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evidentiary paste.

Thu Mar 20 1997

So Angela is sitting in my office - surprise. Richard provides a tour of shyness, and .... my life is wierd.


[ ... one year ago today: exciting finally ]

to the left of center.

Fri Mar 21 1997

So this is it. The ebb and flow of people's personalities. They let me in and then push hard to get me out. I am that which gets too close and stays too far away at the same time. It is hard to like wh I am most comfortable being - hard for me to like.

But I've had an enduring headache from teh weather shfits of spring, and I guess my mood is volatile. With the desire to tkae on a spring lover going unfilled once agian, perhaps I'll take up some other sort of hobby, maybe art. Perhaps there is some outlet to feeling lonely that can do something besides ... generate unwanted people to clutter up my life. Why do lovers have to be people anyway? If I don't acknowledge my toe as all that important, why should other parts of the bodily cycle be?

Curious again. I feel left out when I really want peace and quiet - with excitment too.

control freaked out.

Sat Mar 22 1997

On the way to tomorrow, I encounter many thoughts inmy own head. Are we the sum of our experiences? Some of us know we are. Others know they are not. Still others... more like me, think there is something to both but there is also a third ingredient - overlooked - that of self-design. Whther or not I was programmed or conditioned t being a self-designer, I am one.

Self-design consists of truly thinking out the pros and cons of who a person can be, and picking from ampongst the options.

Last night, I spent time with Richard and Angela, playing cards, eating Richard's cooking, and generally not getting to know one another - a good social time. [ "Harmony in the air - "Harmonized Sales Tax", a new Canadian invention. ] If anyone is following our lives, they converge imensely.

eventually life ends.

Sun Mar 23 1997

eventualifends... who who who

eventuall fiends

event u all fiends

event u al fli ends

event u al fri ends

eventual friends

who who who

(really bad art poem) ..


On the subject of getting started.. I've been sociallizing with the Richard / Angela pack for two days now. Not one of us can sustain a truly deeply interesting conversation in that pack. Jokes, laughing, events. But not exploration into new spaces. Not at all. No feeling of learning something - not from a bookish moment but rather about the personness of the others perhaps? I find my level of serious intercourse is not truly appreciated by Richard. Alone he will tolerate and participate. With others thougn he really likes - it seems - to entertain more than communicate. But what is this? [Fleiss turns upside down with the curtain pull string dangling on high.]


if its not in his n space mind-model then it doesn't seem to matter. No more like if it doesn't manipulate that mind-model then it doesn't matter. Why do some people seek the new so much? Why isn't old interesting? Or perhaps the old is merely filled mostly with encounters of the less interesting, and a few of the more so. And it is not new but uninteresting that is interesting. But if one makes this too obvious, isn't oneself uninteresting to others?

Ripples on the larger waves. Angela's visit is not a tsunami as some people have seemed to have been. I am thankful.

8 am.

What more can I ask that I haven't before? The funny thing about writing like this is, given my anti-repeat tendency of course, that I am left at the end of everything I know. I must become creative to think anew. And yet is that what I am doing here?

Stawberries on the table slowly turning into digestive appetizers. Flowers blooming merrily waiting for spring to turn on. Post-it poetry sprawling on his desk. Little entries in a journal dissolving the beliefs I once held that there is a way to telepath into another's mind. Let me out. Were I to let go - to let myself relax and to become my own potential I am afraid I would shine too brightly in comparison to others. Should I do so anyway? And what if I'm wrong and I'm just failing to live a full life for a foolish egoism? Strawberries are gone now.

Reeve and Mandela on this thought

[ ... one year ago today: prrrr says Fleiss ]

left of right, center.

Tue Mar 25 1997

Maybe I'll write a bit later. Maybe.

Tired, and I had surgery yesterday which tires me a little more - due to fear / adrenalin more than anything. Just a cosmetic thing, nothing serious, but scary really scary.

Angela left yesterday after the Oscars.

[ ... one year ago today: a quick taste ]

So I came back to this today. I don't feel like waiting ot load an index entry so I'll just pick up again here.

Peter and I are fighting pretty badly, have been for sometime now. I guess he is changing, andinto someone who forgets what we had. He has learned from me how to stand up for oneself, and yet he points this tool at me as a weapon. He hates Richard - my business partner. And he works here too. Almost everything is taken as sabotage in either direction and I am left wondering why I leave things this entangled. Why indeed. Why have a woman wh has a mad crush on an ex-lover (did he really qualify as one?) visit my firend here... entangled. Soap? Opera?

TIme to clean up. Be crystal with others. I am left with the lingering feeling that people should not be mushy with each other's weaknesses. I wonder why I ahve been for so long? Tracey withdrawl really. A desire to have someone be wrm and cosy with me. Why would anyone be so nyone? They'd have to be strong intheir own right and still interested in being warm towards and with me. Unlikely.

Just my own meanderings here today.. no insights into the is and the wannbes. No efforts to make. Funny that once I find something to do, others look to me too. Funny and very true. Peacefulness is in doing one's own things.

I met this guy - a Sun reporter last week at the great fire. I should give him a call... he seems shy of email.

ruminating and cogitating on nothing but.

Wed Mar 26 1997

Phew... that was fun. A surpise inspection from a wooed poetential contract. Gets the blood going in a new way.

Business is really the cumulation of several understandings, all adding together, perhpas with some positive emergences included. Its also exotically tiring in a way never expected by the old academic model of what life is.

Exciting... dull someitmes .. as the cognitive aspects are less challenging and the implementations more so. And yet with a minor re-emphasis, interesting. I guess.

So shallow am I now. Or quieter about what is in me. Secretive? Tired? Simply silent after two years? Or is it more? Perhaps my mouth won't open. Certainly I have thoughts. They are being censored by

[ ... one year ago today: my amusements ]

tributaries of the heart.

Sun Mar 30 1997

There are routes into a person that lead to dead-ends. Some carry oneself away from awareness, others to dogma and blindness, and still others that are designed simply for unenlightened comfort.

Personally, I have chosen lately to move as if with an unenlightened view as a disguise to the better. It is time to pull away the shroud with the hope that dumbing down my outputs will be needed only during rarer occasions. Excuse? A little. Reality? A lot.

Egos entwining to supersume my creations have required my dumbed responses. Egos now conspire inprotest as they should have done long ago.. but could not perhaps.

Hold still a while longer.

A time again.

Thu Apr 10 1997

So its been awhile since I really felt at all like writing. Things have been strange for me. New aspects of running a business - standing up for the company when the people I must confront were hired by me. Decisions like that do not sit wellwith me, and yet after the changes are made, everything runs so much more smoothly - confusing and hectic, but smoother. So obvious, and yet loyalty is so important to me.

Loyalty needs to be two ways. And it needs to be surrounded by other amazing qualities - I've never been much of a dog person. Like many qualities, loyalty can be isolated from other good ones. It hurts when that happens - I find myself left bereft of warmth and caring. Hardly the tough asshole I try to be.

Last I wrote I was inundated with childish enthusiasm / foolishness. Charming in a way, but not to my current tastes. I look out for wisdom and the calm that comes with understood success. Wait by the roadside if you are the wanderer. Run into the bright lights to chase. Hold out your hand in answer to need. But please. Be wisely there. Know why you are there.

The echoes of voices in my dreams come back to me more vividly today than the sounds of street traffic out the window. Bright red car flashing by and I see the monitor only. Society's whiskers tickle me while trying to determine what sort of edible luxury I might be. And the voices laugh a little.

Pared down, my universe beckons cold and quiet, alone still. But now on purpose. Don't let the eliminators take away your edges when you have no other choice. Let them go freely and wait only a moment until they grow back. My lizard tails - friends.

Even Tracey seems easy to think about finally. The energies locking us in tragedy are gone from me at least. But i have not spoken with her in ages. I doubt I will for a long while now. I still feel her absense, I still miss what she shared with me. But my love for her is gone finally. It wandered away of its own accord. I guess betrayel does that to some people.

Still more pard down, and swelling out again a little - just an experiment relly to learn about the possibility of awakening.

Take hold of the future. Wielding warrior's tools, plow the field. Sow the grains and seeds. No longer a frontiersman in my thinking, my heart, I will not sit still long as the tender of soil either. Let the cities grow.

And suddenly I believe so strongly that the ozone layer will not last the millenium. A sadness so scarring it is beyond the imagination - no, not really. It is within imagination and beyond comprehension that we could be so terribly foolish. Short-sighted. Going about our own little things.

If only I were a god.

then again, I truly do hate property management. Perhaps an arch angel then.

alright already.

Fri Apr 11 1997

Swiftness goes to the fastest, calm to the a wise.

I've been trying to wonder why I think my life is in a cage ... why I'm told by a little sex toy of Richard's that I'm virtually dead. I mean it's true in some ways... and I know that. The death of friendship with Tracey sits in me. I know that I am not really taking things well.

Where are the daffodils going to grow if not in my heart?


snow whitening the planet.

Sat Apr 12 1997

Morning. Early morning snow storm in my head as I think back to what life is about.

People are funny. They posture and flaunt trying to get good with each other and from each other. But why aren't they more independently inclined?

I've found that it's simply more of a pleasure to do things with someone else. I like it that way. But also I like not really having to tolerate random strangers. FUnny I track famousness and then avoid the anonymous version of attracting attention. There is a differnece between the two. Fame brings with it the touch of glamour and understanding in another's eyes when they meet you. They want to touch that sparkle a little. It's terrific to be the symbolic holder of such pure and confused joy.

Strangers finding me attractive in some way on the street are different. They pursue something more personal. Not glamour. Maybe long legs. Maybe a pretty smile. Maybe a recognition a little deeper - unlikely these days. But they are willing to take something more expensive than glamour.

Being recognized from the media is sharable with others. "Selena is in the building." Being attractive to someone is not really shared by that person but rather hoarded. Imagine being hoarded. The sexual conquest is selfish usually. We discourage orgies, non-pair bonding activities, sexual relaxation. So the street level attraction is harsh. So few are gentle when they find me someone to hunt.

So I encourage a mote of prosperity to travel through my life complimenting my hermitivity with glamourous raves.

And back to the previously scheduled snow storm growling through intestinal growth.

[ ... one year ago today: twisted inside ]

following a follower.

Mon Apr 14 1997

The seasons cycle around our lives leaving traces of warmth and flowers inside the soul we think is there. We wish it to be there. I want to embrace that belief myself. It leads into the warmth and away from death's shadowy fingers. But I don't yet.

There are people around who smile a lot. They follow their destinies as much as I do mine. I like the extroverts who shine their own selves out publically to bring us all more close. And I am not one. There are people in the world who hold tight to others keeping them warmer and safe just a little bit. They look forward to love and not other necessities and we wonder why so few ever decide freely to be warm here. Perhaps it is just Canada?

Imagine that you could effortlessly hold out your own strength for another and watch them prosper so easily. I've tried this - with Tracey, with Carey, with myself. The balance is not rewarding so the process had better be. I may try it again in teh future when Tracey is long gone, or successful in her own right. I probably will. Part of Peter's old ethics lingers in me without replacement - for I am not the generator of these original ethical beliefs. I am as much a follower of his ideas as he has wished every person were. Let go of his and I have left simplistic drives that wo7uldn't prosper and need not be useful. I have good reason not to rid myself of a view that I know to be weak in spots. I could not replace it with anything better even if Peter could.

I've looked back at those other people who linger in his older beliefs and now having undergone two years of isolation from the dynamicisms in his mind, I too linger in the old version... an update necessary but noxious after the isolation. If only he had also been teaching the method of generating ethics, and not just the ethical systems themselves. He might be less lonely now. But then, so might I.

Hold on tight for there are people in the world.

[ ... one year ago today: what to write ]


Mon Apr 14 1997


quarrying deeper.

Tue Apr 15 1997

There are cliches that rest heavily on my tongue. Tghey take up space there for a while when I feel they apply generally to my life. "When we were kings." How I feel right now. There is no joy in success with Richard. He scurries too much away from its lack. He was telling me this the other day. We talked for a long time about his feelings, his inner world. I let him see some of mine too. But then later, he felt, and still does, able to use my world as a tool for small talk. I really didn't take to this very well. I'm back to thinking I shouldn't really confide about my true self with someone who does not respect individuality as a strength.

Richard respects conventions, he uses them masterfully to get where he is going. All cool and well. But he has finally explained to me as well that his understanding of things remains more important and truthful when left in the general case - all people find Carolyn harsh; all people think Richard is a good driver; etc. This appeal lacks one thing - what Richard thinks about each case. I believe his beliefs - his true inner feelings about howthe world should be - these beliefs are not represented by the general cases. I suspect that he is fooling himself cruelly. I don't even think he is really all that fooled. But he expects others to be. Best of a kind is Richard's goal. Or even best of several kinds. He told me this is his dream.

I don't often really write about what another tells me. Today I am trying to think all this through. Getting to the heart of the matter. I don't like people who see themselves in Venn diagrams. It frustrates me no end to see only the assembly line goo holding them together.

Richard does not like to see predictableness in a person - in people. That is easy for me to dodge. I simply do not remain in the same Venn bubbles all the time. He looks for the conventions I am using, and I do not use them. Of course, I am often falling into them. I lok like a circular being of a certain size and then I am bigger or smaller or altogether different in a moment's notice. There are not conventions to follow in being non-conventional.

If I were to be conventional I would be worrying about something or other right now - given my lack of concern in the past about same. I thought he understood that I am not of this sort - I am of the sort "not of a sort." He smarled that I try on purpose to avoid the standard package deals. He snarls this in anger - and I do it in good faith. I am interesting to myself because I tread a course which has uniqueness procedures in its creation. Of course I am interesting to myself. Of course I am unpredictable to him in ways. And of course this will lead to friction too.

I found quartz here Ithink.

[ ... one year ago today : breathing slowly]

nine to eight.

Wed Apr 16 1997

OK. I'm feeling a ltitle more balanced these days. Maybe writing again is helping. Maybe its just getting out of the winter duldroms - youhave to live here to see it, feel it. All the polyfilled penguins have turned back into smiling people on tyhe streets.

But more, its probably just that changes are hapopening again. People other than me, and me too, are joining in getting things happening. Doings occur. Does it make a difference so easily? Obviously I just don't get this being alive thing. Some people find it so obvoius - my own illusion really. Just like in high school I thought the others were confident. Yeah right.

I talked for a long time yesterday about how my life is not about doing, passing, or failing tests. And I found that instead its about going in some predetermined positive directions - no goals just directions which seem relatively ethcial by public standards. And I found this lets me live without goals. I cannot fail to meet goals I do not have - so I cannot fail at things. Life is about feeling no regrets, trying what I want to try, doing those things that lie in my heart, not missing them.

We are clay and sculptors both.

[ ... one year ago today: isp]


Sat Apr 19 1997

Perfect. Doing the laundrey the dishes the cleaning. I haven't felt like moving much. Yesterday was apparently - to my surprise - my birthday. It was nice of the office to remember. That made me feel kinda nice.

Orchids light my terminal up. Purple hued stems. Emptiness.


Overtop of the trees, the morning birds whistle carrying their twigs home. We know they live somewhere high up in the eaves. Red shouldered wings decorate my vision in a blur. I've see the babies last year - watched them grow into these adults. Such small generations. Evolution picks up the rhythm. Life isn't any less long subjectively to the black birds. But don't they usually nest in swamps? Why our eaves suddenly?

The world carries factoids with it into the future. A collation of knowledge hard earned. The future is confounded by our makenings - little factoids cluttering our vision. Water seems to spring from the ground. A trickle of this common liquid makes its way down to the curb. Did we really live near teh edge of the lawn? Was that there before I looked just now? I don't recall.

Scarecrows keep us away from the tidbits of truth we most certainly call the holy grail. The glitter blinds us in a blur. We gather factoids when truths are also plentiful. Several dozen million people and we are still bound by curbs and eaves, by gravity. I know it was there before I was born. They discovered gravity at least 100 years ago. Maybe two hundred. And my question is whether as we invent the future, the objectivenesses inherent in our assumptios really really exist in truth. I am running out of small letter word emphasis. How can I truly point witha simple word? Which effort is mentally required in association with the pointing to make it attach successfully? Full reference in language? Can I trust that the holophrastic anchor points in my experience are sharable, let alone shared?

Radical doubt is tiresome. Incommensurable systems common. The proud avian knows how to communicate. It has the touch points and lacks doubt. I know some people also feel this way. But I am not one.

It begins to rain a little from the tired grey UFOs over my head. The universe, of story telling, grows. I am outside in this story? No.

There have always been - a bold conjecture really - people who saw through the edges and corners of the local metaphysics. They too lived in houses with curbs and eaves, simply more edges. Looking out to the stars and under the earth, I've suspected I am not alone. I know it really. These doubts are human, as human as humour - wh could doubt that but me?

The scarecrow grins ferociously, and I know that hunger will distract my attention for awhile - the pursuit of raw grain glittering in an overflowing cup. Can my spirit ever find salvation in a cup of brass?

The fridge door almost tempts me back into the grey day. Hold still for a moment.

[ a lingering pause ensued ]

It worked. What it is like to be a person. A puzzle in six parts. A label without a handbook. A song sung privately without words.

And hunger - fear of really geting further than this - draws me away.

[ ... one year ago today: pomegranite talk ]

sweetening and sour.

Sat Apr 19 1997

I'm late at night now, coollecting thoughts and burrowing into the nothingness that has become me.

I know that sounds morbid. I wish I wasn't - it wasn't.

I've been e-chatting with several diarists, and with the found Richard, and with the absent Peter over the last few minutes. A drunken state and nothing to sya- appropriate.

Did you know that yesterday was my birthday, that people whistle at me onthe street regularly and that still I feel lonely. There is nothing more true than that yu get out of life what youput in terms of it. Nothing more true. If htere is something youwnat - do it yourself, be it yourself. That is it. The truth barring crazy government upheavels - the knd found in thrid world starvation countries mostly.

I would have been a good secret service agent ala Murder at 1600 which I saw this evening with Peter - there was the girlfriend scene where the president's son switches caras - filmed outside the back of my building. Very nifty. They filmed that scene last summer - leaves everywhere, green grass, sunlight beaming. And today it snowed.

recursion: Online Diarists Forum but not a godel point.

Nothing significant will happen in my tired brain - sex is al that is left. G'night.

CS Friedman.

Sun Apr 20 1997

I'm wading through her trilogy of undead heros and priestly warriors this weekend. I'm pleasantly surprised by the writing of someone I met at a wedding last year. She came up from the states for Steve's wedding - an old friend of the groom. She and Tracey hit it off although I think Tracey didn't write afterwards. insight

Last night is over this morning. I'm less hopeless feeling - travelling down into the depths of loneliness where I met so many people who felt like talking about shared interests. Why don't I reach out more often? OVERHEAD. When I reach out, often I offer my future as well. I shouldn't anymore. resist



I wrote about the little daily cowardices that limit us. Mine thrive. I wish I could apologize for them. My large braveries don't always counter for them. My goal inlife has become (locally) to be brave in little ways too. destiny

[ ... one year ago today: gullible travels ]

the white carnation at my doorstep.

Mon Apr 21 1997

Further along in my journey today than I was yesterday. I went out on my own last night - a sense of freedom comes from this. I should learn to talk more easily with people. They are shuch scary entities when my brain turns off. They all become potential anythings. My old mantra, that they are all acting normal, is forgotten when this happens. I should hold on harder to it.

Why am I a personwho does not think others are just people too? With similar feelings? WHy are people mysterious to me? As the most complx creatures we know of, as the most complex things we know of, it shouldn't be that surprising. But I am one of those things, and I find myself understandable. WHy are others more elusive? Is it that great divide Descartes added our culture, me and thee? Mind and body? Internal and external things? Piss me off.

Of course, abandoning this divide would lead... where? Not an assumption thaty people have minds, but simply to the thought that they are minds. OK. So how do I know what those minds consist in?

I guess someone should do a survey.

[ ... one year ago today: tendrils of decency ]

walking ever so gently through a briar patch.

Thu Apr 24 1997

Momentum carrying me through life out of habit. I stopped in the shower today to think about what I would enjoy doing. It's not so much that the trappings of my life are worng. More that I don't find my efforts spin to create personal pleasures. I haven't been weaving these inot the day along with the other things - unobjectionable things, and yet not what life is about. Support things. Support for what though.

So I thought a little about what weavings should be included. I realized that I had enjoyed university for the social environment. I enjoy the impromptu hallway conversations these days at the office. Much like having a coffee / beer between lectures. Alright. WHy do I run from these things then?

[ ... one year ago today: phasing liquid glass ]

For the future...

frames: http://carolyn.org/diary.html

technical abstraction.

Fri Apr 25 1997

what do I need to say today?
It's bottled up.

Fairy tales told to warn us about what the adults will be like once we are one too.

The notion of being an adult is this great fiction, As kids, as beings who do not have the rights of either citizens or people, we are lead to expect that things will be ok when we come of age. Kids are the most discriminated against people in all of history. They do not have the experience to organize against this repression. They weren't invited to this game in the first place. When they show up, they are told that their moves in the game will be large dictated to them for about a fifth of their lives. They bonus of this system for them is that they are allowed to be carefree.

I suspect that the lack of much responsibility in being a kid is our own fairy tale dream - our adult fantasy. Once the burdens and obligations start to spill into our lives, post school, we might be tempted to think that being a kid was more fun. We are tempted to make being a kid even more fun for the next generation. But god damn it. Fun isn't everything. I have always loved resonsibility - only the biggest types really. Being a kid was impossibly boring and long-winded. Who would really want to be a house plant?

Can being allowed to play full time make up for not being allowed to decide to do almost anything else? We've invented the concept of a child prodigy. This is really someone who is so talented and forceful that they in effect have demanded to be treated like an adult. Through their own outstanding acheivements, they show the game for what it is, a predjudice. How inconvenient it would be if children were allowed to vote after all. Standard thinking is that they haven't developed an interest or an understanding in the issues involved. But do we really think that every so called adult has done this? I know I haven't.

The issue as I see it is as follows. There is only so much energy and space available in a society. The limits will exclude a certain percentage of all people from participating in the economy. We as an enlightened civilization have decided which sliver of the population will be excluded. We have designed alternatives for them to use their time up with. We have written and told stories about the importance of these alternatives to the development of people in general. We have made sure that the system is fair: every person is a child at the beginning of their own life so every person will undergo their turn being a non-person in the society. This is in fact one of the most fair systems of discrimination I have seen. But that doesn't change the fact that it is a form of discrimination, an artificially constructed form.

My question is about what we have gained and lost as a society in setting things up in this way. What great minds have grown bored in the public school system and gone on to rob banks at the age of 14 instead of writing the next great epic poem? If Romeo and Juliette could live and love and die as children, couldn't they also have voted?

[ ... one year ago today: Where have the sparrows gone? ]


Sat Apr 26 1997

post recrimintation.

Sun Apr 27 1997

The effect of a lot of weekend time is that a lot of my brain forgets what the rest of my time was spent doing. What was it again?

I've been hunting around to find a hobby.

I really fel like I am empty. My energies have gone into trying to be normal. The engine that once was me creating ideas and conquering universes inmy imagination, that is all gone. It feels dry and boring to go out for dinner, read a book, write a bit. It goes on and on. Undifferentiated monotony. Why why why is my life always something I don't want it to be. I am so un-brave. That's plain. I want to climb figurative mountains. Tod oso though woul dbe to brave the winds and the rocks personally. No hiding behind movies dreaming of being someone else for two hours at a time. Me. Being me bravely. Cowaring under a chair waiting for the coast to clear.

I'm home alone right now scurry. My mind flits around for an excape from being alone and without the sounds of living surrounding me. What are those anyway?


A small bird flits through the breeze. It is nest building season and we all feel in the air the life forces renewing us like overdue but well-read books.

I pull over to the roadside in the car. The wind has mussed up my hair with the top down. I'll walk from here towards my own nest, my house with the brown shutters closed tight against the sunlight. I should open them now for the summer. Perhaps I will want to tomorrow.

The open door tells me that Brad is home. He's probably tending to our dinner. I hope so. it's been a long day and I'm very hungry now. I can hear his footsteps in the back. he is cooking. I don't think he has noticed I'm here yet. I guess I'll change my clothes and grab a shower before eating with him.

Upstairs there are three bedrooms and two bathrooms. We chose this house for the convenience of this space. I wanted my own luxurious bathroom and a bedroom of my own. My life shouldn't change, I though, just because we'd be living together. I pull my door shut quietly in the hope that he'll miss the sound even now. Unsnapping my bra is the hard part of getting undressed. But asking Brad to help will give hima n erection. He doesn't have a lot of self-control. I wiggle it over my head without undoing the clasp.

The tub is filled. I guess I didn't want a shower - something mroe relaxing will do me much better. Luxurious old-fashioned tub full of bubbly water. I slip in to the warm water. I slip into my dreams.

Brad, younger and motivated to please, is lying alongside me in the water. He is holding my hair back tightly. I can barely breathe. The sustained fear that he will let go of me makes me squirm causing ripples. He pushed himself up and over me, my head held slightly above the waterline. Now I don't want to breathe.

Day dreams. The plug comes loose suddenly and I decide I've had enough for now. I dry quickly with a rough towel, his. And head downstairs again in my robe. He'll want to say hi now.

I used to be a model. That is what they called it. I don't think I really should. I was more of an X-rated model, if you will, in videos. Brad knows what I've told him about this. I've often wondered how much of that life he had encountered before meeting me.

He's not in the kitchen, but I see himout in the back setting plates out on the picnic table. I hope the neighbours won't mind my robe too much. They're used to me mostly. The neighbourhood scarlet woman. How amusing, suburbian. I remember the short shorts my mom wore while gardening. I think this just runs in the family. She of course was horrified with my interpretation of this freedom. Brad seems to like my freedoms.


I wonder if I am that boring.

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