thank you for courage. i can't help it, we started so many things we never finished. i hate you for that. it was never promised, that's true. inspiration has no responsibilities -- my faulty thinking has always been to conversely put exuberance into the stranglehold of guilt, penance, then inhibition. afraid of affecting too much. "afraid of succees". Ok. So I accept. because I can't keep living that way. And really, I don't hate. I don't miss. I don't want back. I want want. I want wanting. I am wanting. I am working on wanting. but I thank you for courage. I can't help but see myself as nothingness before we triumphed, before a we existed however briefly and however much I scoff at it and its infantility. scourge on vonnegut and his "nation of two" coinage that glitters as it flips in my head. again, this pout. i feel right now that it comes from the sense of injustice that I am stateless. pragmatically, no. historically, and by application, yes. god, does this chick ever make sense?!? one gravitates towards art making because it is a house for the soul, it is a nation with its own governance, it is a place to put your stuff down and make something (dinner). it is a shelter, but it is only ever a shelter or place for a visit (a park ranger's cabin in the middle of a gorge). put your shell back on your back and be on your way. there is no home, and that is what still yokes our minds together, literally, the wooden bar across our shoulder blades ... who is it that masters us and bears that grateful whip?