update from sparkleup
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Madison Scott-Clary
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<p>Good to hear from you, man! I applaud the work that you’ve done so far here. I know that it can be really hard to buckle down and get to the actual work of parsing your feelings, but this is really great stuff. I like that you are using the journal entries to get out some of your current feelings that don’t just surround this crush, though I also like that you call yourself out on stalling. You have talked before about struggling with emotional literacy, and I have to say, I think you’re doing a stellar job of improving on your skills. Keep up the good work and try to employ more of that vocabulary where possible.</p>
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<p>One thing I do want to mention however, and don’t take this as a knock about what you’ve got down already, is that I think a great next step would be for you to tackle what it is that you’re feeling <em>now</em>. You’ve told a really coherent tale of how you got here, and now it’s important that you focus on what you’re feeling at the moment. Pry at some of those threads and follow them to see where they go. Here are some questions to get you started:</p>
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<ul>
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<li>You mention your feelings on God not providing you the guidance that you wish you had. I here you, and I know that can be frustrating. Perhaps one thing you could look into is your own response to your feelings on Kay within the context of your spirituality. Do you your beliefs influence your thoughts on her? Do you feel that being a spiritual person has an effect on your relationship to her?</li>
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<li>You mention your feelings on God not providing you the guidance that you wish you had. I hear you, and I know that can be frustrating. Perhaps one thing you could look into is your own response to your feelings on Kay within the context of your spirituality. Do your beliefs influence your thoughts on her? Do you feel that being a spiritual person has an effect on your relationship to her?</li>
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<li>When last we spoke, you mentioned that you weren’t sure that these feelings were “real”. What do “real feelings” mean to you? What quality keeps these feelings from being “real”?</li>
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<li>From the outside, you seem stuck. You don’t seem to want to push for something more between you and Kay, and you certainly don’t want to pull back from her. The next step in this project should be to find actionable paths forward. Why don’t you start by simply enumerating options. What could moving forward look like? What might stepping back look like?</li>
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<p>I dreamed that Kay and I were back at her senior recital, except that she was sitting next to me in the audience instead of up on stage, and we were watching her works being performed together. We were silent, rapt. The whole audience was rapt. The works were of breathtaking beauty<sup id="fnref:works"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:works">1</a></sup> and when they were finished, the applause was so uproarious that she was not able to make it back up to the stage to take her bow. I tried to help her, but she got separated from me and was drawn off.</p>
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<p>She did not seem displeased by this, however when I called after her, I, as in so many other dreams, dreams I’m sure we <em>all</em> have, had no voice. I was barely able to manage a whisper, and my muscles grew so weak and my limbs so heavy that I fell over and that’s when I woke up.</p>
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<p>Powerlessness, separation, falling, these are all common features in dreams, and yet I am pretty firmly in the school of dream interpretation being largely bunk. Sleep is a protective action for the body, and dreaming is just the same for the mind. It is unguided, and serves to provide a break from taxing both our physical and our mental forms.</p>
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<p>But we are so hard-wired to read deeper meanings into the mindless mutterings of countless neurons. “What does it mean that she was sitting next to me? Does it mean anything in particular that we were separated from each other? Why did I become so weak without her presence?” I am Nebuchadnezzar seeking my Daniel, not the other way around. There is no one to interpret my Mene, Tekel, and Peres but myself. </p>
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<p>But we are so hard-wired to read deeper meanings into the mindless mutterings of countless neurons. “What does it mean that she was sitting next to me? Does it mean anything in particular that we were separated from each other? Why did I become so weak without her presence?” I am Nebuchadnezzar seeking my Daniel, not the other way around. There is no one to interpret my mene, tekel, and parsin but myself. </p>
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<p>Some part of me craves answers to these questions and so many more, but there are no answers to be had because they are non-questions. They are questions one might ask the sky supposing only that that is where God resides.</p>
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<p>The writing on the wall. Hah! Dreaming of someone that you have a crush on means absolutely nothing, and yet it certainly feels like it must mean <em>something.</em> It has left me spinning with so much to think about and a lot to feel whether I want to or not.</p>
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<p>I did not dream again last night.</p>
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<hr />
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<p>It’s been a few days, and while the dream has not come back, it still clings to me like a scent. When laying in bed, drowsy and sleepless I will find myself exploring that space over and over again. Did I touch her? Did I smell her? I know that I was attuned to her presence, but did I even get a good look at her?</p>
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<p>I do not know. So much left me in the seconds after I woke up that I’m left with the vague outlines of a plot and so many half-remembered sensations.</p>
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<p>Today I am writing because I had therapy with Jeremy, and the skunk and I had rather a lot of time to sit and talk through what has been going on. Strange that I did not start with the topic, despite it being so on my mind, but it felt awkward, cliché perhaps, for me to launch right into, “Doctor, I had the strangest dream.”</p>
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<p>Instead, I picked up a thread from an earlier appointment that we had had. It feels a little off-topic to write about it here despite having done so already, given that this journal has as yet mostly been about Kay and my feelings toward her, but then, this was never intended to be the sole purpose for it. The goal was for me to use it as a tool to improve my emotional literacy when describing my own feelings. It’s why I suggest that many of my clients consider journaling, as well.</p>
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<p>The thread we picked up is an old one: I have been trying to sort out my feelings around leaving seminary to head into this field. It’s been years now, of course, but guilt is tenacious and difficult to disentangle from shame.</p>
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<p>I think the thing that I still struggle with the most is that I left on such a whim.</p>
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<p>I do very little on a whim. I plan and organize and I watch and wait until I find just the right moment to act and then I do so, and yet to go from being a seminarian to not in the span of a few short days — the decision was all but instantaneous, and then it was just a matter of paperwork — to this day feels incredibly unlike me.</p>
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<p>There are days in which it feels like a dream: not in that I don’t believe it, so much as the lack of engagement with the idea beforehand did not give my mind time to prepare and internalize the enormity of what I was doing, and so even these many years later, I catch myself beginning those internal dialogs, setting up argument after argument for why I should leave my chosen path for another, and then with an electric jolt, or the sensation of missing a stair on a staircase, or perhaps the rush of a near accident on the road, I realize that the thing I am trying to rationalize has already been completed: the battery contacts bridged, the step missed, the red light run. I have already left and there is no arguments to be made.</p>
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<p>And then, as with today, I struggle to try and justify this decision to myself. I have talked with Jeremy — the skunk is an atheist, but well read in many religions — and I have talked with my fellows in the church and I have talked with God. The church would welcome me back to pastoral life, I think, were I to want such a thing, I have not abandoned God. If anything, I have grown closer to Him since leaving the path to priesthood.</p>
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<p>But that door nonetheless seems shut to me. I made the decision, however brashly, and there is nothing more to be done. It was the <em>right</em> decision, too. It was right at the time and it remains so to this day. <q class="comment">Something snapped within me and I realized that the church’s insistence on being a guiding force only in the lives of the followers of the church — a church whose attendance has been steadily declining these last hundred years — does not mesh well with the message we profess to espouse. Help, yes. Feed the hungry, clothe the poor, house the homeless. But not guide. Guidance comes from God, we were taught at that school, and so any guidance that we as mere mortals might provide must perforce come in the fashion of encouraging believers to strengthen their faith and for non-believers to become believers.<span class="attribution">Rewrite</span></q></p>
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<p><q class="comment">I know that, in practice, many of the clergy do in fact provide guidance on a much more earthly level than they were taught in my MDiv courses, but to me, to poor Dee Kimana who follows the rules too literally, that this goal was not stated outright felt like we were being taught to construct a wall between those within the church who were somehow more worthy of learning how to live fuller, more complete lives, and those outside who were, in some unspoken way, not.<span class="attribution">Rewrite</span></q></p>
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<p>The rightness isn’t the problem, it was the speed. It was the ease of the decision. How could I possibly have known that that was the right thing to do? I jumped ship from my path toward ministry and straight into a masters program in psychology. Helpful for providing guidance, yes, but what could possibly have caused me to act so far outside the norm? <em>My</em> norm?</p>
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<p>It was at this point that Jeremy got a strange look on his face and I stopped talking. He said something along the lines of, “Why are you talking about this, Dee?”</p>
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<p>I remember shrugging and saying, “It’s still on my mind. I’ve been thinking a lot about how it is that we know what the right decision is.”</p>
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<p>“Yes,” he replied. “But why are you talking about a snap decision when you can’t make any decision about Kay? What’s different?”</p>
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<p>This hit me in a strange way. I wanted to roll my eyes and say that this was precisely the problem I was facing, that the problem was that the decision came to me with no forethought. However, a therapist usually does not go out of their way to wrong-foot a client without there being more to the question, and so I motioned for him to continue.</p>
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<p>“You are a very deliberate person, there is no denying that. You live your entire life in a deliberate fashion. I think we would both agree that your leaving Saint John’s was sudden, yes, but still deliberate.” He paused and waited for me to nod. “But when you talk about your feelings on Kay, all of that falls away. You waffle and equivocate and stay put, never moving forward.”</p>
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<p>“I’m trying, though. That’s why I’ve been writing.”</p>
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<p>“You haven’t sent me your latest entries — no, no need to do so now — but that is what I nudged you on when you sent me the last batch. You’re doing good work in trying to put words to what you’re feeling and I’m proud of how much you’ve accomplished in just a few weeks, but none of what you sent me felt like you were getting any closer to a decision.”<sup id="fnref:therapytone"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:therapytone">2</a></sup></p>
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<p>“I suppose that there is a lack of conviction.” I was speaking slowly hunting for words, which Jeremy picked up on.</p>
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<p>“Is conviction what is missing?”</p>
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<p>“No, you’re right. I do have the conviction that I have a thing for Kay, but I am still missing something.”</p>
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<p>I was not able to come up with the word for it during the session, but I think I have it now: I am missing the <em>basis</em> for my feelings. They are not <em>grounded</em> in anything. Yes, she’s a friend. Yes, we share similarities. Yes, she’s attractive and my species and a potential partner.</p>
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<p>But there’s no real basis for these feelings. All of those things were true when we met. They were all true when we hugged after her senior recital. They remain true today. Nothing has changed in our communications other than them moving primarily online and occasionally over voice or video, and yet out of nowhere I suddenly have this enormous desire for her. Not physical desire, though I would not turn down the intimacy, but a desire for her presence. A longing.</p>
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<p>There is a concept that I think touches on this set of feelings, which is that of limerence. As long as I am to work on my emotional literacy, it is best that I start trying to name what I feel. To call what I am feeling a ‘crush’ feels inexact. It is not puppy love. It is not new relationship energy. It is not lust. It is an uncontrollable romantic desire.</p>
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<p>It is not grounded in our friendship or my attraction to her. It is more of an obsession. A desperate need for her to feel the same way about me. A craving. A pang. A wildness of the heart that is as frightening as it is pleasant.</p>
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<p>It is an unmoored, unmooring thing, drawing me ever upwards in lazy, undirected arcs almost — <em>almost</em> — against my will, ever closer to the sun.</p>
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<p>These are things that I am thinking now that I am on my quiet, liminal bench. I didn’t have the words then, on the spot in the middle of therapy, but I will have to bring them up next session.</p>
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<p>We talked for a bit longer on the subject, but as the time drew to a close, Jeremy suggested, “I think you should talk to Kay soon. Why don’t you see if you can bring up how you feel about her some time before we meet next? It doesn’t have to be an attempt to start a relationship or anything. Even just telling her that you’ve been thinking about her would be a good step forward.”</p>
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<p>So I suppose that is what is on my plate. She and I talk every day, these days, and so I will have plenty of opportunity to do so. Perhaps I will aim to do so tomorrow, as I’d like to see how I feel when talking to her tonight without bringing this up, knowing that doing so in the future is a hard and fast goal for me.</p>
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<hr />
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<p>I was not able to do it.</p>
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<p>Kay just went to bed after we spent much of the night talking over text, and I just wasn’t able to bring myself to bring up the way I feel about her.</p>
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<p>It’s maddening. I’ve never been so frustrated by the fact that I felt I was putting on a charade. It is not dissimilar from masking, which I do often during therapy with clients, but have never had to do with Kay until recently. Why would I have to pretend to be some sort of normal around a friend? And yet here I am, pretending I’m not falling asleep thinking about holding her paw every night.</p>
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<p>It’s maddening. I’ve never been so frustrated by the fact that I felt I was putting on a charade. It is not dissimilar from putting on that mask demanded of me by my occupation and just living in the world but have never had to do with Kay until recently. Why would I have to pretend to be some sort of normal around a friend? And yet here I am, pretending I’m not falling asleep thinking about holding her paw every night.</p>
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<p>Holding her paw! What garbage.</p>
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<p>I talk with her like I talk with strangers, at least whenever we near this topic. I make a stranger out of myself, it seems, though she has not said anything about the way I have been acting. I reread each message countless times before sending it just to make sure that it is plausibly normal, that I am not in some way tipping my hand, that I am being kind without being intrusive, that I am being invested without being obsessed.</p>
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<p>I am not comfortable with this change in myself, but I will continue to work on it.</p>
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<p>What we did talk about, however, was much of what I spoke about with Jeremy yesterday, about how I left Saint John’s. She knew this fact, of course. I am not secretive about my spirituality, of course, just as she is not shy about her lack thereof.</p>
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<p>What she did not know, however, was that I had left willingly. At some point along the way, she had picked up on the idea that perhaps I had been ushered out unwillingly. When pressed as to why, she said, “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I had guessed that you were gay or into out-species relationships or something.”</p>
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<p>My reply: “Oh goodness, no. Not something I particularly have a problem, but I can confirm that my preferences remain quite straight and quite coyote.” This probably would have been the best time for me to broach the topic, but I can point to this spot definitively as where I chickened out. Instead, I continued, “What lead to that assessment? I’m curious.”</p>
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<p>“I’m not sure. You’re a bit hard to read, perhaps, and so I took that as there being some sort of internal conflict.”</p>
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<p>“I think I’m just terrible at communicating,” I replied.</p>
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<p>“Also a possibility!”</p>
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<p>From there I explained much of what I had talked about earlier, about how I started to doubt the church, rather than my faith or scriptures, and yet how my decision to leave had come suddenly enough to surprise even myself.</p>
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<p>What we did talk about, however, was much of what I spoke about with Jeremy yesterday, about how I left Saint John’s. She knew this fact, of course, we’d talked about it before.</p>
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<p>What she did not know, however, was that I had left of my own accord. At some point along the way, she had picked up on the idea that perhaps I had been ushered out unwillingly. When pressed as to why, she said,</p>
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<p>K> Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I had guessed that you were gay or into out-species relationships or something.</p>
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<p>My reply:</p>
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<p>D> Oh goodness, no. Not something I particularly have a problem with, but I can confirm that my preferences remain quite straight and quite coyote.</p>
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<p>This probably would have been the best time for me to broach the topic, but I can point to this spot definitively as where I chickened out. Instead, I continued,</p>
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<p>D> What lead to that assessment? I’m curious.</p>
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<p>K> I’m not sure. You’re a bit hard to read so I took that as there being some sort of internal conflict.</p>
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<p>D> I think I’m just terrible at communicating.</p>
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<p>K> Also a possibility!</p>
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<p>From there I explained much of what I had talked about earlier, about how I started to doubt my calling, rather than my faith or scriptures, and yet how my decision to leave had come suddenly enough to surprise even myself.</p>
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<p>Now that I write this and think about her comment, though, I do wonder: the administration let me go with surprising ease. The attempts to keep me along the path to the clergy were faint at best, and I was able to simply walk away from the vocation with little impact to my standing within my own congregation and essentially no strife from the school itself.</p>
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<p>Why was this? In a church whose adherents continue to dwindle, why was there so little attempt to keep me around? Was it because I strove to reassure them that there were no hints of apostasy? Was it because they, on some level, agreed with me?</p>
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<p><q class="comment">Why was this? In a church whose adherents continue to dwindle, why was there so little attempt to keep me around? Was it because I strove to reassure them that there were no hints of apostasy? Was it because they, on some level, agreed with me?<span class="attribution">This should be rewritten with Discernment taken into account</span></q></p>
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<p>Or was it because of me? Was it because they did not see a fit for me? For someone neurodivergent, outside the narrow spectrum of neurotypicality that they themselves held to so strongly? Was it because I was a pest? Were I to reapply, would I be welcomed back, even if I have better learned to function within society through whatever masking they might appreciate?</p>
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<p>Was I preempting them asking me to leave by leaving, myself?</p>
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<p>I don’t know how I feel about this thought. I will pray on it, of course, but as much as the church is in service of God, I do not think that this is necessarily his domain.</p>
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<p>Perhaps I should get in touch with the school, or maybe some of my old classmates.</p>
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<p>I suppose this is just what I needed: another impossible social problem. At thirty, I would think that I ought to have grown out of these by now.</p>
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<hr />
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<p>It’s been a few days, and while the dream has not come back, it still clings to me like a scent. When laying in bed, drowsy and sleepless I will find myself exploring that space over and over again. Did I touch her? Did I smell her? I know that I was attuned to her presence, but did I even get a good look at her?</p>
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<p>I do not know. So much left me in the seconds after I woke up that I’m left with the vague outlines of a plot and so many half-remembered sensations.</p>
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<p>Today I write because I had therapy with Jeremy, and the skunk and I had rather a lot of time to sit and talk through what has been going on. Strange that I did not start with the topic, despite it being so on my mind, but it felt strange, cliché perhaps, for me to launch right into, “Doctor, I had the strangest dream.”</p>
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<p>Instead, I picked up a thread from an earlier appointment that we had had. It feels a little strange to write about it here, given that this journal has as yet mostly been about Kay and my feelings toward her, but then, this was never intended to be the sole purpose for it. The goal was for me to use it as a tool to improve my emotional literacy when describing my own feelings. It’s why I suggest that many of my clients consider journaling, as well.</p>
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<p>The thread we picked up is an old one: I have been trying to sort out my feelings around leaving seminary to head into this field. It’s been years now, of course, but guilt is tenacious and difficult to disentangle from shame.</p>
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<p>I think the thing that I still struggle with the most is that I left on such a whim.</p>
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<p>I do very little on a whim. I plan and organize and I watch and wait until I find just the right moment to act and then I do so, and yet to go from being a seminarian to not in the span of a few short days — the decision was all but instantaneous, and then it was a matter of paperwork — to this day feels incredibly unlike me.</p>
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<p>There are days in which it feels like a dream, not in that I don’t believe it, so much as the lack of engagement with the idea beforehand did not give my mind time to prepare and internalize the enormity of what I was doing, and so even these many years later, I catch myself beginning those internal dialogs, setting up argument after argument for why I should leave my chosen path for another, and then with an electric jolt, or the sensation of missing a stair on a staircase, or perhaps the rush of a near accident on the road, I realize that the thing I am trying to rationalize has already been completed: the battery contacts bridged, the step missed, the red light ran. I have already left and there is no arguments to be made.</p>
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<p>And then, as with today, I struggle to try and justify this decision to myself. I have talked with Jeremy — the skunk is an atheist, but well read in many religions — and I have talked with my fellows in the church and I have talked with God. The church would welcome me back, I think, were I to want such a thing, and I have not abandoned God. If anything, I have grown closer to Him since leaving the path to priesthood.</p>
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<p>But that door nonetheless seems shut to me. I made the decision, however brashly, and there is nothing more to be done. It was the <em>right</em> decision, too. It was right at the time and it remains so to this day. Something snapped within me and I realized that the church’s insistence on being a guiding force only in the lives of the followers of the church — a church whose attendance has been steadily declining these last hundred years — does not mesh well with the message we profess to espouse. Help, yes. Feed the hungry, clothe the poor, house the homeless. But not guide. Guidance comes from God, we were taught at that school, and so any guidance that we as mere mortals might provide must perforce come in the fashion of encouraging believers to strengthen their faith and for non-believers to become believers.</p>
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<p>I know that, in practice, many of the clergy do in fact provide guidance on a much more earthly level than they were taught in my MDiv courses, but to me, to poor Dee Kimana who follows the rules too literally, that this goal was not stated outright felt like we were being taught to construct a wall between those within the church who were somehow more worthy of learning how to live fuller, more complete lives, and those outside who were, in some unspoken way, not.</p>
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<p>The rightness isn’t the problem, it was the speed. It was the ease of the decision. How could I possible have known that that was the right thing to do? I jumped ship from my path toward the clergy and straight into a masters program in psychology. Helpful for providing guidance, yes, but what could possibly have caused me to act so far outside the norm?</p>
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<p>It was at this point that Jeremy got a strange look on his face and I stopped talking. He said something along the lines of, “Why are you talking about this, Dee?”</p>
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<p>I remember shrugging and saying, “It’s still on my mind. I’ve been thinking a lot about how it is that we know what the right decision is.”</p>
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<p>“Yes,” he replied. “But why are you talking about a snap decision when you can’t make any decision about Kay?”</p>
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<p>This hit me in a strange way. I wanted to roll my eyes and say that this was precisely the problem I was facing, that the problem was that the decision came to me with no forethought. However, a therapist usually does not go out of their way to wrong-foot a client without there being more to the question, and so I motioned for him to continue.</p>
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<p>“You are a very deliberate person, there is no denying that. You live your entire life in a deliberate fashion. I think we would both agree that your leaving Saint John’s was sudden, yes, but still deliberate.” He paused and waited for me to nod. “But when you talk about your feelings on Kay, all of that falls away. You waffle and equivocate and stay put, never moving forward.”</p>
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<p>“I’m trying, though. That’s why I’ve been writing.”</p>
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<p>“You haven’t sent me your latest entries — no, no need to do so now — but that is what I nudged you on when you sent me the last batch. You’re doing good work in trying to put words to what you’re feeling and I’m proud of how much you’ve accomplished in just a few weeks, but none of what you sent me felt like you were getting any closer to a decision.”</p>
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<p>Jeremy is a very good therapist, and he has an innate quality to his voice that allows him to say things such as that in a non-accusatory way. It is a thing that I have to focus very hard on when talking with my clients. We rarely want to accuse our clients of doing or not doing something, but strive instead to induce introspection. I would have had to add a “Why is that?” to the end of that same sentence to take the sting out of it, but the he can do it just in normal conversation.</p>
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<p>“I suppose that there is a lack of conviction.” I was speaking slowly hunting for words, which Jeremy picked up on.</p>
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<p>“Is conviction what is missing?”</p>
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<p>“No, you’re right. I do have the conviction that I have a thing for Kay, but I am still missing something.”</p>
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<p>I was not able to come up with the word for it during the session, but I think I have it now: I am missing the basis for my feelings. They are not grounded in anything. Yes, she’s a friend. Yes, we share similarities. Yes, she’s attractive and my species and a potential partner.</p>
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<p>But there’s no real basis for these feelings. All of those things were true when we met. They were all true when we hugged after her senior recital. They remain true today. Nothing has changed in our communications other than them moving primarily online and occasionally over voice or video, and yet out of nowhere I suddenly have this enormous desire for her. Not physical desire, though I would not turn down the intimacy, but a desire for her presence. A longing.</p>
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<p>There is a concept that I think touches on this set of feelings, which is that of limerence. As long as I am to work on my emotional literacy, it is best that I start trying to name what I feel. To call what I feel a ‘crush’ feels inexact. It is not puppy love. It is not new relationship energy. It is not lust. It is an uncontrollable romantic desire.</p>
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<p>It is not grounded in our friendship or my attraction to her. It is more of an obsession. A desperate need for her to feel the same way about me. A craving. A pang. A wildness of the heart that is as frightening as it is pleasant.</p>
|
||||
<p>It is an unmoored, unmooring thing, drawing me ever upwards in lazy, undirected arcs almost — <em>almost</em> — against my will, ever closer to the sun.</p>
|
||||
<p>These are things that I am thinking now that I am in my quiet, liminal bench. I didn’t have the words then, on the spot in the middle of therapy, but I will have to bring them up next session.</p>
|
||||
<p>We talked for a bit longer on the subject, but as the time drew to a close, Jeremy suggested, “I think you should talk to Kay soon. Why don’t you see if you can bring up how you feel about her some time before we meet next? It doesn’t have to be an attempt to start a relationship or anything. Even just telling her that you’ve been thinking about her would be a good step forward.”</p>
|
||||
<p>So I suppose that is what is on my plate. She and I talk every day, these days, and so I will have plenty of opportunity to do so. Perhaps I will aim to do so tomorrow, as I’d like to see how I feel when talking to her tonight without bringing this up, knowing that doing so in the future is a hard and fast goal for me.</p>
|
||||
<p>I suppose this is just what I needed: another impossible social problem. Nearing thirty, I would think that I ought to have grown out of these by now.</p>
|
||||
<hr />
|
||||
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|
||||
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|
||||
|
|
@ -100,11 +103,14 @@
|
|||
<li id="fn:works">
|
||||
<p>Not that they weren’t very good at the time, of course, though they were certainly beyond my ability as an active listener, and beauty often seemed not to be the goal. She tried to teach me about them, once, but we are not built the same. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:works" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">↩</a></p>
|
||||
</li>
|
||||
<li id="fn:therapytone">
|
||||
<p>Jeremy is a very good therapist, and he has an innate quality to his voice that allows him to say things such as that in a non-accusatory way. It is a thing that I have to focus very hard on when talking with my clients. We rarely want to accuse our clients of doing or not doing something, but strive instead to induce introspection. I would have had to add a “Why is that?” to the end of that same sentence to take the sting out of it, but the he can do it just in normal conversation. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:therapytone" title="Jump back to footnote 2 in the text">↩</a></p>
|
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|
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|
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<p>Page generated on 2021-07-19</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2021-08-02</p>
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<p>Before we both wound up on PF, though, we had been emailing back and forth. We still do, on occasion, for when thoughts require something less immediate, something more structured than instant messaging<sup id="fnref:email"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:email">1</a></sup>. Sending each other essays and bulleted lists and long quotations that we have found interesting.</p>
|
||||
<p>I had planned to dig back through those conversations for my Saturday afternoon task, hunting for hints of yearning among however many thousands of words we’ve shared. But, as happens, I got caught up in the business of the day. I wrote that entry earlier full on planning this, and then I remembered I had to vacuum the last remnants of winter coat from the floor. Having vacuumed, I figured I might as well use that momentum to clean the kitchen, and while there, I remembered that I needed to cook for the week.</p>
|
||||
<p>Not all plans were made to be followed to the T, though.</p>
|
||||
<p>Instead of sitting down at the computer and digging and rereading and reliving — or attempting to — I set myself to mindless tasks through which I could live in memory, instead. I thought back instead of read back, and I did my best to put words to my feelings at the time.</p>
|
||||
<p>Kay and I’s first lunch together was an accidental affair. During that final semester, I was spending my afternoons sitting in on sessions and, towards the end, holding supervised sessions of my own. I learned early on that a lack of calories in my system would lead to irritability and an increased difficulty in masking for the sake of my patients, so I began leaving my final seminar and heading straight for the student union for lunch before my first sessions began.</p>
|
||||
<p>The food there was not great. You grow up on a farm in the northwest and you get used to a certain type of food. Sure, there are plenty of steaks and burgers at home, but you also have a healthy selection of homegrown produce and homemade canned goods. There is little enough profit in the industry for family farms, so my parents saved money where they could by growing what they were able to.</p>
|
||||
<p>The student union, though, had four restaurants. A burger joint, a bagel shop, a soup-and-salad place, and a Mexican restaurant, all of them chains. The soup-and-salad place was my go-to, most days: they were the most likely to have an interesting selection on a day-to-day basis, they were the most likely to have vegetables other than shredded lettuce, and they were the least likely to leave me with an upset stomach later on in the afternoon, even if they were also the most expensive.</p>
|
||||
<p>Instead of sitting down at the computer and digging and rereading and reliving — or attempting to — I set myself to mindless tasks through which I could live in memory. I thought back rather than reading back, and I did my best to put words to my feelings at the time.</p>
|
||||
<p>Kay and I’s first lunch together was an accidental affair. During that final year, I was spending my afternoons sitting in on sessions and, towards the end, holding supervised sessions of my own. I learned early on that a lack of calories in my system would lead to irritability and an increased difficulty in masking<sup id="fnref:masking"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:masking">3</a></sup> for the sake of my patients, so I began leaving my final seminar and heading straight for the student union for lunch before my first sessions began.</p>
|
||||
<p>The food there was not great. You grow up on a farm in the northwest and you get used to a certain type of food. Sure, there are plenty of steaks and burgers at home, but you also have a healthy selection of homegrown produce and homemade canned goods. There is little enough profit in the industry for family farms, so my parents saved money where they could by growing what they were able to for the table.</p>
|
||||
<p>The student union, though, had a limited selection of four restaurants: a burger joint, a bagel shop, a soup-and-salad place, and a Mexican restaurant, all of them chains. The soup-and-salad place was my go-to, most days: they were the most likely to have an interesting selection on a day-to-day basis, they were the most likely to have vegetables other than shredded lettuce, and they were the least likely to leave me with an upset stomach later on in the afternoon, even if they were also the most expensive.</p>
|
||||
<p>I smile to think back on the sheer number of combo meals I ate there. Half salad — usually Caesar — cup of soup, and square of focaccia, all arranged neatly on a tray. Few of the soups were memorable, of course, but almost none of them were bad. I was willing to accept “consistently okay” food.</p>
|
||||
<p>I was waiting in line, lost in thought, watching the woman on the other side of the counter scoop lettuce and croutons into a bowl where it would be tossed with dressing, when Kay sidled up behind me and said, “Hey, Dee.”</p>
|
||||
<p>I was waiting in line, lost in thought, watching the fox on the other side of the counter scoop lettuce and croutons into a bowl where it would be tossed with dressing, when Kay sidled up behind me and said, “Hey, Dee.”</p>
|
||||
<p>I will admit that the context shift of seeing her outside of the library initially caught me off guard. Always, I had been standing before a counter waiting on one of the employees to fetch my books off the shelf. Always, there had been a barrier between us, a requisite space that kept us apart.</p>
|
||||
<p>Now, though, she was right behind me, standing closer than any counter would have permitted in the past. I hesitate to say that I didn’t recognize her out of this context, for her voice was still the same and I could easily put voice to name in my head, but it took a few seconds for it to sink in that, hey, this was Kay. We had talked. We knew each other.</p>
|
||||
<p>I had known that she was shorter than I, but I hadn’t realized just how much. I could see over the top of her head between her ears. I also hadn’t noticed her scent before, at least not to this extent. The library was full of the scents of others, despite the open spaces and constant air circulation, so it was far more difficult to pick out an individual’s scent over any other’s. Now, it was far more distinct, closer, more present.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -32,9 +32,9 @@
|
|||
<p>“I’ve not seen you come through here before,” I said, handing over my card to the cashier. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you outside the library, come to think of it.”</p>
|
||||
<p>She shrugged. “Forgot my lunch.”</p>
|
||||
<p>I waited for her to pay and pick up her own tray of food. I remember, for some reason, that she had ordered a full salad with strips of chicken on top.</p>
|
||||
<p>I also remember that there was no discussion of us sitting at the same table and eating together. This was unusual for me. I struggle to eat around others without feeling hypervigilant over how I must appear to others. Too many frowns for chewing too loud, too many admonitions to slow down. That I would just walk over to a table with someone and share a meal with them without thinking was a strangeness that struck me only after the fact.</p>
|
||||
<p>We talked a little, though I’ve largely forgotten about what. I remember asking what techniques classes were, and I remember she asked me what I did for work, but the rest must have been small talk that slipped from our minds.</p>
|
||||
<p>All I remember is the not-unpleasant sensation of seeing something out of place. Kay belonged in the library. That was the context in which she fit most easily. That she might exist outside, might have a life, might actually be a real person, with real hopes, real dreams, the very real need to eat added depth to her, and while, on thinking back, I’m sure there was no early hint of a crush, there was no small amount of pride in the small success of seemingly made a friend after setting my mind to the matter.</p>
|
||||
<p>I also remember that there was no discussion of us sitting at the same table and eating together. This was unusual for me. I struggle to eat around others without feeling hypervigilant over how I must appear to them. Too many frowns for chewing too loud, too many admonitions to slow down. That I would just walk over to a table with someone and share a meal with them without thinking was a strangeness that struck me only after the fact.</p>
|
||||
<p>We talked a little, though I’ve largely forgotten about what. I remember asking what techniques classes were, and I remember she asked me what I did for work, but the rest must have been small talk that slipped from my mind.</p>
|
||||
<p>All I remember is the not-unpleasant sensation of seeing something out of place. Kay belonged in the library. That was the context in which she fit most easily. That she might exist outside, might have a life, might actually be a real person, with real hopes, real dreams, the very real need to eat added depth to her, and while, on thinking back, I’m sure there was no early hint of a crush, there was no small amount of pride in the small success of having seemingly made a friend after setting my mind to the matter.</p>
|
||||
<hr />
|
||||
<p>Kay and I’s lunch dates continued throughout that semester. First, it was a simple agreement to meet “sometime next week” for more soup and salad, and from there, it turned into a staple. I would meet her at the library at the tail end of her morning shifts a few days a week and walk with her from the library to our chosen spot of the day. We found out all of the delightful little hidden tables in the student union, away from the noise and commotion surrounding the restaurants themselves.</p>
|
||||
<p>We quickly switched back to bringing lunches from home, rather than continually frequenting the same four restaurants. It would save us money, and as we headed into lent, it was easier for me to bring my own food rather than simply being restricted to salads and the burger joint’s atrocious fish sandwiches.</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -51,17 +51,17 @@
|
|||
<p>She shook her head. We’d had enough conversations by this point that neither of us was really willing to go down the conversational road of discussing religion. I was Catholic, she was not. On that point, we were immiscible, and at the time, I had no problem with it.</p>
|
||||
<p>I don’t know why the memory of this lunch in particular sticks out to me, though. It was just us, there. Two coyotes, sitting in a solarium tucked in against the south wall of the union. Some renovation or another in the past had left the room obscured, and thus often unused and quiet. It became one of our favorite lunch spots.</p>
|
||||
<p>Two coyotes sitting in a glass-walled room, a painfully bright blue sky, a blanket of snow on the grass outside. Warm, but sensing the nose-stinging cold a few inches away through the glass.</p>
|
||||
<p>Why this lunch? Why does this one stick out in my head? We talked about lent restrictions more than once. We’d talked about food more than once. Why does this one stick out in my mind?</p>
|
||||
<p>Why this lunch? Why does this one stick out in my head? We talked about lent more than once. We’d talked about food more than once. Why does this one stick out in my mind?</p>
|
||||
<p>I remember that the conversation stalled after that, at least for a little bit, and we ate in silence. Kay had brought with her a sandwich larger than my own, plus some little single-serving packet of hummus and some carrots — I remember taking one of those and a swipe of hummus when offered — a packet of chips, and a drink.</p>
|
||||
<p>I finished before she did. I think that’s why I remember it. She finished her sandwich and then scooted her carrots and chips and hummus to the edge of the table, twisted sideways in her chair, and put her paws up on the low rim of the wall where glass met concrete, squinting out into the brightness of the afternoon.</p>
|
||||
<p>I finished before she did and I pulled out some notes to rifle through, but gave up after a few pages, instead just enjoying the sun with a friend. Sitting nearby, listening to her crunching on chips, watching the way her ears would flinch back with each sharp snap of the carrot between her teeth.</p>
|
||||
<p>I pulled out some notes to rifle through, but gave up after a few pages, instead just enjoying the sun with a friend. Sitting nearby, listening to her crunching on chips, watching the way her ears would flinch back with each sharp snap of the carrot between her teeth.</p>
|
||||
<p>A separate memory, a memory within a memory: thinking of my advisor from Saint John’s. His fur, when we shook hands, was so much softer, so much more pleasant to touch than my own.</p>
|
||||
<p>That Kay and I were both coyotes didn’t seem to matter, her fur still looked as thought it would feel softer than my own.</p>
|
||||
<p>I don’t know if I’m remembering this correctly right now. I don’t remember if the Dee that was sitting in the sun was thinking about whether or not Kay’s fur was soft, or if that’s just the Dee right now, sitting here and writing about that moment. It’s such a nothing memory of a lunch that I can’t disentangle the reality from the moods I’ve been wilting under of late.</p>
|
||||
<p>I just remember that I gave up on the notes and we both sat there, even after she finished, saying nothing, soaking in the warmth.</p>
|
||||
<hr />
|
||||
<p>Our last lunch together — at least the last of the regular schedule of such — took place the week after Kay’s senior recital, and after we greeted each other, we spoke little, as though all the clamorous notes and weighty silences from her performance still hung beneath us. We ordered our food separately and it wasn’t until partway through the meal that we realized we had ordered the same thing, which drew a laugh from both of us before we focused back out on the lawn behind the student center.</p>
|
||||
<p>And then, with all the suddenness of applause after a performance, our conversation, our words were ungated and we began to talk.</p>
|
||||
<p>Our last lunch together took place the week after Kay’s senior recital, and after we greeted each other, we spoke little, as though all the clamorous notes and weighty silences from her performance still hung beneath us. We ordered our food separately and it wasn’t until partway through the meal that we realized we had ordered the same thing, which drew a laugh from both of us before we focused back out on the lawn behind the student center.</p>
|
||||
<p>And then, with all the suddenness of applause after a performance, our conversation, our words were ungated and we were free to speak.</p>
|
||||
<p>“How do you feel about your performance?”</p>
|
||||
<p>She eyed me slyly, as she always did whenever I used ‘feel’ language. “Are you asking as a friend, or are you asking as a therapist?”</p>
|
||||
<p>I shrugged. “I’m not your therapist, Kay, but if you want to talk about your deepest feelings, you are perfectly welcome to.”</p>
|
||||
|
|
@ -70,47 +70,47 @@
|
|||
<p>Finally, I asked, “Do you feel your emotions didn’t come through in the music?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I don’t know, did they?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Deflection. I rolled with it.</p>
|
||||
<p>“I feel like a lot of the emotions we don’t have words for we wind up putting into art, don’t you? The Sistine Chapel is a work of art that expresses ideas and feelings that don’t come across well in language.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I feel like a lot of the emotions we don’t have words for we wind up putting into art, don’t you? Great painters all make works of art that expresses ideas and feelings that don’t come across well in language.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“You really are in a therapist mood.” She threw a piece of lettuce at me. I set it on the corner of her tray.</p>
|
||||
<p>“You’ve been quiet,” I hedged. “It seemed like there was a lot going on, is all.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Yeah.” She picked at the piece of returned lettuce, tearing it carefully into shreds and eating them absentmindedly, one by one. “I guess I’m trying to decide if I wrote the pieces out of some academic need or whether I actually put emotion into them. I can’t tell because I couldn’t read the response from the audience. The applause was always so…I don’t know. It was hesitant, like people were trying to figure out whether or not the piece was actually done, but man, when you hear that from the point of view of the stage or as the artist, it’s hard not to read that as though they didn’t like it.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Didn’t like it?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Like any emotion behind the piece just went over their heads, and instead all they heard was noises on the stage.”</p>
|
||||
<p>I waited, silent, for her to continue.</p>
|
||||
<p>She rolled her eyes. “And here’s where you tell me, “No, Kay, they were wonderful! We were just awed by the breathtaking beauty of your music! Stunned into silence!”“</p>
|
||||
<p>She rolled her eyes. “And here’s where you tell me, <em>No, Kay, they were wonderful! We were just awed by the breathtaking beauty of your music! Stunned into silence!</em>“</p>
|
||||
<p>I tilted my ears back and bowed my head a little. “Sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt.”</p>
|
||||
<p>She poked the last bit of lettuce into her muzzle with perhaps a bit more force than strictly necessary. “S’okay.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“It <em>was</em> good, Kay, promise. I’m not the best judge of music–” She smirked at this, but I continued. “–so some of the music part went over my head.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Her own ears perked up, and it was her turn to wait me into talking more.</p>
|
||||
<p>“Like, it sounded dissonant and dark. Not angry or sad or anything. It just sounded dark, like there was a lot going on beneath the surface when you wrote them.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Her expression softened and she nodded. “I think there was. I didn’t mean for all of them to be dark, though. Some of that was some shitty performances. I had some choice words for some of them after.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I’m not quite educated enough to say one way or another on that.” I thought for a second, and then shrugged. “And I don’t think I’m educated enough to say whether or not the music was too academic or too emotionally obtuse. It did sound like there was a lot going on, though, and that a lot of that was maybe stuff you couldn’t put into words.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I’m not quite educated enough to say one way or another on that.” I thought for a second, and then shrugged. “And I don’t think I’m educated enough to say whether or not the music was too academic or too emotionally abstruse. It did sound like there was a lot going on, though, and that a lot of that was maybe stuff you couldn’t put into words.”</p>
|
||||
<p>She nodded. “There was, yeah. And no reason it can’t be both, right? That’s what I was thinking about. Some of the emotions I was feeling and trying to put into music were complex, and maybe went over the audience’s heads, but also this was supposed to show my talent as a composer, and so I was supposed to write really, uh…academically dense stuff. Show-off-y, you know?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“So, all that plus your performers lackluster showing, I can see that leading to a feeling like it just didn’t translate well.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“So, all that plus your performers lackluster showing, I can see that leading to feeling like it just didn’t translate well.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Another nod. She ate the rest of her salad and set the bowl aside.</p>
|
||||
<p>Still facing the windows, we sat together in silence, watching spring sun draw students out into the grass after a class block ended. A Frisbee appeared. A hacky sack.</p>
|
||||
<p>“What were the emotions?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Kay blinked, nonplussed, until the question clicked into place, then laughed. “Oh, you mean the emotions that were too complex to put into words?”</p>
|
||||
<p>Kay blinked, nonplussed, until the question clicked into place, then laughed. “Oh, you mean the emotions that were too complex to put into words? <em>Those</em> emotions?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I guess, yeah.”</p>
|
||||
<p>She looked to be on the edge of adding in a bit more snark, but the response appeared to have been tempered, as instead, she said, “They weren’t dark. Or not all of them were, at least. “Three Pieces” — that was the one for solo piano, remember? — that one was about music itself, like how there’s a signal path from composer to audience.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Signal path?”</p>
|
||||
<p>She drew lines with her clawtip on the window before her. “Sure, like…someone sings into a microphone, right? That generates a signal that goes down the wire to the sound board. You know how it’s got the banks of dials above the sliders? Well, the signal travels down through those knobs one by one, then down through the slider that controls the volume, then all the signals are combined into a stereo signal controlled by the master sliders, then it’s out through the speakers. Signal path, see?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I guess. So, how does that apply to composer and audience?” I could guess, but she was smiling now, excited. I didn’t want to take that away from her. Or, I realize now, from myself.</p>
|
||||
<p>“The composer writes the music — that’s the signal — and then puts it onto paper, gives it to performers, who play it for an audience, who takes it in through their ears and mixes it all up into their heads until they can come out at the end of the piece with a picture of what the composer was thinking or feeling.”</p>
|
||||
<p>She leaned forward and drew lines with her clawtip on the window. “Sure, like…someone sings into a microphone, right? That generates a signal that goes down the wire to the sound board. You know how it’s got the banks of dials above the sliders? Well, the signal travels down through those knobs one by one, then down through the slider that controls the volume, then all the signals are combined into a stereo signal controlled by the master sliders, then it’s out through the speakers. Signal path, see?”</p>
|
||||
<p>“I think so. So, how does that apply to composer and audience?” I could guess, but she was smiling now, excited. I didn’t want to take that away from her. Or, I realize now, from myself.</p>
|
||||
<p>“The composer writes the music — that’s the signal — and then puts it onto paper, gives it to performers, who play it for an audience, who take it in through their ears and mix it all up into their heads until they can come out at the end of the piece with a picture of what the composer was thinking or feeling.”</p>
|
||||
<p>I nodded. When she appeared to drift off into thought, I guided her gently back. Perhaps I was greedy for her immediate presence. “And you were trying to convey that through the piano.”</p>
|
||||
<p>She frowned. “Sort of. Not, like, the idea itself, since I obviously just used my words to explain it, but this weird emotion that that makes me feel. Like…there’s a little bit of magic in it, you know? So I feel a little bit of wonder at that. But there’s also a little bit of responsibility. It’s sort of like I’m the magician and have this responsibility to pull off this crazy hard magic spell for everything to go well. Except that’s not the whole thing either, because there’s also the performers outside my control, and there’s all these looping detours between composer and performer and audience, like the process of finding performers, the journey they take learning the music, and then all the techniques and how well they work in the performance space and how that affects how well they work and–shit, I’m rambling, sorry Dee.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Wait, what?” I blinked rapidly and shook my head. “No, Kay, you can talk music to me all day long. I may not be able to keep up with all of the fine details that go into it, but I like hearing you get all excited about it.” I followed this up with my best earnest expression and a wag of my tail, and added, “Besides, you’re good at listening to me talk about all those things that I get excited about, too.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“Wait, what?” I blinked rapidly and shook my head. “No, Kay, you can talk music to me all day long. I may not be able to keep up with all of the fine details that go into it, but I like hearing you get all excited about it.” I followed this up with my best earnest expression and a wag of my tail, adding, “Besides, you’re good at listening to me talk about all those things that I get excited about, too.”</p>
|
||||
<p>Her guarded look relaxed into something more like relief, and she wagged a little, herself. “Thanks. It’s good to have someone to gush at. God knows I don’t understand half of what you say, too, for that matter.”</p>
|
||||
<p>We laughed and began gathering up our stuff, shouldering our bags and piling lunch detritus onto our trays to take to the trash.</p>
|
||||
<p>A few steps from the trash bins, Kay bumped her shoulder against my arm. At first, I thought she had stumbled or something, and I swerved slightly as my empty drink cup nearly tumbled off my tray. Her expression was curious: she had her ears splayed in something like anxiety or worry, and her whiskers were slicked back, guarding. She wasn’t looking at me, and yet she was smiling.</p>
|
||||
<p>“And thanks for coming to see it, and for dinner after.”</p>
|
||||
<p>“And thanks for coming to see it, and for drinks after.”</p>
|
||||
<p>I don’t remember what I was thinking then.</p>
|
||||
<p>I don’t remember how well I’m remembering all of this. Am I looking back through the past with rose-colored, Kay-shaped glasses? Is my vision bounded by a shape of her that I want to see, and am I trying to fit my memories of her to that shape?</p>
|
||||
<p>I don’t remember what I was thinking, and I remember little of what we did after, other than we threw away our trash and then went our separate ways.</p>
|
||||
<p>I don’t remember if I felt anything then. I want to say that I did, but I see even myself through those Kay-shaped glasses. I see myself back then, a few years younger, a few years dumber, and I see a coyote in love. I see two coyotes in love, flirting back and forth. But now I’m a few years older, a few years wiser, and, as a coyote in love but <em>also</em> a therapist, I know that I ought to be careful.</p>
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||||
<p>I don’t remember feeling in love, and I don’t remember if Kay actually had that guarded, bashful expression when she elbowed me on our way to the trash bins. Come to think of it, perhaps I confabulated the whole thing. I remember a lunch after her recital, and I remember discussing signal paths. I definitely made up the bit about tearing lettuce, because I was trying to rebuild the mood of the lunch the better to remember.</p>
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||||
<p>But is that a good idea? Is it a good idea for me to try to rebuild a mood when here I am, looking for specific things?</p>
|
||||
<p>The Dee of today is looking for evidence that he was in love, and, ill-advised though it may be, seeking evidence of the same in his interlocutor. I can’t picture that doing anything for this reconstruction process but influencing vague memories to fit expectations.</p>
|
||||
<p>The Dee of today is looking for evidence that he was in love, and, ill-advised though it may be, seeking evidence of the same in his interlocutor. I can’t picture that doing anything for this reconstruction process but influencing vague memories to fit expectations. It’s all so frustrating.</p>
|
||||
<p>I don’t know if this exercise is even a good idea, now. What do I benefit in learning what I felt before getting a crush on someone that will help in the present moment?</p>
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||||
<p>I am unsure of myself, as always. Dewí Kimana, perpetually hedging his bets, perpetually worrying that he’s going to put his foot in it after decades of perpetually putting his foot in it. I will keep remembering things, of course. It’s comforting to think back on pleasant times with pleasant coyotes. But I am not sure if will keep up this exercise any longer. Maybe I’ll save those memories for stupid dreams, and should any leave me reeling the next day, perhaps I’ll share those, instead. After all, Kay left her own signal path, from those lunches through the formation of memories, and then years of being tossed and turned, digested and reformed into feelings that lay close enough to the surface that the signal can once again leave my paw and spill out onto the page, and all I can hope is that, as Kay put it, I’m left with a picture of the thoughts and feelings that I might have had at the time.</p>
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<hr />
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@ -118,16 +118,19 @@
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<hr />
|
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<ol>
|
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<li id="fn:email">
|
||||
<p>I have sometimes considered why this might be the case, and I have two main thoughts on the issue. The first is that email allows for threaded conversations. One can respond to a particular email, perhaps even after the conversation has continued from beyond that point. This also allows one to reply inline, even, interjecting thoughts between points one’s interlocutor has made. The second is that as a self-advertised “mobile first” application, PF limits the width of the text per message to what might fit on a phone screen, even when using their desktop application, and something about reading a very narrow, very long block of text feels like a misuse of the medium. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:email" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">↩</a></p>
|
||||
<p>I have sometimes considered why this might be the case, and I have two main thoughts on the issue. The first is that email allows for threaded conversations. One can respond to a particular email, perhaps even after the conversation has continued from beyond that point. This also allows one to reply inline, even, interjecting thoughts between points one’s interlocutor has made. The second is that, as a self-advertised “mobile first” application, PF limits the width of the text per message to what might fit on a phone screen, even when using their desktop application, and something about reading a very narrow, very long block of text feels like a misuse of the medium. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:email" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">↩</a></p>
|
||||
</li>
|
||||
<li id="fn:stress-scent">
|
||||
<p>I freely acknowledge that not all have the attraction to libraries that I do, and that the stress-scent I had been experiencing there could just as easily have been something more universally ambient than related to Kay herself. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:stress-scent" title="Jump back to footnote 2 in the text">↩</a></p>
|
||||
</li>
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<li id="fn:masking">
|
||||
<p>I am well aware of the problematic aspects of masking and would never encourage my clients to do anything that would lead to them being so disingenuous, but it is still a tool that I use at work. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:masking" title="Jump back to footnote 3 in the text">↩</a></p>
|
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</li>
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</ol>
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</div>
|
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</article>
|
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<footer>
|
||||
<p>Page generated on 2021-07-19</p>
|
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<p>Page generated on 2021-08-02</p>
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</footer>
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</main>
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<script type="text/javascript">
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@ -84,7 +84,7 @@
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<li class="done3"> <a href="40.html">40</a> — the dream</li>
|
||||
<li class="done3"> <a href="50.html">50</a> — post dream, left on a whim, why?</li>
|
||||
<li class="done3"> <a href="60.html">60</a> — couldn’t tell, neurodivergent</li>
|
||||
<li class="done3"> <a href="no-way-1-celibacy.html">Celibacy</a> — A bit more about that.</li>
|
||||
<li class="rejected"> <a href="no-way-1-celibacy.html">Celibacy</a> — A bit more about that.</li>
|
||||
</ul>
|
||||
</li>
|
||||
<li class="done3"> <a href="beats/04-stuck-together.html">Stuck together</a><ul>
|
||||
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|
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Reference in New Issue