I sit reading, a heavily ‘academic’ book. These make me think more than they engage and I can rarely go a few sentances before my brain is off on an inspired tangent.

Outside the window sits a motorcycle. I look at the device for adjusting the the rear axle position to tighten the chain and admire how odd, yet specifically useful it looks. I recall a particularly controversial post from a bit ago about deciphering system and uses being part of my natural behavior. Then talking to Matthew about being the type of people who wonder why rebar is left sticking out of concrete in Colombia.

Am I worried about meaning because I’m worried about death? I keep putting off replying to M’s email. It was recieved so relatively long ago, yet so actually so recently.

Sometimes I wonder if M is carefully crafting her interactions with me with some goal in mind. I likely give her too much credit and what affects her greatly is not the same as what is greatly important to her.

I talked with Mom for a couple hours last night. About everything. Or rather, more than I have the time to recall and note. Actually, I talked, she listened. I talked of discussions with J about how special it was to feel understood by M, and how that was my experience and not anything that is tied to or belongs to M.

M encompasses memories of feelings of happiness that are difficult to find elsewhere. Thats not right. The memory of those feelings is associated with M. Yet, those are my feelings. Is it hard to separate those because I’m afraid of their spontaneous and rare occurance having no mapped path to their attainment?

Mom still worries greatly about my idealizing M and it leaks through her otherwise typically unassuming and thoughtful self.

But M isn’t responsible for my feelings. I never asked her to be anything or anyone other than herself.

Always out of time.