the fire is passion

An old friend from Junior High, whom I rediscovered just a few weeks back, wrote to me last night and told me that, after reviewing my website and blog, she finally thinks she has an understanding of my history and muses.

How did she do that? I don't have a firm grasp on it.

So many really good questions. Most of the ones that come to me at night start with "What did I do...?"

You can't live a life of any integrity, any honesty, any creativity, and not make some pretty spectacular blunders. The problem is, if you are sentient, you can also see the other side of the errors. My daughter used to lecture me on what a mistake it was for her mother I to have ever married. But if we had not, that very daughter, and both her brothers, and most of the life that I value, would have never happened.

That's not to say there are not still things unrectified. Quite the opposite. I owe debt to memory. To the people whom may have been harmed, though those who would most scream for reparations are victims of their own assaults against me and the consequences of their own actions. They know this. They know this, and it galls them, and they want me to take the blame for their actions.

Sorry, I carry my own crosses, just barely. I make a lousy martyr. I will, in time, pay all debts, even to those who really don't deserve it. Because, someone whom I actually respect once said "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." I don't think I will always be treated with respect or dignity or justice by those I treat well (my history seems to be quite the contrary, the people who have treated me the most shamefully are those whom I have done the most for)...but I choose to laugh it off (I didn't have to come here anyway).

The fire is passion.