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It should have been titled "I've arranged a list of things for me to do in the next 30 years or so..."

It's just another lonely Sunday night ( well, actually it's Monday morning, who cares ?! ), and I'm sitting here, on this particular couch where I first drew you what you meant to me.

With my notebook on my lap, trying to figure out what to do, where to go from here.

There's a part of me who just can't stop begging the other part to just forget about it, let it go, go on just like before, when everything was peachy keen and purrrr-fect ! But I can't and I won't give up to this soft-weeping, sensitive, hopeless romantic that I've been ! For I know that if I continue like this, it would only destroy whatever is left of my organic pieces. Things would eventually evolve and I will be nothing than just a rag for you to wipe floors with . It's barbaric . It's sadistic, ruthless and real . It WILL happen this way ! I just know !

It's time for me to get down and capitulate from my chimerical castle between rainbows, to the concrete blocks and grey monsters of reality.

It's time to step out of my flawless princess gown, and into my torn-out, used All Star's, my faded, greasy jeans, and my zipped, dirty hoodie.

It's time for me to stop thinking about what it would be like...but what it IS ...

It's time I put the pronoun "I" to it's rightful place and owner, instead of "He/Him/His/etc.".

It's time I stopped sending you imaginary messages that you would never get.

It's time that for once I start doing things just for me, but not for the all-present "what would He say IF He knew that I...".

It's time for me to stop thinking of you when listening to my music.

For God's sake! My i-pod library has YOU written all over it !

It's time I stopped seeing you in all masculine characters of all books I'm reading.

I guess I could keep myself as the key-female characters, just for my grey-matter's fun...

It's time I stopped waiting 5 hours in the library on Wednesday's, just because I want to share the same Pharmacology desk with your sheer presence.

It's time I took my life in these fragile hands, I faced it with my skinny body, fought all the monsters by myself...

And let you go...

This is what I have to do.

I know it's gonna be hell of a job blocking every little glimpse of thought about you, but Hey! Nobody said that Life's easy, right?!

I only wish that this plan of mine will click.

So, here it goes : Wish me luck in letting you go. Good-Bye! Farewell !

Today someone I spoke to on the internets told me that, because I care about the ongoing encroachment of the database state and the increasing censoriousness and intrusiveness of the State with regard to life in Britain today, I need to see someone about my anger management issues.

Does this make sense to you? Because it doesn't to me.

Apparently, because I can happily oppose a bunch of Islamists in a debate they were having in which they claimed that freedom of speech was a bad thing and should be restricted, and do so in front of a hostile audience (to me, that is, but I'll tell you that story another time), and because I enjoy a nice battle of wits over things, I have self esteem issues. And because of my general dislike to the green lobby and willingness to take the battle to them, as it were (there are many, many, reasons to criticise the current environmental movement, but those can form nodes of their own), there's something wrong with me. And because I can happily show up some self-described radical feminists over the issue of pornography, I must have a severely atrophied sense of self worth.

If you're bemused here, then so am I.

No, apparently, people who are truly confident in and of themselves don't concern themselves with anything other than going with the flow. But to me, this is the epitome of spinelessness and cowardice. You're so lacking in confidence, it seems to me, that you daren't challenge that which is abhorrent to you because it's easier just to suck it down.

Yes, I can be pretty hard on myself at times. But I'm certainly confident enough to go against the grain on various issues with even die-hard supporters of stuff.

Like I said to this person, sense is not made by this.

My girlfriend Nancy is looking for a new used car. She doesn't have a lot of money, and subscribes to the theory that the best way to drive is to by a five thousand dollar used car, as it's already absorbed most of the depreciation hit but has lots of useful life left. Drive it into the ground, make a car payment to yourself, then get another $5K car. The strategy makes sense. I think she should get a newer car, because she's sharp about routine maintenance, and thus controls the car's care from Day One. But I get paid a lot more than she does, and so the costs are relatively less.

So Saturday we got on craigslist and located a 2000 Toyota Echo only a couple miles from my house. Owner seemed like a nice guy, and the car was great. It drove straight, didn't pull, smooth idle and engine, no body damage except for a couple parking lot door dents, and nice paint. Only 54,000 miles which is really low for 2000. And it was really, really clean which made me think the previous owner had been a car dealership. The owner said he got it from a private owner.

Everything looked great. We gave him $100 to hold it and then went to her place in Cincinnati to finish the weekend. But we did get the VIN number, and tried a Carfax search.

And therein lies rub. Turns out the car was crashed in November 2007 and totaled out in December. Sold as a salvage title in February 2008. Resold in February 2009 to the current owner. With a rebuilt title.

Naturally the owner didn't mention the word 'salvage title' at any point of our conversation on Saturday. Nor did we suspect for any reason the car had one. We figure it was sold to a part-timer who buys chosen cars, fixes them up, drives them for a bit then sells them for a modest profit. The repairs explain how clean the car was inside and out. But none of that matters to Nancy's insurance company. They won't insure a car with a salvage title. End of discussion. The fact that Ohio requires an inspection before such cars can be returned to the road matters not. What is totaled once stays totaled.

So the deal is off. The problem now will be getting Nancy's earnest money back. That may be hard, despite the fact that such things must be disclosed in Ohio. And we've learned to do a bit more research before dipping our foot back in that well.

The bus stopped today,
At a red light.
I looked across the aisle to the window,
through the foggy, snow-glazed glass,
And all I could see was grey sky
And the green blur of an evergreen
Across the street.

Fat, curious snowflakes were gliding around
Outside the window, completely
Oblivious of gravity.
White, glowing against the green.
Peeking inside at us.
I thought of them as fairies,
Or something equally absurd.

At my stop I got off as usual
And millions of the snowflakes clung to me.
Wind blew my hood back, twice.
I stepped in some mud.
And black metal played in my earphones
As I shivered
In my spring jacket.

In the same garden as the Tiger, perhaps by a different path, and without the amber and black couture.

Hibernating through Summer and Spring in a climate of drought and crazy heat. Waiting for temperate winter, cooking fruit cake, watching the ruby chard seedlings sprouting, collecting seed, learning to sleep at night and wake for the day.

A head filled with white mutiny, resistant to the avenues back into commerce and contact. It is, again, hard to read, distracted, the receptors are dulled. Practice with scrabble online, one word at a time, one friend at a time, small losses, small victories.

She goes to the gym with eyes shut. Finally trying those bikes that go nowhere and finding they fit her purpose. A room crowded with people who are looking to redefine themselves. The music helps, shouting coaches do not.

Making red cooked pork ribs, packing lunches, feeding dogs, old patterns, household infrastructure, analog, synchopated, out of step with the urban flow. Restless shadow, black-clad stage hand for a public life. This pattern was a good fit for other times, for other people. These hands learned different skills. She steps into the moment, relearning the rhythm of writing in dust.

Evening and the house waxes rowdy. Voices, call signs, the prattle of television and the insistence of dog noses. The kettle is busy with hot drinks. The smell of solder smoke or the rattle of the keyboard, the darkness always feels more alive.

An old form in the forgotten elbow of a river, perhaps another nymph or chrysalis, perhaps a final form. Not sure where the future lies. Careful to place her feet well. Waiting for clarity. Purpose is a slippery fish.

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