what is real after death? after love? after life?
a real-time hyperfiction experiment
The rain is coming. To upset and douse the runners for an annual 10k that I will (again) not be attending. As the rain hovers and darkens all horizons, I’ve got to look toward my obligations over the next few days. Tennis tonight at 7 pm, but it looks to be rained out. Performance of Bobby Daren’s Down By the Sea on Saturday. More rain. Sunday. No plans. Me, the cats, and god.
As I return to my own equilibrium I am sad for the loss, the near miss, the rocket of love and kisses that ignited my life and illuminated alternative timelines for both of us. Now, streaming elsewhere. Energies where they are appreciated. Care and feeling of our family and friends.
I have my own fish to fry. I’m done trying to justify myself. My writing. My future writing projects. If a book of love poems from ten years ago is too hard to read, don’t read it. But, don’t come at me for writing love poems, for dating in the sixteen years I’ve been divorced. In all the relationships I’ve had.
Yes, I’ve written books about it. If you want to focus on the dating writing from 5 – 7 years ago, go for it. It won’t really inform you about where I am today. Whatever I’ve written, book or blog (there’s no difference to me) is part of my processing of life, living. Even my mindfulness practices have incorporated writing. So, my life happens: I write about it.
What is fair? What is harmful? Toxic? Is my divorce writing demeaning to women? Am I still in that angry vindictive single dad place? Um? Do you read me?
When I am sitting in front of you, holding your hand, asking you to return from the void… Somehow, it’s me that’s stuck in a loop. Me that can’t let go and move on.
There’s a lot more to unpack here. I will leave it unexplored. There’s no hope in arguing with your partner about how wrong they are. It’s there perspective. It’s their mindset, viewport, lens.
“What’s the way forward?”
“I don’t know.”
“Me either.”
And my daily allowance has been met. I won’t fight about my writing. I’m already fighting my own creative devils, the illiterate market place, and you. I can control only one of these things. You can see that, right?
Something’s got to give. It seems like it’s me. Okay, I’ll give. I’ll reboot and return to my own crisis. I bless you in the exit. “May you be safe.”
The way forward is something we call “up and out.” The messy dream we began with has unraveled into fear and doubt. It’s not 100%. That doesn’t make sense, right? You can see that?
Stuff has begun to feel like a fight. If you say you’re protecting yourself the entire time I’m arround. Or that you weren’t happy thinking about me coming over, the solution is easy, right? You see how me not coming over, is the path forward for both of us.
You to heal and be in your new life untethered. Me, to recenter on my current priorities and my son. Again, with the son. Fuck. Carry on with life in timelines no longer aligned. Take a deep breath and count to ten. Squeeze. This is going to sting a little.
> back to index: proofs of life
Look >> There’s a new Facebook Group on *hyperfiction*
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