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Transmitting Hope (part two)

When you see the universe as capable of sending messages via couriers, like I do, Mitchell assumes the role of an Earth Angel, here to impart a directive aimed at me. Which I distill to mean the following. Cogitation’s fine. Gets your ideas flowing. But when inertia sets in. Give it up. It’s a moribund activity leading to self-loathing. Living’s a participatory sport. Dealing with hands on activities. Moving our bag of bones from place to place. It's the human dance. Until individuation sets in. Separating some from the pack.

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Transmitting Hope (part one)

My youth peaks somewhere in the 20th century. It’s obvious, though the date be imprecise. It’s measurable in height. When I’m 5’9”. I’m now 5’ 7 1/2,” called by gerontologists as early elderly and I’m sitting in a chair listening to my endocrinologist say, “You’ve attention deficit hyper disorder, undiagnosed in your childhood, since it was first classified in the 1990’s. It’s clear from how you speak, with velocity, as if you’re meeting a deadline, which inhibits any listener from completely understanding you. Nor does it afford any opportunity to interrupt. Then you intermingle hard-to-follow tangents. It’s your enunciation that saves you from being totally misunderstood. All the while, you also appear as if you're not breathing, which could mean an underlying bi-polar condition.”

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As Time Goes By

The essence of this message to lay claim I'm alive. A blog will appear shortly. This, though, is trying to tell Google my intentions are to continue writing. I've been distracted to the extreme, which does wonders for blank pages. They increase by reams. Now adrenaline flows. I did wake with a start as I read that e-mail filled with an intention of closing down my account. I have much to impart, but obviously I kept it to myself. Material exists. Alterations are inevitable. Action to truth. Back with more if this works. Happy Holidays. Keep breathing.

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Thank You Penny Arcade

I’m here to reiterate, there's no telling which plan you’re presently making, will or won't, come to fruition. It's all a roll of the dice. Let's say a crapshoot. As an instance, take January 10. Around 5:30. I was sitting on the Q train, expecting to be, by 6 PM, at a showing of an animated version of “The Little Prince,” in a screening-room in a building around Times Square. I was curious as to my reaction to that fable, having read it years ago and only once. That's where the fox claims, "It’s only with the heart that one can see rightly."

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flawed perfection

“It all depends on you,” was what I told myself and yet I couldn't get started. At night I'd dream I was holding the wheel of a vehicle that had plenty of gas and yet I sat there wondering, which direction offered me my best option. All I was doing was stalling. I could feel it. I simply lacked the technique how I could sustain believing in myself; to which I blamed my pursuit of perfection: the enemy of all art. As a result,I felt anxious. I had stopped writing my show and it took a stranger's words to snap me back into doing it.

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