It feels so familiar. It shouldn't feel so familiar. And all the old doubts surface, when something happens, something that strikes off the tender zones.
Am I a bad person? Am I wrong? Am I to blame? Do I deserve this?
Over and on, over and on, repeat, flinch, return.
Is it me?
But it's not me. This time, last time, I may have done other things, but the things I was accused of...the things that caused the rift...I did not do. I am not responsible for them.
I have to hold fast to that.
We talked tonight, the statue and I, gone as he's been from the grid of late. Gone for far too long, and all of this exploded in his absence, and I tried, I tried to talk of other things.
Not much came to mind other than, jobs to find, work to do, ways to go forward from betrayal.
The possibility exists that we'll have to release the double parcel next to Miss Gallindo's theatre in Caledon Penzance. We can, we will, keep the store--two of the three of us are agreed, and I think we can get agreement from the third. But to have the home in Caledon, the home I've longed for...it may not work.
That's bad, yes, that's bad. But worse...worse by far is the doubt, the unease. Something I did? Something I said? Something I failed to do? Back and circle and round and circle. Is it me?
And I have to keep saying it's not me. It's not me.
Every time I booked someone, it was because my artist, or one who said he speaks with her voice, told me to book them. Every time I did not book someone, every time she had free spaces in her calendar, it was because I was told by that one not to book them.
We were so close to finalizing the agreements with the French artist. I was talking to other artists. I was not a dilettante in this.
It was not me.
But I'm allowed to say nothing. Nothing in my own defense. It's just over, and that's it. And it all feels so familiar...