Yearn often for that simple life – even though it wasn’t simple at all…carnage memory wreaks…in those last days I wanted to get out, yet I reveled in it, too…living in the day and night but mostly in the night…redemption, edge, thirst…how many times have you missed a call and as you play the voicemail, your heart pounds…The comfort in the in-between – in the waiting period – in limbo – suspending all thought of what comes next…then mustering courage to call because you must and then hearing the crushing news…how memory skews what happened, amplifies pain or elation…those moments of humanity and compassion that go beyond the professional expertise and clinical coolness – the recognition that human ability only extends so far and so much is beyond our control and in these moments, when all we can do is offer compassion…still, lingering doubts…I look down at the page and the handwriting scrawled across it and the train of thought I scribbled and left and trying to resume where I left off is like trying to slip back into a dream after I’ve woken up…not excising or expunging it but getting it out by writing it…I’d had an Angel City Brewery IPA knowing it should be my first and last of the night and then had a second and it felt like a transgression and a luxury…counting our cash at the end of the night and I was there to do a job get paid and get out because I’d been doing it for a long time and knew what I was doing and wanted to get my wages plus tips and move on to the next one…transitions that never were…this story, and many others, I think, is a process of iteration, creating something and tearing it down and starting again from scratch, over and over again…I’ve never done this before, I thought. I never saw it getting this bad…what is it that pulls us back against our better judgment? Is it wrong to go back?…it’s a love story, twisted, of course – knew it was bad for me and still I kept going back…And still I obsess over whether to call him and let him know I’m coming back and see if he wants to talk…But last time you went, the little sliver of time you spent in the light – hiking to the top of the trail, the tree, view of LA from above, seeing it all from up high…or is your challenge to integrate and incorporate both the dark and the light, to acknowledge and recognize and see darkness in light and make sense of it…If I don’t have the proper garnish, I refuse to make the drink…What I wrote above is how it spilled forth from my vein. I think I meant to write “brain,” but what I wrote by hand says “vein”…not getting out sooner than you did…not because it’s required or necessary or important or because you have no choice but, rather, because you’re in some way broken by it…when I tear up and throw away the manuscript I’ll be literally tearing apart what I created to start again from scratch…And I could go on writing about this, but I’ll end it here so I can pick up where I left off with avocados…to tell them what you saw and heard – it’s time to create, he said – and they both said, it’s time to open a vein and let it bleed…channeling something by writing about that spiritual trap you had to escape…giving the neurotic fifth gear a rest – the “space break” Michael told me to take between finishing the letter from LA – the writing of which seemed to drag on and on to the point where now I dread going back, again, to the belly of the beast, the pit of darkness…will I call him?…Still awkward as ever…can’t stop myself from going backI knew I was bound to crack, knew that inevitable, relentless passage of time pushed me toward an edge and if I didn’t force a break-up, the work, in the way I did it, would break me.