Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Planetary Signals.

Communication can take many forms. Verbal, visual, aural, physical, intuitive, and perhaps one of the most effective, omission. As in any relationship there is always an exchange of resources, and often times we feel that we are transacting a fair exchange. Whether it is time, financial, affection, loyalty, or sharing resources, these are all part of the give and take that is existence. But there is no ledger in the sky and the value of resources can often be misunderstood or even in dispute. Balancing that ledger on a planetary scale is neither easy or even possible with incomplete or inaccurate information. This is where rifts can slowly form into canyons of astronomical proportions. Silently but persistently they grow. Imperceptible in the day to day activities of life.

So it was with Judith Janet Planet and myself. Like the running water of a river that can form grand canyons, so we continued on the river that was our life together. Much of my time riding on the South Shore Line, and working. Much of the Planets time seeing to the day to day welfare of the satellites Clarke and Addison. But today's world does little to reinforce the value of such domestic endeavors. We certainly give lip service to the sublime pursuit of parenting, but with the same conviction of “have a nice day”, that we pass from one another in our daily interactions. So when Planetary goals are not being met, and when Planetary compensation is felt inadequate, needless to say the polarity of the Planet may begin to go askew.

There were many signals, some heeded, some unrecognized, but in retrospect, they were there. Talking didn't seem to work. Fucking becomes infrequent. Actually became nonexistent unless initiated by me, which can become problematic for one that has issues of self image to begin with as well as a disinclination to convince people to do things for my own satisfaction. Add that toxic brew to a Planet with many of those same issues and it becomes clear that a happy ending is less than certain.

Then the ultimate clue, missed by the clueless me, was dropped.

“It's not you , it's me”, said Judith Janet Planet.

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Purveyor of paralogical compliance to verbally mediated reality, artisanal smut, with a pinch of full time flâneur tossed in to taste.