Trisha’s posterous

I believe I have been 'buffered.'  That is...o---k.

I get it.

But still, I'm turning down the volume, turning it down low.

But I do feel stupid, as stupid as that Valentine's Night back in 1993, when I was a kid really, and had a crush on Greg Meldrum, Centre for the Vike's Men's Varsity basketball team, and I secretly left for him that poem by E.E. Cummings along with the chocolate yellow rose...and he (and his really beautiful girlfriend) both snickered at me the next day in the dormitory cafeteria.

I am nothing if not passionate (or do I mean stupid?)  I suck the marrow out of life..and choke on the bone.

"What is there to do but this, to descant on the various properties of a bit of stone..." -A. Rodger. 

I read the above inscription while sitting cross-legged on my cot in the psyche ward, staring out at the three steel cranes gleaming in moonlight, feeling seized, crushed, by some force that I could not define or locate, lungs squeezed, felt like throwing up.  My wrists were stinging.

There is code, code for everything.

Language in itself is--code...code for what it can never fully mean.

(Where is The Artist formerly Known As Prince?)

I am buffered into oblivion.

I do understand though.  I get it, I get it.

But none the less, I am signing off, bugging out.  You will not see me, or hear from me...for a long long while.

I have given too much of myself away.

Yes, RVC, I have given my medicine away...and...what were you thinking?

This is me in retreat.

I am the Artist formerly known as Nothing.

It is not enough to erase me.  I need to have never existed.

And hey, I have also published extensively and won national writing awards...more than one. 

Here I go.  I'm leaving on a jet place don't know when I'll be back again...

And Maverick says, "Remaining migs are bugging out and going home..." (Yeehaw).

Going.

Going.

Gone.