One thing that's weird is when I am under the impression that I'm actually friends with someone, and they disappear without saying anything. I think being worth knowing also means being worth both notifying and engaging in conflict with. One thing I love about the new ways that I am dealing with people is that things tend to fizzle out or disappear quickly up front, if there is not a suitable ground for a real, lasting relationship. I have cultivated strong enough boundaries and values that people who don't want me as I am, simply split. I also have absolutely zero time to chase people who split, or, worse, who try to communicate through silence. The most toxic shit a person can do, or at least, way up there, is the fucking silent treatment. Not about it anymore. I used to fall for it every time and now I'm over it. I may be overcorrecting, actually. But my radar is on high alert. Toxicity is not on the menu. Make it direct, make it clear, take responsibility, and honor the interactions we've had, or I have neither time nor space. I'm feeling extra fierce about it these days because I am also painfully aware of the ways I ripped myself off and ignored red flags in the past. The above, a large old Cochemiea halei near the highest point on Isla Magdalena, growing completely exposed to the elements, in poisonous rock that used to be on the ocean floor, laden with heavy metals. I love this species unendingly, and feel a deep affinity with it. Along these lines, I have been considering telling THE love story. More specifically, having revisited an old blog, and remembering that every message between the person and me is saved (more than 50,000 messages), I've been considering some way to weave all of this pre-existing text into a narrative. I'm thinking about reading and writing, in particular, and how a love story evolves in mediated text. Well, at least, how THIS love story evolved in mediated text. On the one hand, I feel like there's a deep tension between getting free by telling the story, or re-traumatizing by telling the story. I also feel ethical qualms, since I would be using someone else's texts. This goes to the question: who owns communication? If I send someone a message, do they own it? Or do I still own it? I keep thinking of what Anne Lamott wrote: “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” It's not that the person either did or didn't "behave better", it's more, in this case, that I am considering using the actual words of the person. A "novel" told largely in messages. I guess one way around it would be to keep my own messages verbatim, and omit or paraphrase the person's. The other aspect, of course, is that anonymity would be key. I don't know yet if I want to embark on this project or not. Maybe I'll get started on it and see how it hangs together. I'm revising an article for publication, and pouring a ton of energy into the teaching job. I have plenty going on. Pachycereus pringlei growing north of Todos Santos, with a tiny Tillandsia sp. hitchhiker.