Wrote the below in 2005. 2020 notes to follow.
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A: What the hell was the other night about?
M: It was the first time I tried tough love on you from here.
A: I'm not hearing you right now. This doesn't seem right.
M: Might you feel that way because I told you it wasn't going to be easy?
A: I really have no frickin' idea. Why must it always be left up to me?
M: What do you feel like is being left up to you?
A: Deciphering if I'm really hearing you or I'm a fucking lunatic.
M: What does your heart tell you?
A: It says you're indeed talking to me.
M: Leave it at that, then, and keep writing.
A: I suck at writing Mom
M: No, you don't. You suck at focusing long enough to finish things, just like I did. You also have too many interests + friends you want to spend time with + work to do. All of that overwhelms the crap out of you.
A: Yes, yes, you're right. How do I fix this?
M: Turn the world off.
A: That's easy for you to say, being dead and all.
M: There you go, making excuses.
A: What's it like where you are?
M: Not much different from where you are, except I can't see myself.
A: Like in the mirror?
M: Kinda. I have no physical body, so there's nothing to see.
A: Are you happy there?
A: Mom, are you there?
A: Mom?
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June 2020 notes: Over the past 26 years, I've had countless conversations with Mom. Sometimes more than other times. During this time of significant change, and while building YERWAY DESIGN, I've been talking to her daily.
Mom became an annoying proponent of tough love during her last years on Earth, and that used to seriously piss me off. It confused me, too. For 17 years, she let me do anything I wanted, without any tough love bull shit.
I now understand her strategy. Tough love, throughout my life, has been one ass-kicking teacher. Hurt like hell in the midst of it, but the light was always brighter after grudging through the mud.
The cover photo was taken during the Winter of 2015, when I briefly lived in Vail, Colorado. When Mom was still here, we often sat in front of the fireplace and talked about everything under the sun.
In Vail, I took a printed photograph of her and propped it up against the fireplace. When I took this photo, I didn't realize I captured the picture of her in the reflection if the pint glass.