Work in progress - a letter to friend written out in the open.

Connection is fickle, peculiar - circumstantial. We know how to connect at any given moment, but often times some subconscious signal must manifest first and ping between points, saying something little more than nothing. We don't know what will be said, just that there is something to be said: this cloudy uncertainty portends anything. The slightest interaction will condense it, dropping it briefly on the word or gesture that shrunk it to interpersonal palpability, to then dissipate. Whatever comes after that has much more to do with anything else - you just wonder about the start.

My friend recently wrote a blogpost that they certainly did not expect me to read, and I thought it would be worthwhile to respond in kind with a semi-open letter. You won't find their name, but they will. What's meant for you is also for them, because what's at hand here is living with, for, and away from others.

Howdy, dude. I hope you're well, wherever you are and wherever you read this.

Do you like Ethel Cain? I ask, because one time I talked about country music, and you said, "isn't it just about trucks and beer?" While Ethel's music isn't country by any stretch, her work might help you see why I like country music, even some of the songs about trucks and beer, and especially the country music that ain't. The themes and origins of her and her work are what express the home I love and hate, in a sonically transmuted and accessible way. There's tension, contradiction, and other artistic currents that substantiate our current buzzwords and cultural zeitgeist. There's love and hate, community and isolation, cherished memory and seeking longing, and a pall of religion. I think you could extrapolate a bit from her stuff to imagine my interaction with Southern culture and life, and also our shared American milieu. I think there are also parallels to you.

I don't say that because I think I know you or your situation, but rather because I know mine: indeed, because of how much I don't know about mine. Furthermore, this is to you and about you, so I'm going to talk about you, but not with any finality.

Home is hard. The house, the place, the church. It's never just you. The you they want you to be isn't you, it's who you are with them - as them. You said your friend left home and realized that she didn't disappear into nothingness the moment she went beyond the threshold. To them, though, she did. The world is flat in a snowglobe, and folks fall off the edge. They know to stay put, or else. They're not going anywhere - she did. I don't blame her, and you don't either, because we know they're as resentful of her as they are scared for her. She should get to leave, and she should still be loved, on her own terms. That doesn't mean hearts don't hurt.

Home has had it hard. History and circumstance weigh fresh on some, deeply in others. Some didn't make it here. Home is also full of people who aren't from there, who are in a new home, which is its own pain (which both of us are afraid of and yet considering). To be an ocean, a continent, or a life away from your home can be a sieve of the soul, pulling out the bits that make you anything more than alive. To have a semblance of home so far away is close to miraculous and certainly precious. We can agonize about how inconsistent, unresponsive, and broken home is, but it's important to a memory of change and displacement often underlies those bastions of tradition and connection. As generations on generations pass through the years, each face their own challenges. Some just want everything to stop.

There is nothing new under the sun, and it is hard every time. It's also beautiful every time. What is derivative, unoriginal, and cliche to one is to another inspired, familiar, and connecting. The sweetest song is the one we all like, but you just need to sing yours. "The way things are done" is often just a choking yoke, but "what we do together" is a rare freedom.

We can't all leave, but you can knock down some walls. We can't all stay, but you can come home. Your friend stepped off the edge of the earth, but she can show it actually goes all the way around, and in this case, back to home.

three months since the last blog. I always feel the need to note how long it's been since I last wrote here. I'm worried about writing these and anxious about how to start them. feel bad for not writing them, think that I'm letting them get away, not producing like I used to. as if I knew what I was writing back then, like they didn't crawl out of the cybernetic canvas. like the seven blogs (that don't come near to 40,960 characters) didn't take ten months to write. there was so much clientside that didn't stop coming, so much I was adrift in, that I didn't realize the time: growth for granted. I wasn't comparing myself to anything, I was just doing it. I really didn't know I wasn't fourteen anymore.

it's been a week and a day since we got back from the trip, and a week since I wrote that last line. I made a tumblr post the day before we left about today, about how life might be different. it is. finished two books, not sure which will be more important. am halfway through another, and people 150 years ago already did everything I thought about and planned on - and it really didn't matter. grateful to say that's the less interesting development. I still believe in my friends like I did when I was a kid. the movies fasten to my senses when I'm with them, and the hours carry us from one place to another, instead of just flowing by. the rock hits harder, like it did. four strum beats that say everything you didn't even know you were feeling, wailing guitars strip everything back and you have to sit in the mess of all you are. that's what it feels like to be with my friends. it hurts bad, like it should, and the good is all it should be. just being around them would be better, to live in the same spaces, cities. the apartment was a little snug, but there was a lot going on and no space to talk it out, literally.

it's been seven years since I left and I still feel the loss. I fucking hate that I wasn't there. that was my home, and it will never exist again. the web of videos showed me that. that's what I didn't expect. I didn't exactly surprise myself, it made sense once it started happening, but I didn't expect it. I got the ocular orbit spinning, dove into it all, concrete seat and the telephone screen. and I saw a home I knew I was missing but simply didn't think about. when I was alone, that was all I was. I thought about what I was missing, but I didn't know. seeing the pieces of me strewn throughout lost episodes, making a skeleton of that other me. I've talked about it in here before, how you can make things feel like they're real on here, like they once were, and that's still true. but this time, I just saw everything my life wasn't. everything I did there, everything I dreamt, everything I was doing, just to be a little more than memory and what could have been, because none of it paid off. back home, it was talent, potential, making the best of what you had, and possibility arising out of comparative lack. where I went, it was a neat trivia, a little backstory, but ultimately unimportant and useless. anything I'd get out of it would have to come later. which it did, and went again, and I'm sitting in it now.

it was comforting to know that nothing was still there. sat down on the couch, no name #2, sunlight sneaking through blinds drawn as tightly as possible. it wouldn't be months again, life wasn't going anywhere this time, but the moments would do. starting at the longest days, hearing where she wanted to take it, it was heartening and awful. two views on it: she saw so far ahead, or nothing ever changes. same tin coin. we were cool kids, which has dragged into this helpless adulthood. there's art out there, it just rolls off the community's mind. no place for it, and we're too stubborn to turn our backs on this place, if only for the fact it would chase after us with vengeance. the potential is gone, and we're wallowing in a sunken plateau. this is the actual climb.

this post is part of it. this is scatterbrained, disjointed, forced. that, I can say, isn't quite true for my other blogs. they aren't perfect, not by any means, but they fit better than this. I'm writing this one because I have to, not because I need to. I need a marker for this, a way to look back and see what was going on. that's why I made the 54 post. had to get it out, yeah, but I also wanted a record of the songs. IG was useful for that, just bad in most every other way. I want to write, and I want to be human. to do both of those the way I want to, I need to be around people, not their ghosts. need to talk to them, not construct them. need to share with them, not throw things out and hope it's stumbled upon. aka, I still need to move on from what I'm doing. if I want to build the life I need, to be with my friends, my loved ones, I need to make this known, so that we can be alone together. damn change.

the newest video is excellent. it's the proper evolution of the theme. I could go on a dozen more of those trips, and I hope we don't for at least two years. we need to go far, we need to go wide. we don't need a reason, we're enough. we were all we had, and that was more than plenty. the fact is that it's just sweeter when it's something new: love it together, love one another. the first ~6 hours of the first trip were better than every trip but the last combined. not because they sucked (one did), but because it simply burst upon us. we threw ourselves us up that near-vertical gravel driveway and landed in a heap of home. couldn't believe our eyes or hearts, that honey stuff bubbled us into a timeless southern escape. the night wasn't even over before things fell apart, but we were there for one another. we were all nineteen - unbelievable to say - and we grew up years in those couple of days. grew into one another in ways we never anticipated. to think that it started over a 3am skype call joke about watching squidbillies while getting hammered in the mountains. I said it silly, they got serious, and the cabin was booked within a month. no going back.

it led to love. I genuinely don't know if we would be the group we are today if we didn't start these trips. I know the four of them went to the beach the year before, and that trip matters, but the connection that we've built with the mountains, that town, changed us. the genuine magic of the first trip is inseparably woven into our group consciousness: mm2k20 is scripture. I've seen smiles, heard laughter, and felt bonds that wouldn't come anywhere or anyway else. no matter what happens, it happened. it was there. it might haunt us - love does that. it might just hurt like hell, seeding regrets we can't imagine. hear its echoes everywhere, like grievous tinnitus. it does come, it is coming, no matter what. is it worth it to give it something to tear out.

in any event, love never stops: it goes all the way down.

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My farewell address to my college debate society. Fits another theme.

ten years ago, ensconced in my first teenage spring, hank and john green, lawrence krauss, ken burns, and my dad sparked my learning. that's the earliest moment I can think of where I sought knowledge, challenged my ignorance, and approached the world. as a boy I ran all over my corner of west georgia, the sunlight sending glistening currents of joyous wandering wonder that dazzled what life could be onto the world around me. at dusk the trees whispered as the night itself breathed, transforming the daytime world into an enclave of solitude and personable stillness. when I wasn't busting street lights and putting dents in garages, I thought about the moon and the human cosmos that swirled around. I thought about the people who might also know and love this life, and I dreamt about finding someone to share it with. I'm glad I knew nothing of college or Demosthenian then, because the surprise and elation of finding it was better than any excited anticipation. Demosthenia, you have fulfilled a part of a young boy's hope - thank you.

I've been coming to Athens every summer for the United Methodist Annual Conference since 2009 - I have family buried outside of town - I have history and what could have been in the rubble a few blocks over. I know some trivia and some stories, but none of it is mine. None of it has anything to do with me. all I did was peer in, witness, and wonder. my true uga and demosthenian story starts in the summer of 2017 at berry college for GHP, when I sat down in a social studies class next to some tall motherfucker. he told me that the Nazi's were this close to building a nuclear bomb, and I retorted that the Nazi's were too racist to even pursue nuclear physics aka judenmagick. as two people who are both wrong tend to do, we argued without resolution. it was some of the most fun I have ever had, and it meant the world to me then. 0 and I's friendship began in disagreement and it is something I have cherished ever since because I know that not only is he a smart guy that I'm debating with, he's also a good man. when we disagree, I know it is because we are both desperate to do the best we can, and in a world as broken and scarred as ours, you will come up with different and sometimes opposing ideas. politics and policy, if even for just a moment, become moot when you know you and the other person want to build a world worth living in. decision-making, leadership, and simply being an adult are hard, and over my tumultuous four years since starting college, I am grateful to have had 0 around. thank you for being my friend, 0. I'm glad to have met you and I wish you the very best.

0 invited me to Demosthenian in August 2019. a few hours after he hit me up on groupme that day, my brother texted me that 0, a buddy of his when he went to GHP, wanted me to come to PK. I told 0 that Demosthenian got to me first and I had to go with my GHP guy. I randomly sat down up here next to a childhood friend who recognized me but could only remember my webkinz username, and then 0 and 0, two great Villa Ricans, came and sat by me. marvelous coincidence and good company were plenty enough reason to make my decision on the societies, and I stayed. I spoke at nearly every meeting I attended, which was a lot, and even crashed the ANM, but I never joined. I was too scared about the maiden speech, because that young, wide-eyed boy inside me had so much to say and look and wish for. I didn't think I could ever find the words, and once I finally did, it was on Thursday, March 5th, 2020. I planned on polishing the speech over spring break and joining Thursday, March 19th. then the world ended, on my calendar, on march 12th. shit happens.

the speech I wrote was a bit like this one - an explanation of where I came from, why I did what I did before, and what I wanted to do now. I talked about the Academic Decathlon, and how when I was a freshman in high school, the seniors on that team changed my life by hanging out with me, accepting me, and just by being themselves. by showing me what I could be, that things would get better, that I had something to aspire to. I wanted, in my maiden speech, to give thanks to those who inspired me and to celebrate the personal trait that helped me then and, I hoped, would help me in demosthenia. I resolved to speak on that trait that I, quote, "held near and dear; I am an idiot". I am an idiot! I don't think that's a stretch of the imagination, and what I meant by it is this.

I wanted to be honest, sincere, forthright. I wanted to do what I could on the way to whatever I could become, and that meant not waiting for the perfect moment. not waiting until I was perfect, until I knew exactly what to do and say. I wanted to live and be in three dimensions - I didn't want to be wrapped up in where I was coming from, blind to where I was, or anxious about where I was going. one might see that as bold or authentic, and another would see it as foolhardy, inconsiderate, and unexamined. both sides are, of course, true. it's the same coin. and that's the me I didn't quite get to be. the pandemic and some home circumstances meant growing up quickly once again, and so I say to you, at the end of my time here, don't grow up too fast. there's a lot you can do right now and in the coming semesters, and the potential amongst y'all is extraordinary. 0's a better debater than me now and 0 came in better, 0's a young executive, 0 has got a lot going on up there, and 0 is gonna beat me to being published. and that's just amongst those of you youngins I've gotten to know personally. as you've all certainly heard from teachers and faculty before, I want to affirm as a friend and peer - there is so much that each of you can accomplish and become. so, when I talk about my time at dls and give my final words, I hope the perspective I offer is useful.

I have been a member for four semesters and an officer for three. I have grown as a speaker, debater, conversationalist, and leader in my time here, and each of you will grow in those traits in your own ways. you will each fulfill your excellence as you see fit, and I don't believe I need to tell you how. likewise, I want to talk about something that is often hard to talk about and thus not often talked about, and that's fucking up. in dls and college generally, I have made mistakes, gotten in over my head, and been in situations where I had no idea how to resolve them. as an officer, I have at times been shortsighted, unfocused, negligent, and harsh. I have made messes and at times hurt people, and though I have certainly done my best to apologize and make things right whenever I realize I have messed up, it matters that I say this all publicly, so that that when any of you fail, which you will, fear, shame, and regret will not prevent you from making things right. this is not me trying to be melodramatic or fish for assurance, I have my self-esteem and on the whole I'm comfortable with how I've done, but I was not perfect. you will not be perfect either. do not let this stop you from taking on work and responsibility, because imperfection is inevitable. rather, walk humbly, do your best, ask for help, and when you mess up, ask for forgiveness and make things right. then, forgive others as you would ask them to forgive you. find friends who will tell you hard truths and not only hold you accountable for your failures, but also help you make them right. then, be the kind of friend who will do just the same. I did some good here, and I hope part of it is showing how to be good when you can't be perfect.

Much of what I messed up was because of my own flaws, but it was also because of the simple fact that leadership is difficult. answers are not always clear, if even visible at all, and there are times where even mundane matters can become precarious. we have been a close-knit group here, and as charming as that can be, it can also be a maze to maneuver. politics and friends don't mix, and this society's constitution sets us up to be a political professional society. there are unique opportunities to this, and there are also grave issues with it, which I will speak candidly on. our processes for internal resolution are vague and hazardously political. when we mess up procedure, we are often unprepared to redress it by virtue of our incomplete documents, as well as the fact that manifested institutional knowledge and experience regularly resets, placing responsibility on new heads every year who have few resources for support and guidance. critically, our constitution is utterly lacking regarding the uga student conduct policy, and we have little oversight regarding organizational matters. what goes on in this Hall and in this Society is typically amongst ourselves, and while that freedom is exciting, it is out of line with the standards and structures of campus life at a modern university. policies regarding student conduct and organizations are for our benefit, and we have fallen behind in integrating them into the Society. there is no compromising on student support and safety, and students are not the ones to provide these. that is the place of the faculty advisor and university officials. we, as students, are not qualified or empowered to decide guilt or dispense justice. it is paramount that we coordinate with the university to improve access to official resources and support while reforming our own internal processes to facilitate and center institutional cooperation and response. this is all out of my hands now, though, and so I wish to make this clear to the society as a whole and those who will soon lead it. I offer fervent prayers to your success.

on the topic of those who lead, when I came to demosthenia, I was, as I said, an idiot looking to be better. and if you want to be the best you can be, you don't go where you'll win when you walk in. you go where you'll have to compete. being around people who are smarter, more knowledgeable, and more articulate than me has made me better. the work to catch up here has been worth it, and my time here has given me experience that I would have struggled to find anywhere else. I have grown because I have been willing to be humbled and to fail forwards. I did what I could until I learned how to do what I couldn't. I haven't changed the world, I do not mean to imply anything grandiose about my time here, but I have gained so much. whether it's been formal debate, democratic organization, midday discussions, or late night deepdives, this has been an enriching institution since I walked in the door.

thank you for being a place I could come to learn, grow, and know. this is mighty sentimental, but I mean it. however, I do not mean to make this place something it isn't. this is not my whole life - this is not my whole college. and this isn't the peak - this society will someday be a dot in a constellation of a life of learning and love. dls is not my everything nor would I ever wish it to be, because that would undermine what makes it special. as demosthenians, we should not seek success here for success' sake. this society does not exist for its own benefit or glory - it exists to create better speakers, thinkers, and citizens for a world that needs them. what is good for the Society is what's good for people, not as privileged and esteemed members, but as students on their way to being a light in the world. whether it's about intellectual growth, oratorical excellence, or the excitement of community, make sure to put this place in context, not just at the university, but in your life. there is a world beyond here and you will have a life after it, whether that comes sooner or later. I say this because college is short, and college is hard.

in my experience, college was hard. the pandemic made many things difficult and simply disrupted a lot else, and likewise I had my time here cut quite short. I'm graduating and have spent only about two and a half years on campus. this was a brief, vivid, and tumultuous period. though I am a kid, I didn't get to be a kid here, and I regret that. this page turns and I am now in another chapter of life. I'm currently considering selling my guitars in order to put up a down payment for a car. it's that serious, that boring, and that final. so, as you're able, cherish yourselves and do what you ache for. this society can be wonderful, and so can a hell of a lot else in this city. whether you explore here or elsewhere, it's not worth wondering what could have been at the end of it, and adversity should not stop you, because, frankly, it will come for you anyway.

I'm getting towards the end here, so on the topic of adversity, I recommend cutting ties with PK for at least a year. they don't like us. they don't want to like us. they have no interest in liking us. they get more out of hating us than liking us. we take up substantially more space in their lore and rituals, and it's all negative. they have to not like us. it is a core part of their identity, and while we certainly appreciate the rivalry and I strongly believe that our relationship with them not only offers unique opportunities but also makes us better as a society, it is unacceptable to participate in an unequal relationship. conducting professional communication and negotiation with people who do not like you and have a vested interest in not liking you at this low-stakes level is truly a unique and valuable experience in dealing with adversity, and one I hate to give up. this is also a club, and the venom we get from PK is not worth the experience. it is unfair to expect all of our members to develop thick skin so that we can maintain relations with them while they get to act as mean as they want. when our members step out of line and act disgracefully, it is a dire sin. when they do, it's the status quo. I hold no personal ill will towards pk - they're literally just people. the secretive psychosis that grips the society across the way is as absurd as it is frustrating. if we were all at Georgia tech, we all could have been friends and literally never thought twice about it, except for the fact that tech kids can't make friends. I want us to be friends with PK, I like PK, there are remarkable speakers and debaters over there, and they have venerable traditions. their elitism and tribalism are not amongst them. their conception of us is unacceptable. we will treat each other as equals and with dignity or not at all.

what makes us equals is our humanity - what dignifies us is our debate. friends, the most valuable thing about the demosthenian literary society is Thursday night. there is a reason why it is the center of the society and why we do it every week. good debate elevates everything. it improves recruitment, it makes meetings more engaging, and it makes this Hall an exciting place to be. debates where everyone leaps to speak are when we make the jump from a discussion group to a debate society, from talkers to orators. if you want this society to grow and be the best it can be, you cannot fail in bringing your very best to debate. write resolutions, give some of the classic rez's in the database, directly respond to points being made that you disagree with, and step out of your comfort zone to make the room a dynamic space. the society is getting big again, and you have the chance to not only grow, but thrive.

the first step in creating great debate is learning. learning is what this society is founded on, and we don't debate based on ignorance. we don't structure our arguments based on gossip and guesswork. we go to the classics and the cutting edge. we go to the data and the literature, the prose and the poetry. though we get up here and bullshit with gusto and eloquence, we do not debate bullshit. it is not worth our time. bring what you learn in class, what you read, what you see at work, what you encounter in your research projects, what you hear in your spiritual and religious life, and what you're afraid of discussing around the dinner table. bring real questions, bring hard questions, and it will pay you and the society dividends. also, save the third rez for the third rez. letting humor and silliness bleed too much into the first two rez's diminishes debate and cheapens the third rez. you're supposed to be worn out by the time you get to the third rez so you get a fount of silliness pouring out. it's a reward.

and on the topic of rewards, I will now give the society the lamest reward of all - more fucking books. first is Polkinghorne's science and theology. though a little dated by now, it is still a useful text to begin considering science and theology, where they interact, where they scuffle, and what it means to approach life's greatest questions critically and humanely. On bullshit is a bit deceptive - it's a book about the word bullshit that is not entirely about the word bullshit. I read this before my first dls meeting after coming back to college and it taught me a lot about sincerity, being intentional, and what it means to be in other people's lives. I read Frankenstein in eighth grade while listening to mcr's first album, I brought you my bullets, you brought me your love, which was a formative moment for a young emo. it is a book, to me, about youth, loneliness, the sudden and damning acquisition of tremendous knowledge, isolation, and how to exist in a world where there simply is no place for you. it is an examination of the human condition in an age where the human condition is rapidly changing, where the world you die in will not be the world you were born in, and where life's mysteries are placed embarrassingly naked in front of you. this, to me, is about growing up. transit and the setting sun are two books that are in many ways inverse. transit is by a woman writing a man fleeing the axis at the height of their powers, setting sun is by a man writing a woman embracing the allies at the height of their powers. they discuss how to respond to great change, what it means to live in a world that flips itself upside down, what it means to commit suicide, and what hope can look like. transit is also my favorite book. lastly, entertaining ourselves to death. we simply consume too much media and most of it is garbage. I'm being a boomer and I don't care. I was raised on the internet, it was my closest and only friend for years, and it is not everything. as people, you can consume what you want. as a literary society, we must stay excellent. we must devote ourselves to textual, analytical, expository, and literary thought and expression. social media, memes, and other visual media aren't worthless, they are remarkable vessels of culture and sentiment, but they are not complete. they can bring attention to and raise important questions, but they are inferior in teaching you how to answer them.

now, the keys - the speaker key, for thoughts and ideas worth hearing and for a perspective I’m glad I got to look through. the nerd rage key, for passion and powerful intellect. the custodian key, for someone who pushes through and gets it done, cuz this hall is a mess. The cowboy key. Be who you are, partner.

history - this is the beginning of a new era. it actually is. the prepandemic people are nearly all gone, and the officer corps is now entirely postpandemic. a year from now, it'll be just y'all. I have spoken so directly to you because I am in a place to see this development but not act on it. I have thus given you my honest thoughts, and that is all I have. it is up to you. I believe in all of you, those I have named and those I have not. the Society has survived the pandemic and each of you can now make it excellent.

and now, the end. you might hear from me, you might not. by this past November, I knew I was farewelling regardless of whether or not I was staying at UGA. some things have their time and this was mine. there are other things I need to do. I have spoken here quite a bit these past few years, and now it is time for what comes next. in your lives, in this society, and anywhere else you might go, if you move in love and humility, though you will mess up, you'll have every reason, every motivation, and a chance to make things better. and that is where all great things begin. thank you and farewell.

Wrote this my senior year of high school. Fits a theme.

I spoke with the Gold Star family across town and they suggested writing. It keeps me busy, if nothing else.

It’s been about five months now. June shifts from fits of rage to trying to fit into your old clothes, bless her heart. Your dad cried for a week, but now he just comes home and goes to bed, like nothing ever happened. It’s not his fault. My family blamed him; only sent a few cards of barbed condolence, nothing more. It wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t blame himself. All he talks about now are doors and gates and how he wishes he said he loved you more often. I do too, but in a different way.

We never stopped the car. Your dad rushed us home to grab more food for the barbecue once Nana and Aunt Pajarita showed up, and we all ran in to get whatever we could carry, not noticing the door was wide open. We left just as we came once we saw that you were gone; everyone at the barbecue leapt into lethargy. “She’s a tramp, who cares? We haven’t seen these two since Papa passed!”

Twenty minutes on the road turned into two hours into two days. We were riding nowhere, riding to you, wherever that might be. But you were nowhere. All we ever found was your shirt in the river; it was torn and I cried because it was your favorite.

The funeral offered no closure. To put it in June’s words, “The pastor sucked.” He did, because the room stopped crying. Not because he had somehow comforted us, but because we were all furious. He made the eulogy into a sermon and you were repurposed for a worthless story. It was like all you ever were was a character to get a message across and then be discarded and forgotten; the ride home made it seem like that was true. I looked outside and felt the most dreadful, overwhelming envy. We made a detour and I saw volleyball and stereos and couples. If you were there you would have demanded we go to the pool or park, but not before we went to the mall so that you could show up with something new on. It was your kind of day, but you weren’t there and the world wasn’t waiting.

Connie, I hate the Pettingers. They’re fine girls, and that’s just the problem. They have soccer games, pool parties, and boyfriends. The younger one is a pageant queen and the other is going to be a star, so her mother says. They are beautiful young women and the community is better because of them; how I loathe them for it. I hate myself for feeling that way but they are nothing but dull stand-in’s for someone incomparable. You should have been on that stage, you should have been the town’s sweetheart, and you should be here. Life promised all of this for you and it was stolen, and every night I weep because I spent another day that I would do anything to have given you.

About a month ago, I drove the car into a ditch. I did it. I was coming home, and my window was down, despite the rain. It was light and I couldn’t muster the will to roll it up. Why would I? I hated it: everything. A spoiled interior was the indirect channeling of all the destruction I held inside, a message to the world that I ate its decay and asked for seconds. I didn’t realize the crack in the window was a foot-in-the-door. The taste inspired a feast, and soon I was doing seventy down side roads; the wheels would slip and my stomach would tighten in anticipation. I wished to crash. I wanted the car to shatter and leave a jagged mess, my crumpled corpse sitting in the center like a corrupted crown jewel. More than anything I wanted to break this body that bound me to the rock that took and hid you. I wanted the power to make that decision, to reach back and right what I’d missed or wipe out whatever lied ahead. A rock struck the windshield and stuck in the corner; a little bit of glass landed on the dash and I had a moment of urgent clarity. I could slam the pedal to the floor and let fate decide or hit the brakes and most likely live another day, forever frustrated.

I did neither and pulled the wheel. A moment of weightlessness followed by what felt like a bomb. I don’t think I was out long, and I wasn’t injured, but I was hurt. My broken body might have checked the world, but what would it have done for you? The maternal memory that knows you better than yourself would have been erased by my cowardice and anger, and because you gave me that memory, I had no right to lose it.

The crash warped me and the vehicle. Now that we were unfit for our previous purposes, we had to find new ones. The car was hauled for scrap and a cross placed at the site of the accident. I went home.

All the doctors ever ask is what am I thinking; I never have an answer. I almost have the words when something like a train whistle tears through my head and it’s all gone. I found something, though. I don’t have the meaning, but I have the intention. I would want to talk to you. With you. For you.

I’ve sat typing this for a few hours now. I tried to write it first but I broke the pencil and the paper tore from tears. I have to go to bed soon and I wouldn’t dare look at this in the morning; I’ll finish it here. So, here is the first entry in your second shot, Connie. I’ll write here for you, because of you. Your story hasn’t stopped and it will be told. And Connie, I hope I can prove that even the fraction of you preserved in memory is powerful enough to make the world wish it knew you.

Love,

Mom

I'm starting this post on tumblr then moving it to myspace. I think this is the first time it's gone in this direction. I got home around 6:30 ready to write on the adhoc dock, but a migraine set in. couldn't throw up, couldn't cool down. ate because I knew I needed to, but it made it worse in the short term. put on the night playlist, passed out during "the party tonight", slept through come softly, came to during "for you I hold my breath" all better. music is medicine and then some. I plan on giving it up for lent next year. wish I'd done it this year, but only realized what it meant to me about a week ago.

it's march 3rd. three weeks shy of three years ago I wrote about "getting back to it", the first real writing on here since seven circles. I was at home because work got rained out. shane was in vegas and everyone else was wherever they needed to be. that was a very lonesome time; not lonely, alone. only a month or so removed from savannah and the cursory excursion to the new athens. sarah wasn't over, even though we'd been broken up for five months, but after march 8th, we were in the final act. skype sisters were in my heart and head, but I wouldn't see them until april. looking back, the time itself was rather brief. time puddled and the world shrank away, however. the windows were open, the woods were turning green, and I found myself on the couch, on the computer.

I spent some money on a handful of books from underground in carrollton - off their webpage. they're a lot more expensive if you order them online, I guess they understand how to market to bougie bibliophiles. the books were good, the complementary bag was neat, but that isn't what mattered. it was going through their catalog. I made a bigggg folder of books I wanted from them, over $1000 worth. lotta books that I thought were interesting, lotta books I had never even thought of, and all just a couple miles down the road from where I once dreamt as a kid. it got the heartset drumline tapping again, for the first time in a long time. I remembered why I did anything. I was shown once again that you never know the whole of it, for the better. from september to that march, what was teetering fell. what was bristling burnt. what was built broke. it was a kind of failure, sure, but it was more so loss. a big thing fell apart, and while the soul beneath it was still there, it was scared, and alone, and malformed. something was lost in the fall, and I was gonna have to grow again - and didn't know if I still could.

memory is imperfect. no two recollections are the same. every remembrance is a synthesis of two moments: then and now. at the time, I remembered the wonder, the quiet excitement, the possibilities. the anxiety, confusion, and milieu didn't bubble up, but they didn't have to. history records what was, memory tells you what happened. at the time, it was enough to get things started again. the engine didn't roar to life - I wouldn't start producing for another year or so - but I got the why back. I got the want. I'm still working on it, and I am by no means where I can/should be, but that's the start of this paradigm. that's where this time began. I remember late april, where what was passed by and I knew I was on the other side.

yesterday, I was scared for the first time in a long time. there have been failures and setbacks since. I've fucked up. but nothing that would reset. I love demosthenian but it can be a memory. there would be sadness, perhaps even regret, but nothing awful. and there'll be oscillation and change amongst us, sure, but I'm never leaving the homos. fear doesn't creep in there because it's simply not happening. families live after death. yesterday, though, I remembered defeat. I remembered the powerlessness, the fear, the sheer dread of it all. big emotions and quiet rooms, still lines betwixt and between. love does what it needs to and sometimes that need is ending. love is why and yet, for the sake of why, it has to stop. it's the little things. miles and money on the road, time on the phone, months between sex. nothing's happened, only possibilities, and unlikely ones at that, but possible, and so you have to accommodate, make the heartspace. you tell them whatever they do is okay but it's them and you and a life to build. you don't want it to happen because it's you two but it'll be okay, though. and you remember the ache, the fear of not only loss, but their loss. of the unbearable anxiety about what they'll do, what will happen, and if they will be okay. they'll always be in your heart, but you can't be there for them, even though you don't love them for you, and by God please just let them be okay. maybe it doesn't matter in the long run, but that doesn't matter. you want life for them as they are and as they will be. that's why we're loving at all, and it doesn't stop. the love may die in absence, but love itself doesn't. three weeks shy of three years ago, I remembered the love, and it started back. yesterday, I felt it.

I agree with the argument against death, but the man drastically overestimates us. death is the reason we'll overcome death, not life. you need to know the end.

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"Guess this is Tumblr or myspace while I don't have internet. A journal for the writing process. I wasted the past few working days rushing to beat the first two Fallouts again, cuz I have to do that at least once a year. It's usually this time of year where I just get the itch. Maybe it's the weather outside that makes the ingame desert so appealing. It's open, explorable, there. Fallout 1 is gutted; there's more world than people, and that's what makes it great. It's really just wasteland with pockets dispersed throughout it. Analog 2 in Junktown and Necropolis. Shady Sands on mom's loveseat in Fayetteville. That was the summer of 2012, which feels early but I know it isn't. Tandi reminded me of her, a California kid with dreams a lot bigger than where[ever] she was. She probably should have stayed there."

I started this post on a computer without internet access and it felt like freedom. I don't have to look at what's going on to know everything that can happen here. The friends are gone and I miss them dearly, but at least the box still lights up. Not having reliable computer access has been as isolating as moving back home. Don't tell Neal Stephenson, but I am dependent on OSes, specifically Windows. Don't tell Jason Scott, but it feels like home - really. LXLE works for certain purposes, and that laptop sure can bootup, but it isn't anywhere I want to be. It's not where Raise Your Weapon reverberated out and changed a kid's internal life forever. I'm closer than I ever was to how these things are made, where they come from, but it's nothing like living in it. There is a life for the audience.

Between June of last year and the moment I first booted up this old Windows machine, I felt very alone. There are other things that affected me and my mental presence, but losing this place to come to was real. There's plenty of criticism there, don't worry, I've been doing the self-reflecting and realizing. But, in a country where the only viable forums are Facebook, Xwitter, and people you already know, it's nice to have somewhere you can put things down and think outside of the 280 character textboxes laid out for you. I shut this [that] computer down in June of 2022, and it has since been untouched. I'm actually transcribing this post from that computer to another because I can't directly transfer and I refuse to connect it to the internet. In any case, this [that] computer has always just been a place to keep old games. They're the only kind this [that] thing can run and they're the only kind I play. New Vegas, Civ 5, and HOI4 are the only games past 2010 that I'm interested in, and it'll likely stay that way. Civ is comfortable, HOI is momentarily engaging, and New Vegas is like Charleston - where I'm alone with the world.

There have been a lot more books than games since 2017. A lot more music, people, and experiences. I got out of my room (twice). There have still been games, don't get me wrong, but they're increasingly dispersed. I simply can't play them as much as I might want to; I don't have the gear. Computers break and get repurposed. It's just not an option. I played the someguyseries of New Vegas mods for the first time in the summer of 2020 and it was genuinely one of the best times of my life. My favorite game made fresh with interjections of the new things I cared about in life by a damn good mod. Though it feels like a different world, I sat where I am right now and played for days - took me about a week - while I soaked up foliage-tinted sun and set a new soundtrack to it. I felt young. It was a good precursor to that fall on myspace93. I could play New Vegas five times a year if I wanted to and not get bored. I haven't touched it since.

Mom got this [that] computer for $300 in 2018 from a friend who built computers and made the cheapest thing possible. He didn't score her a deal, just put in the legwork. Thanks for the labor, but it isn't what she thought. That is what counts and the money matters; I am grateful. But it's not what she oughta do. She doesn't have to buy things, she coulda just been around. Settled down. Took a deep breath and said "okay". Maybe she wouldn't have had the same place as she might think would exist, maybe that maw inside would still scream at her, but, that's what this all is, Ma. Her absence is where all this percolates.

I put the games down because after the third playthrough, they're escapism. It's anxiety management, dreams of the past, suspension of the present. I'm doing it so that I can do nothing. Because I don't want to do anything. Because that basement illuminated by open windows and filled with friends and music and freedom and memories was all I needed, and going back to it is so sweet. It was a good life. I had an inkling of myself and it was all I needed. There was love. The handful of times I've stepped back and gotten the ocular orbit spinning, it's like I never left - I can't see my thinning hair and crosscut lines in the screen. It just is, and it always will be, and if I'm not careful, I could die there. Because nothing else stops. It keeps going. You can never step into the same river twice, and you might not even step out onto the same bank. You have to decide where you're going to be.

A professor explained that to live up to the highest expectations of a Yale student and acquire a true political education (as an American), one must read Plato, Montesquieu, Machiavelli, and the Federalist Papers. After that, you needed to read the "deeds and writings" of America's greatest thinkers, specifically Jefferson, Madison, Lincoln, Wilson, and Roosevelt, followed by our greatest jurisprudential minds: Marshall, Holmes, Brandeis, and Frankfurter. After that, you would need to read about the great world leaders from Pericles to Churchill. After that, you were worthy to enter politics - whoever the hell you might be, because it won't be anyone you or anyone else knows.

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now there really is a lost blog on here. I typed up a whole post that harkened back to "presence and future; looking around" and rendered updated opinions on 46, but I stopped paying attention too long and that thing got deleted. lot I could say about that but I think I oughta get to the point here, cuz I gotta go somewhere at 8pm my time, which is ten minutes from now.

spitting this thing out is the least and probably the most I can do. things aren't like they used to be - thank god. I didn't get to turn what once was into what I wanted it to be. I tried to do research on it, but couldn't muster the focus or wherewithal to actually get things rolling. had no clue what I was doing. I've been trying to write on it, but I've been writing nearly everything else, which makes it a little hard. I tried to relive it, and that's just not an option. '93 only happened once and I'll have to be okay with it.

my last blog largely commented on what was going on, where the words and images found themselves, and what fabrics they were unwittingly weaving. I think the quilt of myspace93 is a lot like the internet - the living internet - at large. people doing some really cool things and a unique medium to do all of it. at a glance, it's incredible. at the microscopic level, it's an entire world. if you're just kinda there, though, in between, it kinda sucks. more trend and mimicry than life and creativity.

46 isn't very active, which is a boon to the tech. I've let out some hollers for folks to come back, to check it out, but they're gone. it's a loss for the folks. we'll see if anything pops outta this pan. in the meantime, I'll keep trying to chisel into the code, if I can find anything worth keeping. check back here - I'll get better.

I lost the password to my first account on this website. my old computer died and I had the password saved on it - whoops. it was some convoluted safe one, given the history of this service. no shade to F46N, I'm sure their ship is tight. I think it's just important to learn lessons when they're handed to you.

that blog was supposed to be literary. I wanted to try to find a way to lean into the medium, write on here a little more intentionally. do something I didn't know how to - write. but, I didn't know how to. couldn't find the time. and I wasn't really engaged with the site. 93 grew every day, and though I wasn't super interactive, I certainly was engaged. present. this time, it was less. there wasn't as much going on on here and a whole lot more going on outside. simply couldn't get it going. not until recent.

my first blog on here disappeared. it was about something I cared about, it was about my past few years, it was about where I'm from. it was pretty revealing. had it been posted it would have pretty seriously changed the tone and identity of this blog, my entire existence here. I had it all typed out and finished, hit post, and it turned out the page had been open so long that I'd been logged out and everything reset - wiped. actually shouted into the void and forgotten, lost in cyberguts.

this is a shot at finding somewhere new. I made a little corner on 93 that, honest to god, felt a little like home. I really miss it. I miss being around the digital citizens. they're still there, I'm in the channels, but it's different. for all the same reasons I wrote in those first blogs. it's not that they're doing anything wrong or that it's inferior, nothing like that at all. it's just not how I fit. I like a little social oscillation. move to a distance where people are free and acting however they might feel the need to, and coming in close with precious contact. my life is lived, but my personage and that of others is lingering, to be explored and known in the same moment - wonder.

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