Reduced to...

Equations. Equations are simple formulas useful for predicting results. Patterns derived over time. Probability and worlds made manifest for the willing. What you focus on, expands.... What you want, will collapse into being before your eyes. Or maybe just the collapse part.

Thinking of puzzles I cannot begin to put together.... Am I interested in playing those games, as stimulating as they are for the first five minutes? No. I can see the picture on the box; the writing on the wall -- I know how this one turns out. Been there, punned that.

Never write in your blog when you are in a self-righteous mood, Sonya. Okay. Ignoring my sage advice for the chance to wade into hot water on such a chilly day.

So I am in a baking mood. An emotional baking mood. I ate all of my baking for the week. I have an extra cup or two of 'shut the fuck up' if anyone'd like some of that. It's all organic, Made In Canada goodness. Argh, I cannot even let myself write what I want to write, because I know that some people might take things I say personally, thinking that what I say is about them. No. It is not. Well, it probably is; that is why I cannot write about it. Haha. Hmm.

Fuck.

This is not about you. This is about me, but my talking about you is a safe way of talking about me.

The remaining pieces of you in my possession that possess me are:
1. your handwritten phone number (given to me two seconds before you left me on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. That was lovely; thanks),
2. the 'fabulous' book you brought for me to read (because the main character reminded you of me; then later your 20/20 summation was, 'I never really liked it that much anyway.' Thanks, I only took it personally for a week),
3. and two cds packed full of love songs you'd mixed for me when I was on Salt Spring around the same time that we (you) had asserted that our relationship was purely friendship. That was doubly wonderful. Thanks. I suppose it fitting that your last word to me was, "Thanks." You always did have a knack for speaking the words I could not.

I sound like a shafted, angry, hurt little monster kid, reaching back to lick the wounds of Prometheus with a surly tongue that only poisons all it touches. And if I say that I am not angry and hurt, well, who really cares? I know when I am serious and when I am blowing warm air. Sometimes I feel like indulging in the emotions. Most of what I write is a displaced form of something, having little in common with the events I describe, but rather alludes to many things at once. Words are great for that. Words make things less real; they create by destroying. What is real cannot die, but words imitate the real and translate it into manageable little.. uh.. drips of rain.. to swallow.. and pollute.. and something.. and get all wrong, like this sad metaphor. Anyway. At the time, I was not angry. I was not even hurt. I was numb. I was in shock. So, to save myself the pain and hard work, I did what I'd done in school; that is, I hid in the washroom until everyone had vacated the premises and then I went through everyone's records. No. I skipped through the standard levels of grief and went straight for the final rung: Acceptance. Or Denial. Denial / Acceptance. First and Last. Alpha and Omega. I'm still here. It's really quite the feat, straddling a ladder like this. Time to let go and turn on some Tom Petty.

We both know I'm afraid to let you go. Well, I know. You don't think twice about this. That is healthy and I'm glad for that; in fact, if you still thought about me I'd think you were nuts. No, I wouldn't think that. I'd say, "Hey." I'd say, "I have all the patience in the world, for my friend." Or I'd just think those things and you'd walk by and interpret my open-mouthed silence in the worst way, which is the human way. I love that about you. Oh god, I sound like an alien freak. This is why private journals are ideal; no need to explain and preface entries with "No, I promise I will not commit suicide. Relax people." What would I do without you to reference for every thing that goes funny in my life? I would not write stuff like this anymore; instead my focus would be on my dreams and shit like that. Borrrringggggg. If you ever read this, you will have no idea what I mean by this entry. And you will be a little scared that I am still writing about you. But know that I am not writing about you. I am staked out in front of your place, photographing every minute of your life. Joke. I hired some guy to do it for me. Joke. He said he'd do it for free.

I liked writing when I knew no one read it.