pitch(ed) the baby

elizabeth, world, et al.,

let me first preface all future ascertations contained herein by vowing to never EVER again waste my time and emotions on watching grown men try to hit and throw a little white ball for as long as i live, and possibly after.

i fear i may be writing these days for writing's sake and have been for much of the recent and not so recent past. should this be a problem? i'm not for certain but its obvious that my original intent has been lost for the same reasons i would choose to watch sports over spending time with family, metaprogramming, or at the very least cultivating wisdom and art in one form or another.

if i died tonight i would never see my son again. being that i have also chosen not to see him for over three weeks now, you might begin to understand why a ghost is a ghost. that is, REGRET. and i am not sure what to do about any of this. i fear that i am losing myself to any distraction within arm's reach and sacrificing my sensibilites to the dull chaos of survival and imaginations of a future where i am actually observed, understood, and loved. a place where i am a good son and a good father, far from being a baby pitcher vying for attentions like play dough in my grasp before its inevitable exposure. i know i am being dramatic (AGAIN!), and that i have to believe there will be a tomorrow, but still i ask you, what about today?

well, i have a million and one excuses for today and i can tell you every single one of them is rooted in a self conscious attempt to avoid some pain that i have dared not be held accountable for. but, i MUST...for if i can not own my pain then there truly is nothing else for me. i know this, although i can't seem to put into action other than writing here...trying to convince a ghost that the past is not the present and that forgiveness is something real and not just an idea inside a book.

all too sincerely,
brian