I remember everything.

It is so hard for me to make sense of why people are the way they are…why I am the way I am…I guess we’re all screw-ups at this point.

Here’s a letter regarding another clumsy small tragedy, another bridge burnt in the early morning.
Once people burn the bridge, I really have no qualms about sharing (in some carved form or fashion) what I had to say to them as a means of providing an example of…what happens when all the energy I should be spending emailing myself brilliant ideas or writing stunning poetry has to be used to navigate endless daft fuckery.
In other news, the day was full of rain and mediocre radio. Some days are like that.
I made some good jokes though, had some pleasant conversations, hoped some high hopes and felt some big feelings.


Hello So-and-So,

Now that I have made it through the work day, there are a couple of things I need to discuss with you.

First and foremost, you failing to see the legitimacy of my upset this morning is really concerning.

Still, I shouldn’t have kicked your tent.

Then again, anybody who gives my kids cause to worry and puts me in a shitty position, well…they should be kicked. Not necessarily in a literal sense, however.

They didn’t know that you were a decent person.

You were – to them – a homeless man with poor boundaries.

I am too socially vulnerable to try to be friends with anyone. Or maybe I should just choose my friends more wisely.

Hanging out with skids and losers is a side effect of being told for years that you aren’t worth shit.

Also, I like a good story and the skids and losers often have the best stories. I should know, I am a bit of loser myself.
I have been losing things for years.
You are not sick, crazy, a Veteran, a single mother. You are not an addict or a convict.

You are a smart and capable charismatic young man with very strong skills.

I absolutely don’t owe you a damned thing.

I have been telling them for a year, “I can handle my shit.” Clearly, I cannot. See, I thought that I could – that I could trust that people would respect me and that they would honor my friendship…that they would not abuse it.

I guess I am a slow learner.

I am, contrary to what you say, a very good person. I help in the ways that I can and I always feel badly when I can’t help, I always try to find someone who can…

I have offered you access to other arrangements and tried to be supportive of your efforts to “get on your feet” – however, YOU ARE NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY.

My kids are my responsibility and I OWE THEM.

…not you.

Additionally, if you think that I am not well aware of the fleeting nature of this walking-talking life, if you think you can speak to me about God’s land as if I do not know…well, that is frankly just beyond insulting. Except that I do not become insulted by people’s opinion of me when they clearly have no idea that I am lucky to even still be alive and so know all too well about mortality. You are correct, this is God’s land.

My God’s land.

Here, mothers and children must be respected.

There is no place for indignant men anywhere near here. I will not tolerate it.

Please do not come near this house until you come to get your things in bags off of the upstairs porch. Please do so at your earliest convenience. I would appreciate it if you would use the driveway entrance and refrain from traipsing across the field as if you owned the place.

You’re a traveller.

I live here…and so do my elderly neighbors across the street and they don’t want to see some dude in a tent first thing in the morning. Nor do they want to hear some guy ranting about YAHWEH (a man-made name, by the way) – you say you don’t – that “you’d never dare” disrespect this house, but you do.

Crocus bloom where your tent was pitched.

Please do not let yourself be seen around here. You crossed the line.

Best Regards,


If you’re angry and sputtering with indignance at all of this, check yourself.

Don’t bring it around here.

Be Good or Be Gone.

You know that is my motto.
*that, and I was sort of craxy…not dangerous craxy, but definitely off-kilter, on a different page.
My family has a long history of mental health stigma. Most families do, at this point. So much so that they like to make people out to be crazy…just so they have something to be worried about, something to control and judge and pity. Which, ironically, tends to drive people really crazy. Research suggests that negative psychosocial stressors tend to bring on and exacerbate psychiatric “symptoms” –
Yes, when people are mean to us, sometimes we cry and worry.
Sometimes our lives becomes so cold and uncertain that it hurts to even be awake and so we start to make up stories to comfort ourselves, to sustain hope…to stay alive.
That’s not crazy, that’s human.
I don’t like this post. However, it was – in some scheme – necessary. Whatever. It is a drop in the bucket.


Yeah, I say things like that when I remember that nobody pays attention to what’s going on around here.

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