A couple of days ago my boss and I are sitting at the conference table eating lunch. We are chatting about, you know, whatever, when another staffer joins us in conversation. But what she is saying isn't making any sense. Then she starts mumbling, staring down into her hands. It's English, it's sentences, it just isn't connected with anything. My boss and I exchange a startled look, the word balloon over our heads says "WTF?!?!"

This morning I have a bad dream, and in the dream it is the same situation, but I am the one who is not making any sense. I think I am making a valid point, contributing to the talk, but the wide-eyed horror of my boss and colleague tells me I have gone off the rails. I am not speaking gibberish, I am just completely disconnected from logic, totally out of touch. I wake up sobbing.

On the downtown 6 train I am watching the guy next to me flipping through the Village Voice. I am watching his hands rapidly turn the pages, skimming through. He is the the bar/nightlife section when I see a flash of the familiar, and I want to yell, wait! go back! I am surprised, but I know what it is. It is a photo I took, being used as an ad for the Subject Bar.

At first I think oh! When he places that ad, which he must renew every week, he still thinks of me. I still exist, I still have value, what I made is still appreciated. And then I think ugly things, selfish things, dark things. I get angry about him being the last man who did not tell the truth about loving me, about his ability to do so, about it mattering. I want to withhold from him the things I make, the things I made, that are beautiful. I don't want any man who has lied about their love for me to ever see those things, to have that access. I want to dig it all out of their heads, their hands, and burn it all, destroy it all, slash it to pieces. Oh, there is my fury, whip edged, razor fingered, splattered, ferocious, and I know that later there will be more sadness and shame at my loss of grace. Starting, now.