September 21st, 2004

tragic, can't let go, no miracles, upset, frustrated

way to go

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When did I start to think that I was good at dealing with people? When did I become confident in my ability to read people, or to subtly make them do as I wish? Did I develop this assurance out of necessity, if only to keep things together despite not truly knowing what it is I am doing?

I have been told that I can move people, that I can change people. It is impossible to control people. One can only guide. nyxdae claims that I make people seem so simple in my impressions of them, but I do accept that there are vast numbers of causes for any particular action, and individuals may be motivated by deep things unknown to me.

My patience only goes so far ... I hate cleaning up after people, both materially and emotionally. I can only do so much before I get irritated with the effort and wish to be left alone. I am tired of listening to the complaints of others every day when they do not solve what they are so unhappy about, am sick of attempting to make miracles to fix it for them. I do not live to extinguish your emotional fires or the drama you cause, and I wish you would develop a sense of perspective about what you face ... this way, you can deal with your problems. Needling someone, attempting to be in the "top" position, this will not win you what you want. Having a tantrum in a meeting and storming out will not gain you peace.


I just got an email from my mother this morning.

I once had a very good friend who I had gone to school with since kindergarten ... let us call him Mr. Poet. He was an extraordinarily gentle person ... never the fastest in answer, for which he was often teased, but clever regardless, as he actually thought about what he said before he said it. He died in high school. Another good friend, Mr. Navy, who I have known since infancy, was also close to Mr. Poet. Mr. Navy lost his stepfather that same year in a terrible heart attack. Why is that not enough early, terrible death dealt to this group ...? My mother's email revealed that Mr. Poet's mother died over the weekend, at the age of 44, from a heart attack.

"Now [Mr. Poet] is back in the arms of his mother."

How much more of this ....
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