Didn't sleep til about 4:30 this morning, what with the Gravity Field discussion with Bart going on for so long. I have no idea how I've made it this far.


Somehow, my determination has withstood every form of implicit warning, Dire Prophecy of Destruction, direct blow (to that part of the abdomen that should've had its own ribcage but never did) and all manner of friendly improvisations entitled Po Lil Thang Don't Know What She Lookin Like. I am astounded at my evident survival skills.


And it is not over yet.


It has already been so horrible an ordeal, I am tempted to shout, I don't even wanna KNOW, Lady! and leap into the nearest taxicab, barking instructions to head east until there is no more fare (at which point I would be forced out and, too late, make the personal discovery there is no longer Anywhere Else for me to go). I see this person [that Me] then stupidly —and resentfully— beginning the long trek home on miserable feet that learned the way South last time.


It is always like that.

I should be re-reading mysterious sections of the stuff I already wrote (between shudders and screams and pleadings aimed at the tri-headed light fixture the owner of this dump obviously thought cheap enough) to gain a firmer awareness of what I just learned and rapidly collated away Inside, when —immediately vaulting over miles of obstacles and tearing up any shrubbery found on that path— I suffer yet again on my way to you.


I should be packing or gathering or culling or any of all the things demanded by Stuff at various junctures along its Mastery of Life, Proof-of-purchase Roadside Show.


I must find that displaced carton of sorcery. I really should be over at the storage place clawing through twelve-by-twelve-by-seven to identify six-by-three-by-five stacked-feet of unlabeled boxes I specifically reminded DO NOT MOVE THESE on my way out to buy more tape they didn't need when I returned. That tape-run arrayed those same boxes on my back like the crone's in the movie Labyrinth (the one who looked like a human cook's-wagon on a longhorn roundup). This is now their third move, unopened.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda comes the mantra I forever associate with Archangel John and his sojourn through Hell: One final attempt to Set That Example.

I don't do any of those things.


My seeming nonchalance is undoubtedly the catalyst for at least half the next round of Dire Prophecies Of Destruction. These are always lobbed at my longitude by groups close in number to a prototypical Greek Chorus. Sometimes the clowns are even bold enough to attempt square dancing in the grocery store. I don't know if they are good enough, or so bad, at what they do that I cannot tell if any of them see through my feigned oblivion. I am in line behind the woman with the huge fanny pack who stares at them with malice as they trade ladies across our aisle. (I'll bet she carries an unopened bottle of carbonated spring water in there.)


The lead dancer just winked at me. I'm sure he knows I saw.

There is no time to process old learnings, even when "old" refers to ten minutes ago.


There is no Will to demonstrate to myself —or anybody else in my vicinity— renewed devotion to Our Lady of Permanent Stuff, or to exemplify Common Sense for any youth who might be lurking within eyeshot. Not a shred.


All that remains at this point is Resolve.

I know I am tempting God.

I finally learned just a day or so ago that my awareness of that is what He was counting on, and is why I was made like this in the first place. It's perverse, but that's the whole reason we can talk in this weird and pre-emptive way: Pre-approval.


And so it goes for as long as my body holds out, I guess. I suddenly felt physically immortal when this first started up, but no longer do. Must be a reason for that.


How about you? (I want to hear you whisper, That will pass, Baby, hang on! but can't tell if you do. )


Maybe I'm just in need of sleep or protein.

Seems like I managed to prevent, or at least forestall, misguided human intervention from re-defining this Quest into some errand I never would have considered seriously in the first place. Which is a very disappointing lesson when you first get it: Seeing — truly seeing— that your best efforts remain that easily misunderstood by the finest crew for hire on this planet. (Those pros are genuinely awesome and fearsomely beautiful to behold in action. Easy to mistake for angels.)


After that, you come to expect misdirection, which doesn't evoke quite such panic in your heart any longer. I so hate that always-ensuing, At the time of delegation, what did The Boss hope they would convey? Did he intend some message of definite reality [while he is out supervising Heavy Equipment operators and wondering in no small anguish what is bound to be misunderstood next, and trying to map out Methods of Renewal with the other half of his head] ?


As a comfort in such moments, I always indulge in the idea that he truly has in mind some perpetual Grace or another the Players don't quite grasp. I can never hold onto that Faith for very long at a time. (It appears axiomatic to me now that there are some communiques that have to be delivered in person.)

I must have done something right in my instinctive skipping and tripping over and into and beside all these things, because it's ended up —so far— with Prime Cause retaining control of definitions and guidebooks and all the other accoutrements of Success that minions need to acquire if any chance of Officially Labeled Detour is to remain within their conjure.


I don't know how that happened, Bertha. It definitely bought a little more time before The Guys Really In Charge Of All This can decide that there just aren't enough ticket-holders on the carousel to justify this grisly kind of torture against their most spoiled tame monkeys.


Especially when it's already clear to that entire Host that these are fatal wounds, and neither one of The Primates is willing to back down now if —in backing— the other one gets left behind or humiliated.