I apologize. This blog is not very honest.

I have this sort of interior goal, that what I write, even if at times dark, should be at core optimistic, uplifting. That someone who follows this blog could come to read and reasonably expect to leave feeling: Hm. Maybe there's hope.

Oh, I'd like to be like that, and for that to be my truth.

But I was just skimming bits of a novel whose first draft I wrote--in broken choppy chapters--in 2003. I thought I might inspire myself to polish it, to finish it. I thought I might find a clip to throw in here tonight, because I'm too freaking tired to write.

Instead I found fire and life and stuff so honest I felt fear at the thought of quoting it in here.

And now I wonder, what is my truth?

Actually, nativearthling is honest, and so is the novel. It's just, there I've gone again, splitting. How challenging to be the ugly beautiful beasts we are.

What's kept me drawn to Shintaido this year is that every now and again in the course of physical practice, I don't feel guilty, I don't feel so holy. I feel whole.