of every place
I've dared to share
my face

Philadelphia (In Old City on Christmas Eve)

2011-12-24T10:56:00.006-05:00

A winter hush blanketed Philadelphia.

I sat in Washington Square ringed by brick and colonial windowpanes. Few walked the night, and my breath feathered in clouds.

Once, this ground interred yellow fever victims.

I thought about them.

And generations disappeared.

I turned to see the spirit of the City next to me. A face of cobblestones. Eyes of jewelers' clocks. Forgotten streets lined its old overcoat.

It watched the orange lights. People in warm houses. "I like the feel of them," it said. "But no one sits here with me anymore."

The hush deepened.

Ice crackled.

"I will," I said.

(This 100 word story (exactly) is part of Loren Eaton's shared storytelling for Christmas Eve. Check it out!)

How the Grinch REALLY Stole Christmas

2011-12-20T19:34:00.003-05:00

My seventh year was the last year I believed in Santa Claus.

And the Grinch is to blame.

I didn't have older siblings to spill the beans. The bratty neighbor didn't dime out St. Nick. No, it happened when I had an epiphany while watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

Well, that's not entirely fair. It was a combination of the Grinch and a standard, everyday clock. Those were the tools of my loss of innocence.

Here's how it went down. We all know that the Grinch is a burglar and a larcenist. He'd be doing hard time if it weren't for the fact that the Whos are biologically incapable of conceptualizing jails. I watched the Grinch breaking and entering via the chimney. I watched him slink around the room and manage to add corruption of minors to his rap sheet as he made off with the presents, food, and Cindy Lou's trust in adults forever. The epiphany came, however, when I suddenly realized how…much…time…it……took. Around 5 minutes for a single house.

That got me thinking. Even if you worked in some serious magic mojo and assumed that Santa could teleport himself in and out of the house in 1 second, my immediate neighborhood alone would take one minute to deliver the goods. If my neighborhood took one minute, a few square miles around me could easily take 1 hour. You see where this is going. There just isn't enough time, man. Wake up and smell the math.

I didn't really hate the Grinch for ruining the magic of my childhood.

If anything I blamed myself for being so thick.

But maybe I'm being too forgiving. We just had to break the anti-Santa news to our 12-year-old.

Maybe the song was right. Maybe I was robbed worse that the Whos.

Stink, stank, stunk.

Marley was as Dead as a Doornail

2011-12-15T07:58:00.004-05:00

There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing [ ] remarkable in his taking a stroll at night....
--Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

I am particularly fond of A Christmas Carol. Any story that touches on the unseen world, explores Everyman, teaches wisdom, and stands the test of time is a multi-platinum winner in my book. It also follows an old tradition of telling ghost stories on Christmas Eve. And now it's your chance!

Loren Eaton, of Clarity of Night contest fame, is hosting a shared short story event on his blog I Saw Lightning Fall. You have 100 words (exactly) to write a chill-inspiring story for Christmas Eve. You post it on your own blog and send Loren a link, or he has offered to host it.

Definitely hop over if you're interested. I'm intrigued by the thought of joining in that ancient tradition. I am going to write one.

Paradise

2011-12-12T08:14:00.000-05:00

In the night, the stormy night, away [he'd] fly.
--Coldplay, Paradise

The boy stayed in his room while things moved outside the walls.

Black shapes, grimacing faces, and the evil eye. Like open windows with no curtains, no shutters. No one even bothered to put glass in the panes.

The boy stayed in his room while things moved outside the walls. He didn't look up, because he could feel them scurrying then stopping to stare. It was so much better when they ignored him.

He concentrated on the work in his hands and the cut papers scattered on the floor. His fingers worked. It was the best he could hope to do. To fashion what he never otherwise would have.

The holes in the wall were too small for the things to step through. But much too small to hide him (or for him to step out). Once in a while they laughed or spat, but he never stopped or looked up. They moved all hours of the day and night. And that is just how it was.

Composer (When I Think of You)

2011-12-05T19:48:00.001-05:00

i want the anticipation
hanging in exquisite silence
like an audience
before a symphony
then the first note
so deliciously sweet
bends like the draw
of a violin bow
but the sigh is your hunger
first fed
and the bend is your neck
with lips parting
and hunger is heavy
behind the composition
and the audience grips armrests
to not tear apart the air
that carries the notes
in shaking frustration
dark and lusting
so strangely weaving
feminine and masculinity
alive and slick with
complexity and harmonics
beyond words
and I can discover
a melody rising
turning
crying out
collapsing
thrusting
dying
twisting
arching
and i could compose forever
if you would let me
and no two phrases
would ever be the same
because my creativity
is infinite
and i would out-sail the tides
of ecstasy and transcendence
because the primeval fires
burn with art and throbbing rhythm
and the torture becomes the resisting
reaching for the conductor's baton
so translate the performance
into writhing and poise
because it truly is
a death not so little
and when the waters calm
and we wait for the familiar darkness
in the huge cozy theater
until all the instruments
cannot abide the silence
and leap again
to play

Beer Philosophers #12 - Streaming

2011-12-01T18:36:00.003-05:00

"There really isn't anything more sublime than the ability to pee in the woods."

"How so?"

"Think about it. You're inside, you have to go, you walk outside. You unzip, take matters directly in hand, and you relieve yourself of your unwanted burdens. No plumbing necessary. No toilet. No scented bowl disinfectant. No infrastructure of any kind. There is no need to manufacture plastics, smelt iron, or buy a pipe wrench. Just you, trees, thirsty ground, and a sparkling fountain that doesn't even disturb your wardrobe. Girls can't pee in the woods, man. Not like this. That's like an invitation for urinary chaos."

"Um, I'm having a little trouble with the not-disturbing-your-wardrobe this time."

"Oh. Bummer."

"Don't worry. It'll dry."

"Then when I'm done, I zip up, and voila! I stride back into the cabin proud and ready for a fresh beer."

"You know. I'm glad we have this time to spend together."

"Me too."

"In fact, I look forward to our next session of sharing our manhood with nature."

"But not too eagerly."

"Yeah. Good point. That would be weird."

Blowing on the Embers

2011-11-29T22:07:00.000-05:00

just me
in a forest
high over
the highway
Orion tilts
loosens his belt
and Andromeda
smiles overhead

just me
in a forest
by a stove fire
in the dark
the radio
weaves
at the edge
of my consciousness
like old movies
I've seen before

just me
in a forest
two nightfalls
two dawns
three hundred miles
and I'm not
such a bad companion
after all

Nap for November

2011-11-23T18:14:00.003-05:00

to sleep in the raspy music of wind
crackling leaves on barren trees
to sleep under blankets of mother sun
deer bedded under the mountain's eaves

Happy Thanksgiving!

Shock the Monkey

2011-11-18T09:33:00.001-05:00

Something knocked me out' the trees
Now I'm on my knees
--Peter Gabriel, Shock the Monkey

The city darted around him.

Taxis and scissoring legs.

People crisscrossed, faces repeating. A few eyes caught his. Most did not.

The city darted.

Taxis and scissoring legs.

Motion and motion and motion.

Someone bumped his shoulder. He had tried to get out of the way. The other did not.

A horn blared. It hurt his ears.

A bus cut into traffic.

The light at a gridlocked intersection changed to green.

His phone rang. He checked the number. He ran his hand hard through his hair.

The phone still rang.

He threw it, spinning upwards and shattering on the concrete of a parking garage.

A few eyes caught his.

Most did not.

Taxis raced and legs scissored. He struggled to breathe. People passed with repeating faces.

Motion and motion and motion.

And he would only add to it if he ran.

The INTP Experience - Chapter 1: Why Do I Feel Disconnected?

2011-11-14T22:20:00.001-05:00

(The Myers-Briggs personality typology divides human personalities into one of 16 types. Exploring your type can give helpful insights into how you relate with the world. My type, represented by the traits Introverting, iNtuiting, Thinking, and Perceiving (or INTP for short) is sometimes called The Architect. It is one of the less numerous types. When I was young, I would have loved to hear from older INTPs. It might have helped me understand how my life was unfolding. For this reason, I've launched this blog series. As an INTP firmly entrenched in middle age, perhaps a few of my thoughts may help other INTPs make sense of their sometimes challenging life experience.)

Welcome to the first of what will hopefully become a series of articles wrestling with the nature of INTP-dom. (I could say INTP-ness, but that sounds somehow naughty.) When I read conversations posted among INTPs, I notice a curious and common undercurrent. Sometimes it's the outright subject of the conversation, and sometimes it hovers just beneath. It's an undercurrent of feeling disconnected, different, and isolated from others.

I've also noticed that analyzing and understanding the source of this particular problem seems to be elusive for INTPs. Although we define ourselves by our ability to apply logic and structure to understand and navigate the world, this problem seems to hide just beyond our perception. Every time we get close to grasping it, it slips through our fingers. In fact, we have a hard time even successfully defining the boundaries of the problem, much less discovering the ultimate solution.

Never one to shy away from the hard topics, I'm going to begin my INTP series with an exploration of this conundrum. How does our INTP nature react with the personalities of others in a way that leads us to feel this odd, hard-to-define isolation?

First of all, you'll notice I said feel. As we know, the entire subject of feelings is a squirrely topic for INTPs. The introverted feeling cognitive function is in the shadow position for us. That's the ability to build a clear, persistent sense of who we are as people based on how we feel about ourselves. We are driven by thinking rather than feeling. For example, if our understanding of the world leads us to the conclusion that we are an X kind of person, then that means we're an X kind of person. Our feelings will then follow that decision. If later, we gain evidence that we are a Y kind of person, then we are a Y kind of person, and our feelings will follow again. It's that easy to change our self-identity. We don't have the natural ability to "just know" the kind of person we are. We look for evidence of who we are, then make a decision based our analysis. This process can be dangerous, however, if jarring, paradigm-changing evidence hits us too often. Our lives can be turned upside down by it. There certainly can be value in having a strong emotional anchor to us through storms and rough water. As INTPs, we can get blown onto the rocks.

Because our own emotions are suspect and we minimize their importance, we fail to understand the importance, influence, and changeability of emotions in others. Our extroverting feeling function is in the inferior position, so it develops last. Basically, when we're young, our rationality bullies our emotions into a tightly controlled box, and when they erupt, they're frightening, exaggerated, and uncontrolled. As we age, however, we can build up our feeling skills. It's a painful, uncomfortable process, but slowly we can learn from mistakes and observations about ourselves and others. After years of struggling yet maintaining a fierce effort to analyze and understand, I now feel that at the age of 41, I can offer some potential insights into where we fit in the social landscape. These are kinds of insights I would have liked to have available to me when I was a young INTP.

The Hardest Feeling for Anyone to Quantify: Feeling "Normal"

The most difficult kind of self-awareness is understanding exactly what constitutes "normal" in our daily existence. For example, you don't really think about the many nuances of breathing. It just comes naturally most of the time. You only become aware of breathing when it is not normal. That's when stronger feelings are evoked, and you have a biologically-programmed reason to remember. For example, you remember being short of breath, you remember choking, but you don't remember the last five minutes of breathing right now.

Biologically, we remember the horrible things the most, the great things second, and the "normal" things least of all. Actually, it's an effective method of survival. First rule: don't get hurt or killed. Second rule: get the good stuff and enjoy it. Third Rule: do all the boring stuff in between. The challenge is digging out of the mental complacency of normal to make sharp observations. It's easy to see the friction points. It's hard to deconstruct the nuances of each step when you're flying on autopilot.

"Breathing" for an INTP

When an INTP wakes up to a new day and walks out the front door, what is the INTP revved up to do? What's our "thing?" What do we do like breathing?

Some personality types are honed, practiced, and pumped up to enforce the RULES. They're the Guardians. Some are eager to see what the day brings and find opportunities to have a GREAT TIME. They're the Artisans. Some are primed to reach out with their hearts and find MEANING IN THE WORLD. They're the Idealists. INTPs, on the other hand, are one of the Rational types. INTPs are primed, practiced, and ready to identify, analyze, understand, and then predict the workings of the world.

It's an internal, individualized, mental process. Basically, the INTP spends every day gathering information and fitting it into a sweeping, growing, and universal body of understanding of…everything. It could be cloud formations, what makes wind, traffic patterns, cooking styles, kangaroos, bad breath, brain chemistry, overgrown toenails, politics, arguments, star formation, how grass grows, or whether you need to put cream on that weird rash. The topics, however, are less important than the process itself. If we observe X situation undergoing Y action causing Z result, we remember that. If we observe it again, we remember we've seen the same evidence twice. If we observe it a third time, we may decide that we have discovered a potential Truth (that is, something we believe to be true until new information suggests that it requires modification). Each Truth becomes a predictor. If we observe X situation undergoing Y action again, then we can expect the Z result. If we are correct in predicting Z, then we really start feeling awesome. That feels right. That feels normal.

When we have amassed enough Truths to predict a lot of things, we begin to get noticed by the people around us. We begin to seem insightful, wise, and almost psychic at times. When I was young, I could often predict a person's entire point after hearing the first few words of their sentence. When I would answer their question or react to their point correctly, their jaw would drop. The prediction was the result of the sum of my knowledge of the person, my knowledge of prior conversations, what just happened that might have sparked a certain thought in their head, and the verbal cues pointing to where the conversation is about to go. Again, a successful prediction equates with understanding, and that feels good to an INTP.

This drive to amass information, form structures, and predict the world permeates everything an INTP does. To many people, what I just explained sounds exhausting at best, or pathological at worst. But if you're an INTP, I trust this process happens like breathing. You might not even be aware that you're doing it. This process is the way we make sense of the world and find our place within it. It makes us feel at ease, controlled, and calm.

The Handy-Dandy INTP Supercalifragilistic Encyclopedia

So, in a way, an INTP is handed a huge, blank encyclopedia at birth, and the INTP's life is spent filling it up. And not from beginning to end. All sorts of points will be hit in the middle, and the knowledge spreads out from there. If you're really lucky, by the end of your life, most of the empty spaces will be filled in.

Each day, the INTP walks around with this encyclopedia always at hand, always ready to record a new insight, make a revision, or use it to predict what is likely about to happen. It can also be whipped out at parties to spark interesting conversation or to twist it into humor. INTPs can be charming and charismatic, providing endless entertainment for those who love trivia, philosophy, or other off-the-wall conversation.

Did you hear that word I slipped in there INTPs?

Entertainment.

Yeah, I said it. If you have a decently-sized encyclopedia, you probably know what I'm talking about all too well. But feeling like the entertainment can piss you off after a while. It's divisive. When you go to see a show, there's an audience and a stage, and those two groups of people don't mix. The audience just wants their laughs when they want them, then go home. It's the Nirvana effect: here we are now, entertain us.

INTPs use charm and humor and conversation as a tactics to draw people closer and to have social interaction. If you're older, you've probably learned by now that, in the end, it doesn't work. We fail to gain the closeness we're craving. Instead, we're directed to exit stage door left when the show is over.

Yet, we use our encyclopedias this way because we really don't know what else to do. It's our way of feeling out other people. Are they interested in what's going on in our heads? Are they interested in our observations and understandings? Do they have similar thoughts? Can I help them with what I've learned? Can they help me?

Humor can be a very powerful tool in reaching out. It often requires intelligence. It's an indicator. Does the other person get it? Can they follow the humor? Can they reciprocate? That's the plan, at least. But when the attempt doesn't click, that's when we're either rejected as a geek/freak, or we get hired as the entertainment. For those of you who have been the night's feature presentation, it can be cool. But another part of you says FUCK THAT. If you're going to be used and dismissed, the least they can do is pay you well for it. Am I right?

Hello? Is Anybody Out There Hearing Me?

So why do we have this recurring feeling that we're not jiving with people? Why is it hard to get close to someone? And why is it that once we do seem to get close, it tends to erode and disintegrate?

On the one hand, the reason is terribly simple. What is not simple is the subtle mental and emotional chemistry that goes on within us that results in those hard-to-navigate feelings. After all, no person makes us feel anything. We are the reason we feel something. All feelings come from within us. The other person is just the target that we are hanging our emotions onto. We can just as easily hang them on someone else.

So, let's turn back to what is normal for an INTP. That is where the problem lies. We may not even realize we're toiling away at our encyclopedias. We just do it. And like all people, we innately assume that everyone thinks and does the same things we do. Why would we believe any differently? We all follow the golden rule: if we treat others how we want to be treated, they will reciprocate. Right?

No. Unfortunately, they often don't.

They are following the golden rule also, but their version of it. They often want something fundamentally different. As you try to provide one thing, they are hoping to receive something else, and vice versa.

INTP's are well under 2% of the population. If you are INTP female, you are well under 1% of the population. Even our close rational cousins, the INTJs, feel somewhat alien when we interact with them. INTJs do not share our Perceiving function, and, therefore, they can create their mental constructs in a vacuum. They tend to think it first, then go about putting their theories into practice in the world. INTPs do it in the opposite direction. They observe and analyze the world first, then go back and create constructs based on what we observed.

I'll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours

Here you are, an INTP happily working away on your encyclopedia and figuring out the world. So, what do we ultimately want from other people?

You see it coming, right?

We want to share the experience of writing our encyclopedias. Want to share pages, compare notes, help others predict and avoid bad stuff and mistakes, and get others' insights so we can avoid some bad stuff ourselves (especially icky emotional badness). That way, we don't have learn everything the hard way. We can share the load in a grand community striving to understand the nature of the universe. We feel connected to people when they seem like they might have a similar encyclopedia. We feel love when the overlap seems especially potent. How do we know? When we want to talk with a person more, more, more. Then, it happens. Someone starts to care for us. They actually want to be around us and talk and share things. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED! Right??

Wrong again. (I know I’m being hard on you.)

At first, when this seeming compatibility happens, it feels AMAZING. We have finally found an encyclopedia co-author. It's so much more fun to tear into the world with a partner-in-crime. But wait a minute. Little clinkers start happening. Maybe they don't want to talk so much anymore. Maybe their eagerness wears off, and they are happy to put their encyclopedia on the shelf. You think, WTF? This person cares and wants to be with me, but why? What is still fueling the person's interest? Why can't we share encyclopedias anymore?

Well, you have made a mistake in your assumption and you don't know it yet. Another person will care for you for their reasons, not yours, and the two may be very, very different. Here is the source of the INTP undercurrent. It's the subtle confusion that arises when someone wants to be with us, or we want to be with them, and yet they aren't really jiving on the encyclopedia level. A rational craves a mindmate, and here's an example of what that means. You can put an insanely gorgeous woman in front of me, and, of course, I'll feel desire. For a long time, I thought I would desire her because she was beautiful, but I've learned that's not true. Everyone likes what we find beautiful, that's no secret, but it's just a start. Without realizing it on a conscious level, I would fantasize that her beauty is an indication that her mind is going to match that attractiveness. If she hasn't opened her mouth yet, the fantasy can grow. If she never opens her mouth, that fantasy can become a false truth. She can remain utterly amazing forever. However, if she does open her mouth, or I can observe her actions, something often happens. If her mind turns out to be a turn-off, the attraction will evaporate, regardless of her beauty. Honestly. The sad truth is that I don't think there's a double-bagger solution for anti-mindmates. It's not something that can be ignored. (I should note that the reverse is also true. Mind connections can spark desire regardless of a person's appearance.)

The Final Solution

Once an INTP discovers the shocking truth that other people think very differently than we do and are driven by very different motivations, the INTP then turns the overall desire to analyze and understand the world onto to the inner workings of people themselves. However, people are irrational, chaotic, and unpredictable, right? Not logical at all! Every theory we make about them seems to fall apart. Every safe path we chart through them leads to swamps and disasters. The traumas mount. And the failures. You might even decide to take your ball and go home. But it's just against human nature to enjoy isolation. You keep limping back and trying to connect again.

If you're stuck in this cycle, then I have an important insight for you.

Ready for it?

People, in fact, are entirely logical, rational, and predictable.

No, no, I'm not smoking something. The human condition is indeed extraordinarily complex and challenging to tackle, but as you well know, hard doesn't mean impossible. Hard just means hard, and what makes it the toughest for us is the element of emotion.

Here are the unnatural things that we INTPs have to learn to do in order to better understand people: (1) give adequate weight to the motivating power of emotion in other people (and ourselves) and (2) understand the roots of that emotion. We stomp down emotion and will always choose a logical answer over an emotional one. Most of the other personality types are not that way, however. Until we successfully deconstruct the power of emotion (including how it still affects us despite our efforts to kill it), we have little hope of successfully navigating emotions in others. We will not be able to understand what the actions of other people mean and how to predict them.

But that process, my friends, will need to be a topic for another day.

(If you're an INTP and find this article helpful and you have a another topic of interest in the wide world of INTP-dom, let me know. I'd be happy to frame a future article on your question.)

You Could

2011-11-01T07:53:00.003-04:00

you could spill your coffee
you could open a door
you could paint a house
inappropriately bright colors
you could slap a stranger
or sing for no reason
you could drive nails
through the meat between your fingers
you could drive a car
entirely too fast
or creep entirely
too slow
you could use a bed
for everything but sleep
you could remember
you could keep walking
or you could suddenly forget
everything you know

Celestial Yee-Haw

2011-10-28T08:06:00.000-04:00

up close
they rip
with punishing
speed
faraway they drift
at a sleepy
crawl
ancient orbits
known only
to primordial
ice
looping
in the empty
dark
yip yip yip
plenty of seats
at the comet
rodeo

Night Crawlers (A Tale for Halloween)

2011-10-25T18:29:00.002-04:00

"So what do we have here? This patient looks non-responsive."

"This case is a fascinating one for sure."

"When was she admitted?"

"Admission through the emergency room two days ago."

"Catatonic schizophrenia?"

"Yes, your instincts are excellent. Rigidity. Fixed eyes. No organic cause. Normal neurological function."

"So it's catatonic schizophrenia."

"No. Actually it's not. Take a look at this. I trust you'll find it interesting."

"I've never seen an EEG like that."

"Nope."

"Ever."

"Neither have I. At least not from someone at rest like this. Last time I saw anything close was when we started a test on a man who flipped out and started tearing up the treatment room."

"That graph is from this patient?"

"Yes. We even thought the equipment might be malfunctioning. But biomedical checked it out. It's working perfectly. Her brain appears to be in some kind of fugue state. Hyper-excitement."

"And it's like that all the time?"

"Yes."

"But how could all this be going on in her brain with no physical manifestations? No tremors. No sweat. No seizure activity."

"I know! I can't find anything like it in the literature. Not in humans, anyway."

"But what's that tint to her skin? Discoloration. It's kind of yellow. Like stain. And there's a strange odor in here."

"Well, that's where this case gets really weird."

"We're not there already?"

"Oh, we're just getting started. We think those are organics. Rotting plant material. Peat. Some minerals, most likely."

"I'm not following."

"Well, we found her buried in soil."

"You what?"

"I had that same expression when the paramedics told me."

"As in buried? Like dead?"

"Oh no. Her nostrils were protruding."

"Of course."

"There was some kind of frame set up in the basement of an old house. Huge. The best guess from the investigators and the police was that it was used as a worm farm."

"You mean like night crawlers? A dozen for a dollar?"

"Exactly. Maybe they had some kind of business going. I don't know."

"Was she abused? Was she held captive by some maniac?"

"Actually, she tried to wriggle away when someone reached into the dirt. They thought they had a dead body. But she tried to burrow deeper."

"I don't understand."

"She moved like a worm. Tried to tunnel. Her mouth was totally filled with dirt like she was devouring it."

"That's absolutely the strangest thing I ever heard."

"We actually have a theory about the catatonia. Want to hear it?"

"I don't know."

"It's actually related to the worm bed."

"Okay."

"Dr. Savour, our Chief of Psychiatry, thinks it's fear."

"Fear?"

"He thinks the EEG and resulting catatonia result from acute anxiety overload. He's noted that only the most primitive areas of her brain are involved. Take a look at the PET scan."

"Interesting."

"All this started when they pulled her out of the worm bed. Dr. Savour believes it's the light. Being exposed to light. He tried an experiment last night. He turned out all the lights in here. After a minute, she came alive. She rolled onto the floor and tried to wriggle herself underneath the cabinet."

"You're kidding me."

"Oh no. And guess what? This is your lucky day!"

"I'm afraid to ask."

"I received a call right before I met you downstairs. Apparently, they didn't do a completely thorough investigation. When they probed deeper into the worm bed, they hit something soft. A man has surfaced. They're on their way with him right now. And he doesn't have arms."

Autumn's Lament

2011-10-21T18:46:00.004-04:00

the lady of the wood
lived in the North
and the south where the ices reach
she lived under Cygnus
the celestial swan
and Cetus from Arctic seas

the lady of the wood
looked to lands
steamy in between
she coveted the man
born of sun
whose heat makes forests green

but he never yields
those arid lands
where her mists can never breed
so her bowered paths
bled with orange
and blew with withered leaves

winter is long
in the veins of hope
and the scratch of skeletal trees
in winter he shines
with his father sun
while she dreams darkening dreams

The Man Who Couldn't Play

2011-10-17T18:20:00.001-04:00

He didn't know how to play the piano.

He was just babysitting a cat. That's all. His friend at work was cruising with her sister on the Mediterranean. She had plants in the apartment too, so he watered them. She didn't ask him to, but they needed it, and the cat liked to watch him.

He didn't know how to play the piano, but she obviously did. Not just because of the baby grand piano where he now sat. She told him once, and she not only played, but studied in college. He sifted through the sheet music. Chopin. Beethoven. The black storm of notes and markings were incomprehensible. It was nothing he could ever hope to master.

Still, he opened the cover and exposed all the keys.

The cat watched from the back of a high, leather chair. It had eyes like an owl. They blinked slowly at him.

He sounded a note.

It resonated in the wood floor. The wall. It wandered the room like a living thing. He let the key go, and it silenced.

He stared at the collection of white and black patterns. Not quite so incomprehensible as the written music.

He played another note. Then, joined it with a second and third. He sensed how they intertwined and became something larger. He could hear the adding and subtracting sound waves. Their interrelationship.

He played more. He let the sounds happen on their own. He felt notes yearn to join, or slip away. His fingers just obliged them.

He played more. His hand began to feel wholly apart from his ears and consciousness. He was the listener as much as the player. Maybe more.

The sounds grew huge, with their own booming voice and melodic lines. It seemed like a composition, but far beyond him. It felt like it could move the furniture, paint the walls, rearrange the pictures on the walls. It could tear down the apartment and rebuild it near a pounding ocean or under a moonlit sky. It could--

He heard her voice behind him.

She had been expected a bit later.

The music trickled away like the aftermath of rain. The clock ticked. His hands rested on his lap.

"Oh my God," she said. "That was stunning!"

"Sorry."

"I've never heard that before. Nothing even like it. Who's the composer?"

He felt fogged, like waking up from a heavy dream.

"You never told me you could play," she said.

He shook his head and sighed. "I can't."

A Night of Nightmares for a Sunday Sleep

2011-10-11T07:52:00.003-04:00

i dreamed i was in the room
and she was too
she walked like you or i
strolling past the bed from the bathroom
with not normal cares and a twist of anxious worry
and she was dead and she knew it

we talked a little about she where was going
the needs pressing her
and an undercurrent of fear
i even thought for just a slice of a moment
that i might try to save her
but those are just my old ways
and she was dead and we both knew it

that room in the hotel had mildew in the bathroom
and bad bad green and blue carpeting
i'd only love that worn bed if i were super tired
but i stood there as she approached almost normally
and i was afraid even though she even had pretty eyes
because she would always be dead
and i knew it

You and I

2011-10-06T19:30:00.001-04:00

It's been a long time since you came around
Been a long time but I'm back in town
This time, I'm not leaving without you
--Lady Gaga, You and I

He grabbed the coffee from the counter and wove back through the half-sleeping, half-inpatient line.

Not many people actually sat in the coffee shop that time of day. So close to nine. The chatterers came much earlier and already filtered out. That's probably why he was drawn to glance up from his IPhone as he approached the table where a woman was sitting. Or maybe there was some weird kind of vibe that caught his attention. Or maybe it was the sense of something familiar in his peripheral vision. But, he did look up. And it shocked him.

"Holy crap," he said.

Probably not the best thing to say to a former lover, in retrospect.

But she didn't flinch. Or act insulted. Small things like that didn't move her. They never did. She just sat as if the two of them hadn't gone their separate ways three years earlier. As if she didn't live more than half a country away these days and had no business at all being back in the city.

"Hello to you too," she said.

He scrambled. Blinked. Tried to string together some words. They just fell apart before they reached his mouth.

"What am I doing here?" she said for him.

He nodded, more relieved than annoyed that she still read him effortlessly.

"I'm visiting."

"Oh. Visiting." He nodded more. "I see."

The coffee was burning his hand.

"Are you surprised?" she said.

"Um, yes. 'Surprised.' That would cover it pretty exactly. Very well, in fact."

"Not what you were expecting this particular morning," she said.

"No. That's right. Definitely right. You are super, totally right."

"Aren't you going to ask me who I'm visiting?"

"Whom, you mean?"

"Always the comedian. I miss that. Yes, aren't you going to ask me whom I'm visiting?"

"Yes. Tell me. Whom are you--"

"You."

He choked. On nothing in particular.

"Are you okay?"

"Sure. Mmm hmmm." He choked more. "Excuse me," he croaked.

"Take your time."

He put the coffee down on her table. Now his eyes were tearing. Great.

"Maybe you want to drink a sip of your coffee. That might help," she said.

He shook his head. "Too hot," he managed to get out.

After clearing his throat, wiping his eyes, and coughing the rest of the tickles out, he tried to get his voice back on track, "but…isn't it…kind of…usual…."

She was ever patient.

"…to make some arrangements, before, I mean, with the person you're visiting?"

"Arrangements?"

"Like to make sure they are there, and available, and all that?"

"No. Not this time," she said.

"I see."

She looked around the shop. "You still come here for coffee," she said.

"Apparently. Do you want some?"

"No thanks."

She stared at him.

He wasn't good at staring back.

"We're having dinner tonight," she said, finally.

"We are?"

"Yes, I've made reservations."

"Wow. Dinner? Reservations? Okay."

"You'll get over the shock of all this by then. We can have a bottle of wine. That will help."

He inched toward the door. Backwards. Kind of a clumsy, low-speed escape.

"Wow, it's almost nine?" he said. "I'm going to be late for work."

"Probably. I'll pick you up in front of your building at 6:00 p.m."

He reached the threshold. "That's perfect. For dinner, I mean. 6:00 p.m. Great. Got it."

He turned to the door, but stopped.

He stopped, and thought, and breathed once or twice. He moved aside so the other customers could go in and out.

"Are you okay?" she said.

A new emotion has managed to piece itself together in from his initial, scattered wits. "You know," he said, "it's actually pretty incredible to see you. I mean, I just…." But he didn't finish.

For the first time, she didn't look so controlled or confident. Her voice wavered.

"Me too," she said softly. "Me too."

Victoriana

2011-10-03T09:30:00.000-04:00

the ghost blends with the patterns in the wallpaper
it shines in the crystal lamplight
it trades darkness with the nighttime hours
it sits on the dusty picture frame and waits

you used to walk around the bend
you used to enjoy a nap in the summer shade
you used to ignore the days when it rained

the ghost blends with the patterns in the wallpaper
and waits on the curving stairs
the ghost glitters in the reflecting window glass
it sits by the fire when I'm not there

Notice: Ending My Regular Posting Schedule

2011-09-27T00:02:00.001-04:00

Since August 2005, I've honored and successfully met a challenge I set for myself. I have posted new material here at Clarity every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday each week. Since the fall of 2008, I even ramped up the pressure on myself, requiring (almost) every post to be solidly creative. No more easy ones. No more throwaways.

I'm officially ending my regular posting schedule. The world has changed, and I've changed. Time for me to accept that.

I think that beyond the act of writing itself and storytelling, Clarity has been an experiment in communication. My posts represent my raw thoughts and emotions squeezed through a lens of fiction, poetry, and photography. I've been intrigued to see whether and how others do the same. Like many things in life, the amazing successes I've had in these efforts are matched only by the magnitude of their failures.

I plan to continue posting, just on a non-structured basis. (I even forced myself to wait to post this note until Tuesday so that I wouldn't be keeping to my schedule through the backdoor. Ha!) Honestly, I'm not sure that less frequency will make any difference to anyone. It might even boost the fun of new posts...who knows? Maybe I just need to fashion a nice tombstone for the whole thing and let it rest in peace. Not yet, though.

Thanks for the great run. It will always be a special time to me.

Now, it's my pleasure to introduce the next era. Only, I'm not sure what it is.

Sprout

2011-09-23T00:02:00.001-04:00

you squirmed in darkness
cruel in your rainy boredom
knotting tortured worms