In The Gentrification of the Mind, lesbian novelist and activist, Sarah Schulman, examines the historical relation between gentrification and AIDS, stating that “gentrification made us forget who we were,” and has resulted in “a loss of vision” on all levels. Schulman draws parallels between socio-economic gentrification and mental (artistic) gentrification. In one passage, she writes: “Gentrification replaces most people’s experiences with the perceptions of the privileged and calls that reality. In this way gentrification is dependent on telling us that things are better than they are.”

You say something, you make a “fool of yourself” by trying to say something, something that has your life at stake—to a lover, to a friend, to a neighbor, to an employer, to a landlord, to a real-estate developer, to a politician—in person, in writing, on camera—and they don’t care. You make a fool of yourself, but no one gives a shit about what you say or how you feel: the energy you spend and expend, the tears you shed. The sense you’re trying to make to and of people who don’t understand anything or have any sense, and the dismissal of one’s life, values, communities, labors, energies, needs, and rights. The way no one hears anything, even when you scream.

Sarah Schulman once wrote that “marginal people know how they live and they know how the dominant culture lives. Dominant culture people only know how they live.” These words have never left me.

excerpted from the post Love Dog: Gentrification of the mind (Like buildings, dreams are constructed and destroyed) 

I feel like this sums up so much of what I try to find small ways to struggle against, in my work, in my life.

Living the Dream: A Jonathan Richman Time-jump

Here’s Jonathan Richman singing with the Modern Lovers in 1973. The song is called “Dignified and Old.” He was maybe 22. Listen to the pain in his voice as he cries out in support of life in spite of the anguish of loneliness and misunderstanding.

Well my friends say that I deceive myself
And that I contradict myself
And I can’t say if they’re right
But I’m not ashamed
Someday we could be dignified and old together

And here he is last year, at maybe 62. Dignified and old(er). Radiating a joy that is tinged with sorrow. Singing a song that, like all of his songs, comes from his heart. A place of truth. He’s a great and wise storyteller, a person who understands the kind of beauty where “you have to look a little more to see it.” He is a living reminder that if we know how to suffer and how to feel, we might one day be lucky enough to really love and really live.

Well she don’t act cool and she don’t blow hot and cold
Her mystery not of high heels and eye shadow
Well she laughs if she wants the way you do when you’re five years old
and she loves the faded colors of 3AM just like I do

She rocks, she swings, she delights in the faded things
Her mystery not of high heels and eye shadow
she laughs, she delights, she delights in the faded colors of the night
just like i do, just like I do

Who you really are is who you really want


“The hero and heroine of the [1930s] screwball comedy may decide to attempt a life with a more conventional person (e.g., “the rube”). It can’t work, and learning that—learning who one really is and whom one really needs to be with in order to fully realize that—is the arc of the comedy.”

-Susan Bordo, The Male Body

I want to take you far from the cynics in this town
and kiss you on the mouth
We’ll cut our bodies free 
from the tethers of this scene
Start a brand new colony
Where everything will change
We’ll give ourselves new names
Identities erased
The sun will heat the ground 
under our bare feet
In this brand new colony

Everything will change

Shuffled up on my BART ride home tonight. In times like these, when the world makes particularly little sense to me, the idea of running away from it all (but running to something, running to love), while impossible, becomes increasingly appealing.

Love Dog notebook, 7/20/2014: connections

In her entry from March 27, 2012, called “Radical Acts,” Masha Tupitsyn quotes James Baldwin as saying, “I was trying to make a connection between the books I was reading and the life I saw and the life I lived.”

Always this, in case you haven’t figured it out by now.

I think that’s why I first became so enamored with Masha’s writing. With intellect fueling a depth of emotion and emotion fueling a depth of intellect, she writes in a way that mirrored something of how I’d always thought and felt, how I sought and saw connections between my life and the books I was reading, the films I was watching, the songs I was listening to, and sometimes even the games I was playing. 



The other day, a friend asked me why I feel the way I do about you. I felt like I immediately fell into conventional reasons that could apply to any number of people, like I couldn’t articulate what it was about you specifically. I was reminded of Masha’s entry “Saudade" from July 26, 2012, which begins, "When people ask me what I like about you (X.), I’m not sure I know the answer. Or I’m not sure I can talk about it. Or I do know the answer, but they’re not things I can explain, or that matter to other people.”




from Beginners

If I had to try to explain it right now, I know I would fall terribly short. I don’t know if it can even be explained:



from Museum Hours

but it has something to do with all the ways that you’re like me and all the ways that you’re not like me. The things we have in common and the things we don’t. How you’re strong in a way that doesn’t diminish but enhances your warmth. How when I’m around you I feel safe in a way that I don’t around most people and I feel comfortable with things I don’t normally feel comfortable with. (“People who are like forbidden cities,” Masha once wrote. “People who only love people who have the key to them.” And how I told you I didn’t know how not to be real with you anymore.) How I felt like I had so much to learn from you, like just being around you was good for me as a person. How I feel like to look at you is to know you and yet to know that there’s still so much I don’t know about you.

Though, to quote the last line of “Saudade,” “Of course I could be wrong about all of this.”



Writing about faith on January 5, 2012, Masha wrote: 

Are you willing to love and have faith even if nothing comes of it? Even if you stand to lose everything.

Being faithful to what you cannot even see. To what might not even happen.

This is hard.

Writing about Christianity, Kierkegaard notes: “The contradiction which arrests [the understanding] is that a man is required to make the greatest possible sacrifice, to dedicate his whole life as a sacrifice—and wherefore? There is indeed no wherefore… At first glance the understanding ascertains this is madness. The understanding asks: what’s in it for me? The answer is nothing.”

And later, on February 22, 2012, Masha wrote of her own faith in love:

When everyone in class, including Avital Ronell, says that unity with the other is impossible, I know better. As Badiou puts it, “Love is proof of Two.” I know it’s been possible. I know all the opposing theories, I just don’t believe in them. At the end of the day, I believe in the possibility of the impossible, in communion, in the other as the only faith, in the odds, the stakes, the signs.

The same day I read this, the poet Bobbi Lurie tweeted:


and my phone shuffled up this song, which is about waiting, about holding on, with the hope or the expectation of being rewarded, someday:

Once again happiness knocked on my door in vain.

But I’m not holding on with expectations or hope of reward. Holding on to you for now is my way of holding on to my faith in love, and to my belief that real love is possible in my life. 

In her entry from February 19, 2012, Masha is perhaps addressing herself but might as well be addressing me when she writes: 

Your fantasy has always been to run away. To a faraway place, into a book and into love with just one person. Into the writing, into the place you need in order to write. In order to live, in order to think, in order to get away.

When will you stop despairing over people and just get cynical and detached and used to it like everyone else?

She then quotes from an old interview with Boy George in which he said, “Love is like God. You just have to believe it exists.” To which Masha replies, “You don’t know. You are starting to think maybe it doesn’t. There are certain things you haven’t lost because of what you’ve lost. That is the irony.”


The Things I Haven’t Lost Because of What I’ve Lost

On April 7 of 2012, Masha posted a journal entry she wrote when she was 21. It read, in part, “But after music at Bubalas, then the madness of the 1 am Spiritus Pizza rush, someone mentioned H., and then I wasn’t okay. I was sore in every vein, all bones struck by the name, a dull ache all over me.”

I can’t escape your name, nor do I want to, but it has a power over me. Sometimes when I hear it and I’m not expecting to, it hurts. Recently I got an auto-generated, social-media-related email “from you” (not really from you) and seeing your name there in my inbox made my heart skip a beat. 

Sometimes I wonder if it’s childish of me to have feelings like this, if these aren’t the sorts of things people are supposed to outgrow after high school, or maybe college. After all, Masha wrote that journal entry when she was 21. But a few days later, she wrote, “I still have teenage desires. I still have a teenage heart.”

And I think that’s me, too. I think that, because of the years I’ve lost, because I haven’t had the experiences that most people have had by my age, I still have these beliefs about love that are unclouded by cynicism. I still yearn completely for a person. I know this makes me too much for people to handle sometimes. On May 28, 2012, Masha quoted from Kathy Acker’s Don Quixote: “I can’t be normal because I can’t stop loving.” She went on to say:

Love means being insane in today’s world (the lack of it is also what makes the world insane), and it is what makes me intense. As a person, as a woman.

"You’re too much," everyone always says, and there is nothing I can do to hide it. It always just shows.

The green still shows. Why didn’t I rust or go dead like so many others? Let the color fade. Why didn’t I learn to turn the volume down? Why did it only get louder? I am not camouflaging, I am sticking out. I am like glass.

When I think of teenage desires and teenage hearts, I think of Gone Home. On January 24, 2012, Masha refers to her friend Elaine quoting Bliss Cua Lim’s “The Ghostliness of Genre”: “The ghost film’s core conceit, visualized in its mise-en-scène, is that space has a memory.” This is the core conceit of Gone Home, too, a game which cleverly employs tropes of ghost stories and horror films in order to subvert them and, in so doing, create a greater affirmation of Sam and Lonnie’s love. Thinking of what I haven’t lost because of what I have lost, of how I still have teenage desires and a teenage heart, I think of the words of game designer (and transgender woman) Merritt Kopas on Gone Home

I want to be Sam. I want to be present in my youth. I want a riot grrl romance. I want to make zines and go to girl band gigs and dye my (girl)friend’s hair.

But I can’t have that, not in the way that part of me still desperately wants it: it’s not the 90s, I’m not a teenage girl, and neither of those things is ever, ever going to change. That’s something I’m still dealing with. But ultimately Gone Home left me hopeful rather than grieving. Hopeful about storytelling and games, and hopeful about my own experiences. Because obviously we can’t go back home, into our pasts, and change things – like Katie, all we can do is observe, witness, turn things over in our heads until they make a kind of sense that we can work with. But we can write new stories, ones where girls in love don’t die tragic deaths and where big empty houses are scary but ultimately safe and where you can have a teenage girl romance at 25, or 35, or whenever you want to.


(The only problem with Gone Home was that I couldn’t open this magazine and read the article about Guided by Voices.)

I believe that space has a memory, too. The desk next to mine is empty right now but sometimes I remember how you once did some work there, giving me the gift of your presence as I gave you mine. 

It’s not just places that get entangled with memory. Yesterday I read Joanna Walsh’s essay “Ventimiglia,” which includes the line, “The trick is to untangle objects from memory.” That is not a trick I’ve ever known how to pull off. The game you and I once spent hours playing together, a game I love—I haven’t played it since. It reminds me too much of how it felt to spend time with you.

So here I am, with this teenage heart and these teenage desires, trying to figure out just what to do with them. Whatever happens next, I know I’ve got my work cut out for me, and if someone comes along who I love and who loves me, they’ll have their work cut out for them, too. I won’t make it easy for them. I don’t know how to. I don’t know how to do anything. But on March 19, 2012, Masha quoted Jeanette Winterson: “It’s a sin this not being ready, this not being up for it.”

I think I am, as they say, as ready as I’ll ever be.


"A text is for someone. Not for everyone. The way someone is for someone. Not for everyone." —Masha Tupitsyn, March 11, 2012

Dream machine


Downstairs in the laundry room, and no one is there. Thank god. I get to just do my chore in peace. A little radio whispers on a shelf. I’m near it. A boy, 19, the same age as Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything, calls up a radio station and tells the female DJ that he wants her to play a song for the woman he loves. The song is called “In Your Eyes.” The woman asks him a few questions on the air. Like: Why do you love her? He says: Because we’re always there for each other. Because she’s my best friend. And the female DJ, who’s in her 40s or 50s, tells the boy: I wish I’d had your wisdom at 19. I spent most of my life thinking there were the nice guys and the gorgeous and funny guys. And I wanted the gorgeous and funny guys. And it wasn’t until after many years that I realized that just looking for gorgeous and funny is not love. The boy says: Thank you. Then the DJ plays the song. And since there’s no one in the room, and since Say Anything is a movie I love, and since Lloyd Dobler is a boy I love, and since I know all the words to this song, and since I’ve been singing them for half of my life, and since this is really what I need to hear right now, I turn up the volume and sing the song out loud.


In her song Cloudbusting Kate Bush sings:

"I know that something good is going to happen
I don’t when
But just saying it could even make it happen”

This belief used to be at the heart of everything for me. N and I talked about this last night on the phone. He said he could tell all these things were going to happen for me, to me. He said there were all these signs. He could see them, and they were for me, he said. I used to see the signs too, and follow them. I still see the signs, and I still follow them, but they don’t lead anywhere or amount to anything. Anywhere new or different or destinal. They’re just there, unmagical in their magic. Or magic in their unmagicness. I’ve always said that Love Dog was an incantation. A love spell I cast for myself and others. Fortunata. Vision quest.

When. When. How intensely I used to listen to this song, feeling like the storm in my heart could conjure the rain she was singing about, and someone to stand in the rain with. The right person. I love the rain. I don’t believe in that kind of magic the way I used to, but I haven’t stopped casting the spells.



Does it still bother you? Does it still matter? Why does it still bother you? Why does it still matter? The most important thing to do now is to forget. To surrender and encourage. You should support one another. You should support him. You should learn from your experience together, then move on and love again. You should both be friends. There is nothing better than being friends. One day you will be good friends. You loved each other at the time. You meant what you said at the time. He meant what he said at the time. You can love a few different people at a time. You can be in love with someone and still want other people. You can be happy and in love with someone and still be with other people. You can have a soul mate, a true love, and still desire other people. It is impossible to only love one person.

You should call him up and ask him things. You should let him know that nothing’s wrong. That nothing’s lost. You should tell him how much he’s taught you. You should listen to him say you’ve taught him nothing. Love is a lesson. Love is for learning lessons. We each have many lessons. We each have many soul mates. There are no soul mates. Nothing lasts forever. But eventually it might.

There will always be other people. There are always other people. There are so many people in the world. You should go out and look for them. There are too many people in the world, you will never have enough time to find them. You can meet anyone. You could find nothing. You can expect everything. You can expect nothing.

You should date. Are you dating? Are you dating anyone? Who are you dating? Why aren’t dating anyone? It’s time to date someone. Everything is timing. Everyone is timing. You can time things. You can time someone. You can time your life. You should try it. You would like it. You could learn to.

Are you having sex? Are you having sex with anyone? Who are you having sex with? Why aren’t you having sex with anyone? Are you over him? Have you gotten over him? When will you get over him? Aren’t you over him? What are you waiting for? You can’t wait all day. You can’t wait all year. You can’t wait forever.

There is no such thing as love. Love is really lust. Love is really temporary. Love is really loss. Love is oppressive. Passion is oppressive. Passion is destructive. Passion is fleeting. Passion is temporary. Passion is only in the beginning. Passion is when you’re cheating on someone. Passion is when you don’t have permission. Passion is when you are young. Passion is when you were young. Passion is before you made decisions. Passion is the first time. Passion is before you got hurt. Love is only in the beginning. Love is before you know someone. Love is the opposite of desire. Love is unhealthy. Love makes you sick. Love makes you bleed. Love makes you too fat and too skinny, too comfortable and too nervous. Love is exhausting. Love is consuming. Love makes you exhausting to be around. Love is in your sick mind. Love makes you feel like shit. Love is old-fashioned. Love is impossible. Love is criteria. Love is demanding. Love makes you demanding. Love is several. Love happens all the time. Love is happening all around you. Love is happening now. Love is easy. Love is unrealistic. Love is impossible. Love ends. Love doesn’t exist.

You blame love for everything. You do everything in the name of love. Love is why you stayed. Love is why you left. Love is why you’re tired all the time. Love is why you’re no longer fun to be around. Love is why you’re always busy. Love makes you talk too much. Love is the reason you’ve stopped acting like a guy. Love is why you let him use you. How could you let yourself love him? How can you call that love?

Love means you call everything you have ever done love. Love means every time you hurt someone, you say that love is hurtful. Love is an excuse. Love is coexistence. Love is codependence. Love is the loss of your freedom. You’re too young to love. You don’t know what love means. You’ve never loved anyone in your life. You can’t love now. You can love later. Now is not the time to love. You can love when you’re ready. Love is freedom. Love is unconditional. Love means you can’t want anything from the person you love. Love means you will gladly give away what you love. Love means you don’t love, but you pretend you know how to. Love is something you give up on because someone gave up on you. Love means you don’t even try. Love means after you’ve lost love once, you could lose again and you’d survive.

Love makes you jealous. Love makes you remember. Love makes you not care. Love makes you shit and have diarrhea and throw-up. Love makes you sleepless. Love makes you spleenless. Love makes you age prematurely. Love is why you eat so much. Love is why you’ve stopped eating. Love makes you pathetic. Love is disgusting. Love is inconvenient. Love makes you the same. Love means you can’t see the difference. Love gets you nowhere. Love is a prison. Love is a waste of time. Love is precious. Love gets in your way. Love covers you with bruises and breaks your legs. Love breaks your heart and then love leaves you broken. Love is what everyone says. Love is what no one means. Love is what you can’t say. Love is what no one knows how to do. Love is what you forgot. Love is what you lost. Love is what you thought you had. Love is the word that you won’t say. Love is the word that everyone says. Love is the word that never gets you anywhere. Love is what you do when you fuck. Love is what you fucked up. Love is what no one means. Love is what you will spend your whole life looking for. Love is what you already have. Love is what you will spend your whole life trying to mean.

And when it is over you should forget. When it is over you should forget and move on. When love is over you should forget and fall in love again. Except never acknowledge what you are doing as forgetting. Forgive and forget. Forgive and forget.

-Published in Specter Magazine, Issue Two, October 2011:

-In the French literary journal, TINA, Issue Six, April 2010



@carolynmichelle, Katherine Cross, and @femfreq during @GaymerX #everyonegames (at InterContinental San Francisco)

I was hustling on Security duty for GaymerX2, so I only got to see this and the Cosplay Masquerade the whole con.  Carolyn Petit is not only a genius, but was secretly hilarious, who knew?  This was my first meeting with Katherine Cross irl, but her blog has slid across my plate a few times before this; she wasn’t dry at all, but humane and warm.  I’m sure Anita has been analyzed to death, but I thought she explained her project’s goals well.

I like this pic of our panel. Yay!

Love Dog notebook, 7/15/2014: finding out what the wait was about

In the December 31, 2011 entry in Love Dog, Masha Tupitsyn writes,

A couple of weeks ago I kissed a man at the OWS Verso Books party, a week before Christmas. He was a good kisser. Yet afterwards, as I looked at him while he talked to me on the subway, I knew he didn’t have the kind of face I really wanted or needed to look at. His face just wasn’t for me.

But somehow faces are the first thing I forget once a person is gone. They become a blur—foggy—because they have to. Because it’s too painful and burdensome to carry a face (a life) you knew so well—a face that was for you—around once it’s gone. A face you took that seriously. It can drive you crazy. I’ve been driven crazy by things like this. Love and faces, and responsibility. To the other. In this way, writing is not only a substitute for love, it’s a substitute for the face (life) you’ve lost.

I’m ambivalent about faces. Because of my history with my own face, I feel that faces have as much capacity to obscure the truth as to reveal it. I’ve worried that my own face has made it harder for me to connect with others than it should be. But your face always seemed so open to me, so revealing. I think that it is possible, even likely, for someone to look at my face and not be able to really look at me, but I always felt that to look at your face was to look at you in a very real way. Yours is a face I could both lose myself in and find myself in. In the one and only photo I have of us together, taken on the day we first met, I don’t mind my own face. It’s as if, in the context of your face, my own face seemed more honest to me. 

Your face, your life, were never for me, in the way that I wanted them to be. I know that now. I’ve known it for a long time. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t look at you the last time I saw you. It was too painful to look at you, to really see you, while I was that close to and that far away from you.

When I told friends about this, one of them said, “You need a rebound.” I said, “I don’t think you can call it a rebound if I was never with the person in the first place. And anyway, I’m not interested in a rebound. I’m interested in something real.”

"Oh," my other friend said. "A realbound."

Being around you that last time I saw you did what being around you always does. It made me feel like my walls were collapsing, like I couldn’t hide the truth of what I was feeling from myself or you or anyone. And I couldn’t help but hang on your every word, delighting in what they revealed about you and aching that those revelations revealed more about a life that I can’t share in, not the way that I wanted to. Like the song “In Limbo” by Radiohead once worked for Masha, you thaw me out. Like Muriel to Macon in The Accidental Tourist, without even meaning to, without even trying, you take an axe to the frozen lake inside me. Maybe it’s not good for me, but even though it hurts now, sometimes I think that I want to be around you, just to feel my walls collapse again, my heart open up, just to be reminded of the depths of my own feeling, even if right now that feeling is just a profound yearning for connection with someone who makes me feel some of what you do, someone who brings my walls tumbling down. I don’t want to be with somebody who doesn’t do that. I’ll wait for somebody who does.









from Beginners

But what is the wait about? What’s it for, really? Will I look back someday and understand why I had to go through all this, why I had to spend so much time waiting?

Lately, I’ve been really concerned with waiting. When Masha was writing the entries I’ve been reading in Love Dog lately, she was really concerned with waiting, and with time-jumps, in movies and in life. On January 5, 2012, she wrote:

I don’t want to wait, but I have to. And after all of my resistance, indecision, and frustration, I’m somehow riding the wave of time now, letting it sink in. I am living in the time-jump. The time-jump, which I knew was coming for months, but dreaded. The time-jump is the time inbetween the wrong time and the right time. The time between me and you (X.). Now and then. Present and future. In the movies, two characters meet at the wrong time and time needs to pass, to—jump—in order for them to be able to meet again. Sometimes time has to jump over and over for this to happen. To pass and pass. Sometimes it takes one time-jump. Sometimes it takes many. Sometimes six months pass, sometimes ten years. The point is that while we, the viewers, are aware of the time—the time that’s passing between two people—the characters onscreen are not. Not knowing what they know or must know. They (the unsynchronized lovers) are in the back of each other’s minds, and the forefront of ours, but they are not aware of the time that’s passing. That’s passed. They are living their lives, often with other people. Major things happen in between. Things that might be extremely difficult, but not impossible to undo. They don’t know what’s coming. You have to be almost unconscious, or at least only semi-conscious, of time when you are in the time-jump. It’s on our minds (the viewers), not theirs. So if I am self-conscious about the time-jump I’m in, is it really even a time-jump? In fact, time is not jumping at all for me. I am literally watching the clock. Waiting for the kettle to boil.

If. When. How many times.

And later in the same entry, when writing about how bell hooks, in All About Love, talks about Jacob’s encounter with the angel (something I wrote about in my own way recently, not knowing that Masha had written about it in hers), Masha writes:

I have been Jacob. I have had to be Jacob. I have been him willingly and against my will. I have made wrong choices and difficult decisions. Wandered alone. Failed and labored and waited. Tried again. Been in the dark. Had faith. Time, years and years, have passed. And now I am at once tougher and softer than I have ever been. I am and/both.

Is that what the wait is about? Getting tougher and softer? On January 16, 2012, writing about the Pretenders song “Tattooed Love Boys,” Masha wrote:

The lyric, “I, I, I, I found out what the wait was about” conjures a time-jump. So what is this wait? This wait, still. This wait, again. How do we know when we’re waiting and not simply living our lives? That we’re doing something extra, in addition to living. That there’s an added element involved. The element of something future coming. Something not-yet.

I’m waiting to find that out, but to do that I have to wait some more.

I feel like I’m waiting there too. From Love Dog:


I know mama said you can’t hurry love, but sometimes I think this is getting a little ridiculous:

How many heartaches must I stand
Before I find the love to let me live again

How long must I wait
How much more must I take
Before loneliness
Will cause my heart, heart to break?

Sometimes I just want to fast-forward to the end of this time-jump, to the time when someone else comes along who makes sense to me the way you seemed to.

When I think of time-jumps, I think of Broadcast News, and when I think of Broadcast News, sometimes I think about how I feel about you. In her entry from January 11, 2012 called Mourning After (one of my favorites, one I’ve read and responded to before), Masha writes:

When it comes to love, we circulate either a repressive and reactionary set of values and narratives, or disposable platitudes. Sometimes we give up too soon and sometimes we don’t try at all. We miss the opportunity to try. We don’t say enough, when we should say everything.

Perhaps I say too much, with you. Like Aaron in Broadcast News, I say a great deal, then I say that I’m going to stop, and then I say more.

















But of course, he does say more. He fights for her.



Well, maybe they do, but it doesn’t matter how hard Aaron fights here. Her love is not for him and never would be. He never had a chance with her, or, you could say, she was never a chance for him.

In that same entry, Masha writes,

I treat the whole idea and task of “moving on” with suspicion and rigor, and always have. Mourning is often synonymous with forgetting and denial. So I think I will always prefer (trust) people who mourn—even people who can’t “get over” someone or something; who take too long—to people who don’t mourn or take any time at all. Or, who promiscuously and indiscriminately claim to do everything in the name of love; who call everyone a lover.

I want to hold on and I like others who do the same. Character is formed there and devotion is made possible. I’ve always been bad at the exchange part, partly because I never wanted or set out to exchange or be exchanged in the first place. The whole process terrifies me. I’ve been called an obsessive and a die-hard romantic because of it. And it’s true, I am one. I want to wrestle, grapple, stay, linger, hold on, remember, recall, retrace, ruminate, honor, know, understand—hold on.

I share some of that, but I’m not holding on because I’m still fighting for you. I know that I was never a chance for you. I’m holding on because for now  I don’t know how not to. But things change.


the Broadcast News time-jump

I said to you once, when I knew that you weren’t a chance, that it’s hard when two people love each other and neither can give the other what they want or need. A lot can happen in seven years. Not much has really happened in my personal life in the last seven years, but more has happened in the past one year than in the previous six, and I expect that the next seven will be somewhat more eventful. Seven years later, Aaron’s got a love of his own and can just give Jane his friendship, which, as I said to you once, when I still thought of you as a chance, is a different kind of love but no less real than romantic love.

It’s the big time-jump of their lives:


and they seem to have found out what the wait was about. Jane especially.




Let us all be so lucky.