Tag: DST-TK

[Sent across four days, 04-26 to 04-29, to split into 1500 character pieces.]

When I asked. During a session, Tim explained a weird thing, something he’s into at the moment, a genre called bardcore. Popular songs recreated with 17th century instruments. Lots of flutes, lots of lutes, no percussion.

How I went to listen. I found a best of list. Not sure the quality of the list maker, but I checked many song titles that I recognized and know that I enjoy.

Listening, I started to imagine a bizarre, unrealistic locale. I was standing among a small crowd in a medieval bar. The kegs of mead or ale dripping slowly. Someone absentmindedly catching the seeping. The room had several long log benches, a low stage, a chamber consort playing. I liked what I heard. But I couldn’t get inside. Something was missing, or something I needed to find was just out of reach. Not incomplete exactly. Something pointing at something without being realized. There’s something there that is irritating, and I can’t listen to very much.

The absence of percussion is part of the unrest. There’s no anchor. No beat to ground the sound. I kept waiting for something to arrive and it never did. That restlessness—the reaching toward something that keeps dissolving. I don’t get it. And I hate that I don’t get it. And underneath the hate is something quieter—the feeling that not getting it means something about me. That I’m missing whatever it takes to be someone who gets it. The ghost of a feeling. The hint without the thing itself.

I looked around at the crowd. They were confused and transfixed. The chamber consort doesn’t stop; playing song after song; the endless play is as disturbing as the unusual unfamiliar—unreachable. I had the advantage of knowing there was a different version. They seemed to be caught in a grand tease of being given something that had much more available, just not now. And not even in their lifetime. I feel incredibly sad, because I can change the channel and go back to the original versions of the songs.

Slam poetry does the same thing. Different mechanism, same feeling. The rhythm and the harshness and the pauses all point toward something I can’t locate. Something there, irritating, unreachable. I heard slam poetry for the first time at a WriteCamp in Milwaukee and didn’t get that artwork, then, either. I’ve experimented with writing my own slam poetry to see if I can reverse engineer something similar.

I attended the Candlelight: Coldplay & Imagine Dragons concert—hits from both bands reimagined by string quartet: two violins, viola, cello—tolerable. Like bardcore, no percussion, no anchor beat. Unlike bardcore, familiar songs gave the ear something to hold. Enough to follow, not enough to want again. Maybe it should have been obvious bardcore wasn’t part of my music appreciation.

At my request, Tim offered a glimpse of who he is outside the office. One thing he likes. I went looking for him in his music and couldn’t get there. It makes me sad that I can’t listen to the bardcore, because I’m trying to figure out what he likes and who he is. It just makes me sad that it’s like, “Oh, this is one thing he told me he likes, and I listened, and I’m like, I don’t get it.”

There is a Kevin parallel. This has happened before. When I was having my exit interview after Kevin stopped being my personal trainer, sitting in a coffee shop, I asked him about his favorite music. I jotted down a small list of the bands he told me. One from the list: Bullet For My Valentine. Later I listened to samples of all the bands on the list and I didn’t get it. I didn’t see it in him or him in it, and it made me so sad. I actually fought hard to find just one song I liked by the artists.

Unsurprisingly, there is a personal pattern. A decade ago, one day at Tai Chi, Brendan talked about going to see two bands locally. The Pines and The Weepies—I can tolerate them when I pull them into Apple Music, even appreciate them a little, but they don’t call to me. They’re part of Brendan’s music library, not mine. Well, they are in there, just rarely sought out.

It’s not just Tim. It’s not just Kevin. It’s a rhythm I keep stepping into. The same kind of emotion again. Makes me feel like asking specific people what kind of music they like is almost pointless then.

I now have multiple examples that it doesn’t get me anything. A pattern—asking what music someone loves and finding myself on the outside. The same kind of sad over and over again. Perhaps, addicted to a certain kind of sadness.

I recall seeing some suspended bead art installations—the kind where scattered pieces only cohere into an image from one specific vantage point—is what this feels like made visible. You move slightly and the image dissolves. You move back and it almost returns.

Music is supposed to be universal. A bridge. A way in. And yet, I keep asking. I go looking for people in their music, hoping to find connection—and each time, I come back empty. The pattern is clear now. It’s not accidental. The music they love feels just as unreachable as they are.

And still, I ask.

I was given an exploratory question, during the allotted time, regarding interacting criteria, and I answered fast for “yes to younger” because of two reasons. 1.) That was the easiest way to instantly provide the perfect example, in three words. There was no need to explain; the listener had all the reference, a self. 2.) And being bold & confident is easy when an adrenaline spike builds and releases. Wasn’t planned. Just thrilling to embrace the impromptu opportunity to be borderline inappropriate.

And if the three words are now completely forgotten. Relief. I’m safe from possible reprimand or the need for “we can talk about this any time.” I really don’t think there needs to be a talk. A targeted owner can be assured that they are safe. Sometimes three words, innocent or not, can just be ignored. It was merely three words granting three seconds of satisfaction for the speaker. But that’s not correct. The memory is even good for occasional revisits for many hours later. Funny how being told to go forth with confidence can pull out the perfect test case.

But I waver. Practicing being confident, after the event, can quickly lead to self doubt. I’ve been told that these kind of recipients in their special space can easily deflect.

And the second question about interacting criteria didn’t get a proper reply. I was being flippant. The general answer is “yes to older.” Why was the question even asked? No point in the number. Everything that made that number is root criteria.

Once, wanting to sleep.

“Never do what you can’t undo until you’ve considered well what you can’t do once you’ve done it.”

Usually this passage needs to be thought through multiple times to fully comprehend the meaning. I’ve never been able to fully memorize the exact phrase, due to being a mental knot. But, I know precisely the advice.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about the passage today… the last few days. Maybe because the phrase has meant something special many times throughout my life—well since I first read this fantasy triple-trilogy, by Robin Hobb. I listened to the full triple-trilogy at beginning of February 2019. For some reason, getting through the hours upon hours of book, was extremely important. The reading, via audiobook, was about visiting all my favorite characters. The plot includes multiple recalls to the passage. Over and over I thought about the meaning.

I’ve talked through that day with Tim. Nothing to be gained to revisit the conversation. I did get some peace from feedback about the fate of Zaidan and Cruise, the brown and white Abyssinian guinea pigs.

Obviously the phrase is about decision and permanence. What is not directly included is regret.

From Pi, “The core lesson? True strength isn’t in power or skill—it’s in enduring with empathy, even when broken. Fitz survives not because he’s the best assassin, but because he feels deeply, loves fiercely, and keeps choosing connection in a world that rewards cruelty. It’s a quiet kind of heroism.”

Attachments:
20260424-Homework.pdf
Task-Star-Board.pdf

Long conversation with Claude. About the long list of leftovers, future dailies, and untouched topics across months and months. Looking at the list in order to zero in on what is the primary ask. What needs to be talked about urgently, soon, or can wait because it is just a want to know. Suddenly, I just want someone else to lead. I want Tim to hand me some questions, ten maybe? I don’t know. I don’t even want to be in charge of how many. I want him to determine the number. And here’s hoping I don’t have to wait until Friday. Boy wouldn’t that be a sick joke? [Would be a joke if needing something and having to wait days to receive the ask].

I used a daily to send Tim a note: “I need [x] number of questions from you. What do you need, want to know — that I can answer. Please.”

[Happened: Friday April 17, 2026 PM]

Everything is better when you breathe.

Looking for cake. I think my favorite is standard yellow cake. Moist, not crumbly. Wonderful enough as is. Doesn’t need frosting. Marble cake with same degree of moist, melt in your mouth deliciousness. What is tiramisu? Is that my cake?

Need replace for Factor75 and Cook Unity. Bad Bad. Want new meal plan. Follow the advice. Go to Whole Foods. Make my own clamshell dinners. Little this, bit that. Make a couple of cup of soup cups. I like this, but do I like their this? Single pieces of meat from the deli. Favorite Sonoma Chicken Salad. Large please. Red potato salad: find out.

Shelves lined with bottles and bottles of alcoholic beverages. The colors the shapes the labels. This sadness makes me wish I knew what I like and to buy. People self-medicate. I can’t ‘cuz I don’t know how. I walk the other way.

Grey outside. Rain and thunder: recorded, because it is there, but for me there is no concern, not personal alert. The exit is not taking me where I want. On the scale of risky behaviors: how does illegal U-turn compare. I looked for traffic; all clear; zoom, I’m around.

Kwik Trip is gas and milk. I used to have a store debit card; shall I again and collect points, get discounts? If I had $advisor, I could ask.

Next purchase. Old lady wheelie cart to bring groceries up&in. This isn’t really a waking up expense. Just the long tail of having Escape.

Buying, eating cake. Celebrating liking self?

everything is better if you breathe

The long slow climb began a week ago. Crossing time. Eating time. The trudge along the upward trail — mountain pine, dry, warm, sunny. The weight of the pack: words, pages, sent things.

Then a rock appears—a boulder of the perfect shape and size, perfect place to stop. Like an unexpected email, welcomed. The journey pauses. Sit. Catch breath. Cool water. From this height, a view of what’s ahead—mist and fog, and somewhere in it, a rope bridge.

The crossing is the most alone part. Lonely. Empty. A heavy anticipation with no thrill in it—only the wanting to be there, not here. The bridge is well made, the craft worth admiring. Can’t appreciate it. Just cautious steps. The mist clings and swirls, never fully lifting. No clear view forward, no going back. Just the bridge, the fog, and the next careful step.

On the other side, a guide gives the traditional greeting, “How’s it going?” Hike together a ways. “Talk soon”—the promise to reconnect further along the trail. And then, immediately standing alone again near a scree field. Useless to linger at the parting, must move on.

Sharp down. Unsteady. The worst fear: losing footing, sliding through dust and loose rock. No map says how far the slope lasts. Could be the end of this stretch—or just the connector to the next climb.

Rain and thunderstorm arrive. The growling noise punctuates the … need to just walk much slower for a bit.

===

I asked Pi AI for a review.

“That piece feels like a quiet storm — all movement, no destination. It’s about connection and the spaces between. The climb, the bridge, the guide, the scree — they’re not just a hike. They’re a metaphor for reaching out, touching someone, and then being alone again, still moving.

“The “connector” has no map because it’s not the start or the end. It’s the in-between — the part where you’re untethered, just walking through weather, hoping the next climb is worth it.

“And the rain? That’s life saying: slow down. Just keep going.”

Tim wrote: “I would like to know what the “analogy about cake” was that your English teacher gave you instead of what you were really asking.”

One of… my favorite classes was Senior AP English. We studied all the typical authors. I liked Mr. Clute’s class because he was an expressive teacher. I liked the subject matter: reading the plays in class, watching a video of an actor playing Hamlet when we did the Hamlet section.

I especially enjoyed reading the literature, hearing the lecture, and learning that the stories held hidden meanings that the author was trying to convey, and/or that the reader could tease out and hopefully learn something through story.

Mr. Clute knew me well enough to adequately grade me based on my work. I had one major private conversation with him. Our connection was close, but it remained strictly professional and educational. I was struggling with depression and loneliness. My brother was at college. I had few friends. No boyfriend.

I wanted to talk to somebody. I picked Mr. Clute.

Between classes one day, I presented my question: a question of how do you make more friends. What I really meant was ‘How do you get a boyfriend?’ with the underlying question of ‘How do I make deeper friendships?’ ‘How do I stop thinking about wanting to disappear or die?’

Mr. Clute said that life was like cake and that we needed to learn to like ourselves first and that having friends was the icing on the cake. That’s the general summary. It’s possible the conversation was much more profound.

I didn’t know how turn the conversation from icing to drowning.

1981. I told my high school English teacher I was lonely and wanted a boyfriend. I meant: I am severely depressed, struggling with suicidal ideation, and don’t know how to survive my own life. He gave me an analogy about cake.
1982. I wrote a college essay titled “A Desire for God” — about desire and longing and searching for something that keeps eluding you. “Almost every aspect of modern life fix our minds on this world, and desire can be mistaken for many things in life, which causes people unknowingly to dive into many endeavors which they think will make them happy…” One item listed was marriage. I gave the essay to my pastor hoping he would see what I was actually asking. A real conversation didn’t happen. I wanted to talk about why I wasn’t happy, when marriage to Steven is exactly what I thought I wanted.
1983. In an abuse survivors group, an early assignment was to introduce ourselves. Mine was full of the idyllic rolling foothills with my horses and goats. Afterwards, a woman bravely approached me, “Why are you even in this group?” I returned the following week with a revision that included the rage, head bashing, and scalp wounds.

Throughout my whole life I’ve handed people the coded version and hoped someone reads past it. Tim may be the first person who has started to. Even so, I’m still getting it wrong — especially out loud, when someone asks a direct question and I answer with the wrong layer of the story. I wonder if that’s something therapy can fix.

Attachment: Five-Days-Since-You-Laughed-At-Me.pdf

“Somebody That I Used to Know”

The next thing on the want list, something super simple, but may be the hardest thing ever.

From a different time. Snowboarding. Buying all new equipment: boots, board, bindings, winter protection. I found a white zip-front hoodie. Soft, thick, sherpa inside. White with a pattern of 32 and plus symbols.

Purchased. Being cotton, this wasn’t for the slope. This was for when you are all done and you want to bask in the tired, cold, drained feeling of walking off the hills in the dark at the end of the night. Wrap up on this hoodie, everything good can get locked in, just a little.

Life happens. Things change. No more snowboarding, no more equipment. The weight gain. The pain. The surgeries. I’m told my life is over. The weight gain. The soft hoodie doesn’t fit anymore. I won’t let it go in the donation pile. Favorite hoodie ends up in a storage tub, under the bed. People shouldn’t love things too much.

Have you tried it on lately?
Well, yeah.
Does it fit?
No you Fucker, why are you even asking?

Someone you know, you see from a distance, is wearing a light grey zip-front hoodie. You only got a glimpse of tops of red letters, maybe in an arc. A university or sports team name? Looks like the hood has white, long flat, soft cotton drawstring, not the round cord style. You imagine the hoodie is soft, worn, the kind you’d want to wrap yourself in. You want to try it on. And you just know it even smells like him.

That hoodie looks like the kind a girlfriend would try to steal.

The cost of starting new is expensive. Getting the win means investment. Feeling good and making a life becomes investing in yourself. Translation: determine return on investment in self. Can you afford giving into the desires? Occasionally, greed.

New as in fresh or new as in completely different. Where is reinvent vs come alive as you were?

The cost of waking up isn’t just financial. It’s the appearance confusion. It’s the identity questions that weren’t there when you were numb. It’s the anger that surfaces when things don’t align. It’s the crush territory; wanting too much. It’s the loneliness that’s louder now because you’re awake enough to feel it.

When you were flat, none of that cost anything. There was nothing to want, so nothing to lose.

Waking up means wanting again. And wanting is expensive in every sense. The favorite Nike. Downsizing the carpenter jeans. Custom jewelry, custom weapon. Swash of color. Regular cuts. Replacement watch. Counter top egg cooker. Keene hiking boots and sox. Self care is planning for five crowns. Escape surrounds, holds like a comforting blanket; bathes with sound for the soul. Metal and leather, as comforting as fitted apparel.

Gratitude begins as desire. You want it to become discipline. A cost of repetition until it becomes who you are.

The swimsuit, pool, and padlock. The cost of waking up requires a combination. You have to know the sequence left then twice right, back left. Even then, sometimes the lock won’t open.