Facebook Fiasco

Hello, my name is David, I’m an alcoholic. My sobriety date is Oct. 24^th, 1987. I’m grateful to be alive and sober. I recently celebrated 25 years of sobriety and am deeply moved to be a part of AA, to have my life and (some) sanity back in my life. Even though I’ve been clean and sober, freed from the obsession for alcohol and drugs for 25 years, I still occasionally suffer from the insanity of alcoholism. When I was drinking and when I have no active spiritual solution to my alcoholism, I am crazy. Sober and working the steps I’ve gained much experience: I’ve learned where I was at fault in creating disastrous relationships with family and friends, with bosses and strangers. Learning where I was at fault the Steps then guided me to act to be a better man than I am. I’ve been granted a small space where I can act my way into a life that is, well, pretty awesome. I have the love and respect of family and friends, have a career, my health, hobbies and passions, in short a rich full life.

However at times I’m bonkers from the amazing ability to go over the edge. Selfishness, fearfulness can still grip me and drive my defects to unseat my mind. On the day of my 25^th anniversary, I suffered from alcoholism. At 12:01 am on the 24^th I wrote a beautiful heartfelt, gratitude laden well constructed post on FaceBook, it was gorgeous prose. I thanked God, AA, family friends etc, etc. I was proud of my effort to craft a celebratory notice of my 25 years of sobriety. At 12:09 I hit enter, posted it and went to bed. When I got up at 8:00 I made tea, and opened my FaceBook page, expecting numerous “likes” and warm comments. I was disappointed. There was nothing. I went through my morning routine and went to work. At work I am able to check FaceBook.

By 10:00, nothing.

At noon, one person, a sponsee had ‘Liked” my post.

My disappointment began to squirm in my head, waking up my indignation. “Don’t they realize I’m 25 years sober?! That it’s MY day?!” The indignation swelled into righteous anger, quickly. Anger grew to include paranoia. I became convinced by midday that there was a movement to ignore my anniversary. In my mind I was able to recall a list of people, those f@*kers who had slighted or hurt my feelings recently. The trial attorney voice in my head beagn to present his case against individuals and meetings and groups in AA who I now knew was responsible for ignoring me on my anniversary. I was sick to my stomach with anger and righteousness and grasping paranoia. I’m not exaggerating. I lost all peace of mind because only one person “liked’ my FaceBook post.

I was texting the sponsee who “liked’ my post as we having a conversation about daily tenth step inventory. I admitted I was crazy with anger and suspicion. He said that always sees my posts. I said that he was the only one who ‘likes’ or comments on my posts. As I was at work in a retail setting, I was struggling to act better than I felt. In a near thing I almost was rude to a difficult customer; actually calling her a name under my breath as I made her order. As I prayed after that, my sponsees text came back to me: he said he saw everything I posted.

I went on FaceBook. Sure enough, tracing back through my timeline, he was the only one in the last three or four months who had ‘liked’ or commented on my posts. He was the only person who liked me? Huh. Some small still voice said, “That’s odd.” I looked at the anniversary post I’d made earlier that day. Yup, the sponsee saw, because it was posted on his wall.

Only on his wall.

For the last three or four months all of my posts have only been going exclusively to his wall.

I had somehow altered my settings so that I was only posting to his wall.

My alcoholism traced this arc: pride in my accomplishments (25 years, writing well) inflated my expectations of social standing and emotional relations; expectations swelled by pride driven by disappointment, unbalanced my thinking; righteous anger replaced pridefulness and I was off to the edge of sanity. The volume in my head, the speed of my thoughts, the crushing grip of anger and fear made me an unloving creature. I was unable to perceive any part I’d played. I was unable to see where I might have been at fault. I fabricated a conspiracy and took out my anger (under my breath thankfully) on a stranger.

Underneath the anger, pride and suspicion was the basic fear that I wasn’t going to get the social recognition and emotional support I felt I needed. That is my alcoholism at 25 years of sobriety. Thankfully no one was hurt; no on one outside of my head was affected by my craziness. Thankfully episodes like this are less common and less intense as I stay close to the spiritual was of life I get to practice in AA.

A brief inventory, a check-in with that same sponsee (as we were already practicing, texting our midday inventories) and I wrote a simpler thank you post, changed my settings and  my anniversary was celebrated by others.

I had to be shown how to recover; I am grateful for those who’ve gone before me. I am truly grateful for the Steps and fellowship of AA.

G'morning
Now for something entirely different. Here is the first section of the first chapter of a novel of mine. I am posting this with an invite for your comments....I will only post more if there is (any) interest.


 I, THE PAUPER KING

                  

     I am the Pauper King. I own nothing. I rule all the land that I walk. I have no riches, no army, no jewels, no fear. I am without heir, without peers, no child is mine, no lord bows before me. I am alone with my counsel, save when asked to rule. I walk, breathing as freemen do, chained by but duty.

    I am the Pauper king. My countrymen allow me to judge their conflicts, to carry the office of decision. I own no things, I beg for my meals, once I ask I am willingly served; simple duty is all the honor needed. I walk out of my shoes, I ask for another pair; simple duty is all the honor needed. I sleep where the sun sets me down for the night; simple duty is all the honor I need.

      I awake; walk and today I tell my story:

I, the Pauper King.

     I awake hard on my bed; I fall awake, pressed down, face in the mattress. I have been walking now for 20 years. Our last Pauper King walked for 64 years. I was chosen as he readied for his deathbed. His time was near; he knew. He settled into the town I was born because that was where he was at in his journey.

     I ask for tea and it is brought. I will drink, then walk and talk.

     I did not ever know my parents, like all our other earlier rulers, I am an orphan. My countrymen raised me by giving what they had that was extra. I rule to repay that debt in part. I was raised in a stern but ample love. All of us were treated with high expectations, one of us may rule. I was seventeen the winter our last King died.

     We orphans studied well: history, self-governance through the spiritual arts, economics, music and theatre, philosophy, science and physical training. The gift of rule may yoke us one day, we were told. Are we ready to be saddled with a country? Are you?

     Word came one early morning of my seventeenth winter: the King was walking through town, and he looked weak. He took most of the morning to cross half the town, an easy hour’s walk for a fit man. The lessons of the day were withheld; we were to gather at a moments notice if our King called for us to stand for him.

     As I worked in the small dormant herb garden to fill my time, the morning grew out of its chill. The call, the bells ringing slow overhead, came just after the lunch hour was over. I rushed to wash up, felt myself grow calm as I walked in line to the long town hall. I had helped polish all the wood on the interior of this meeting place last summer; I thought it might be a good trade, working with wood. I had approached the carpenters of my town, several said I could join their households and apprentice when I turned eighteen next spring.

     Many, many of the town had turned out by now; we crowded around the town hall. We orphans were allowed into the hall; those of us between fifteen and not yet eighteen numbered about thirty. It appeared that there were more girls than boys; we might welcome a Pauper Queen.  We sat in hard chairs on the floor before the few town elders around their table. Our King sat in a chair to one side; he looked faded, ready to slip out of the yoke of ruler-ship and pass it on.

     His shoes were well worn. His jeans had a small patch at one hem and a few strings on the change-pocket showed were he kept something at hand. His eyes were sharply seeking, measuring. A hand made sweater faded and well worn highlighted his eyes. Chance, circumstance had brought him here to choose one of us. He had a light jacket over the back of the chair, its shoulders sun and rain faded from black to charcoal. I could just make out a small backpack under the chair; a book’s outline was visible in the pocket.

     I thought of my friends here; two would make good Paupers. One quiet blond, whose birth-name was Kirk was my companion, studied all the time and was known to wander the small forest near here. He was humble and calm. We had grown together; love was simple for him. The other, the girl I would ask to be my wife once I was in a career, named Moira, was all a ruler should be: bright, educated, sturdy, humble, insightful, willing to serve.

     Either would be the best among us. The warm sun, rare this time of winter heated the polish on the floor under the windows. The town elders read to the dying King of our accomplishments as the eligible class. The smell of citrus oil floor polish was a physical remainder of our work for the town. The King accepted the list of our names, his hands steady but so pale and thin.

     His words: “Thank you, my friends. I will seek the counsel of this eligible class, this day and night. How may I serve you first, my fellow citizens?” 

     There was a murmur of surprise from the Council of Elders; one cleared her throat and said, “We have no disputes at this time, Our King. We have no pressing need of your counsel today. Take rest and ask so we may provide for your needs.”

     Our King rose from his chair put on his jacket said, “May I have use of a small set of rooms, one for the candidates to wait, one for me to review them? May I have a few meals?” He placed the lists in his backpack and stood waiting.

     The Councilwoman spoke again, “You may use this hall and the rooms behind it. We will gladly serve you your meals, Our King.”

     The King sat as they all left the hall.

FOUNDLING ART

One of the many things I love about my hometown, Portland, is that it is filled with art. From the major statues and installations downtown, to the often amazing graffiti, to galleries and showrooms, both high and low brow, to our amazing museums and art schools; we are rich is art. But what I love most is what I've taken to call, orphan or foundling art. Art without a home; it is everywhere in Portland. It is there one day, perhaps for a few weeks, but then it is gone.
I first noticed foundling art shortly after moving here 16 years ago. Some whimsy put toy horses on the sidewalk iron horse rings. (Leftovers from the pre-industrial days these iron rings are part of curbs and occasionally walls and posts. The were put there to tether your mounts.) Whimsy put tiny toy horses on curbside attached to iron rings sometimes half the size of the toy. Another more recent foundling art was yarn art: knitted or crocheted covers or wraps for things like fire hydrants, bike racks, street signs, and once I saw a line of curbside trees with multicolored scarves. Sadly I have only memories of these; no pictures of my own.
But in the last few months I've had my eye out and have whipped out my phone's camera to record other orphans. The first I snapped on the corner of SW Milwaukee and Powell. As I waited for the crosswalk I saw this on the streetlight pole.
 
It seems to be metal, fused to the pole just above six feet off the ground. It is as small as my thumb nail. I laughed out loud when I saw it.
The second piece:


Ink on plywood, an old crate top actually was laying in a fallow front yard on NE Fremont between 9th and 10th Avenues. I loved this one so much I adopted it. It is sitting on my front porch. I plan on framing it.

Next:



Painted, stenciled blocks of wood each about 4'x6'. I found them on NE 8th Ave. There are regularly scraps of wood and such on the sidewalk here but these were the first finished pieces I've seen there. I like the 'free stuff' sign and the randomness; someone had just dropped them it seems.

And finally for this post just from this evening:



1.5' origami prayer swan, sitting in the window of the #70 bus just under a 'scar' in the window tint. I had been on the bus for almost ten minutes, lost in sadness (long story) when my stop approached. I pulled the cord looking out the left for the first time, yep that's my jean clad knee there. I snorted like a surprised horse, my sadness blown out.
I'll keep my eyes open.

So, I've taken an unintentional break from this blog. It has been a crazy busy summer and I took time away from here to redefine my intent in blogging. I've decided to use this as a tool to simply practice my craft of writing. I'll try to post more regularly and offer more diverse postings. I'm also part of a writing collective (http://www.youngandfictitious.com/) so you can watch for me there too. There will definitely be some crossover between these two forums. I am very excited to be writing with others. The other blog will have some time, topic and space constraints so this blog will be an outlet for me.
I am suffering from the pangs of decompression since returning from Burning Man on Labor Day. The Burn was amazing again this year, my 5th consecutive. Travelling with friends, camping with amazing people, viewing world class art, the hard-hitting experience of the desolation of the desert all combine to inspire like never before. Fitting back into society, normal, mundane reality is always awkward. I feel boxed in. yet at the same time sense larger horizons, socially and artistically. I've got some projects simmering for the upcoming weeks and months. I'll keep you posted. Here's a run down:
1) the writing collective
    a) an article is in the works about Burning Man, likely to be published by the end of this month
    b) a pictorial on found art
    c) serialization of one of my novellas
    d) a commentary piece on a DJ friend's performance at a dub step venue
2) For Burning Man, my camp mates started an awesome project last year. which I hope to assist in revamping for next year. The theme camp I camp with is called Black Rock Spatial Delivery, "We Take Stuff Places." As on on-playa delivery service we had a great time with this years inaugural "Virgin Letters Project." We asked veteran Burners to write love letters to themselves on their first year camping at Burning Man. We then took those letters and randomly delivered them to virgins this year.  The resulting interactions enriched the Burn for me as never before. I'm super eager to carry on the Project.
3) I'll be formatting a kickstarter campaign for my rebooted educational path. Hopefully I'll be able to put together enough support to pay for a certification program as a yoga teacher and nutrition consultant. Watch here for more details. 
4)And lastly this blog will not be an update, musing, commentary on my life blog. I want to focus on writing content, this post will be an exception rather than the rule; future entries will be more about the craft of writing and the results of the craft.
G'day!

2012.06.18.22:36

I sincerely hope I’m wrong. I sincerely hope that in some way I am uniquely broken and the conclusions I’ve drawn are faulty. I do not believe my conclusions will be universal; I believe they will only resonate with a few of you but for those few perhaps what I see and believe to be true (however hard to swallow) will free us just a bit.

I am about to disclose some things that may be shocking, but the facts are facts. I beg your attention and patience. I am going to cover a lot territory, a lot of history. I am going to challenge some assumptions. Please, stay with me.

I was sexually abused as a child. Most people in my day-to-day life know this. I apologize if this is news to anyone. The only one at fault was the man who did it. I hid the situation from my family and friends out of the usual fear of disclosure, the manipulation by this man was classic; I was placed in a position to believe that if I told, I would be the one who suffered the consequences. Living with that fear and the knowledge of the abuse through my teens and early twenties drove me to three suicide attempts before my twenty-second birthday. No one in my immediate life knew about the attempts. This added to my shame and internal chaos. Compressing many facts and the story line, I got sober shortly after my twenty-second birthday. I am an alcoholic; the debate over causes of my disease is moot. I am bisexual; the debate over the causes of my sexuality is moot here too.

Soon after achieving sobriety I entered therapy and began to unravel the deadly shame and internal chaos. I was ashamed that I was a victim of abuse. I was ashamed that I was a male victim of a male abuser. I was ashamed that I was attracted to men and women. The deepest shame of all for me was that I participated in my abuse.

As a child I knew how to play games, how to create games. I had an intuitive grasp of rule making. Children do this naturally. The man who abused me taught me the rules of the game: exchange what I wanted for what he wanted. Barter. Negotiate. Offer and accept. A ride in a convertible or ice cream or a late night movie for attention, affection; barter, negotiate, offer and accept things like these for sex.

The deepest shame of all for me was that I innocently participated in a form of prostitution. I was a child, guiltless, twisted by some one else’s sickness into a game with rules. In therapy I recalled my own actions as a participant. I was shattered by this. I do not wish to argue this point with anyone. I know my own history. I in no way absolve the man who did this; I do not blame my self for being a victim. I merely state the fact of my own participation. No one in my therapy circle, no one in my life admitted to participation in an abusive relationship as a child. Thankfully my therapist had experience with childhood and adult prostitutes and was a rock, an anchor, a loving mirror for me.

Even though the abuse ended when I was a preteen, I continued the patterns of shame and self loathing. I continued the double life of a gay/bi teen in high school. I found individuals who understood the rules of the game. In ‘friendships’ separate from the bulk of my life I bartered drugs, booze, nights on the town, for attention and affection; I perpetuated my own abuse in this way. On the last night of my drinking days, I openly offered myself sexually to a straight friend in exchange for drugs. He laughed at me. I was not only attempting to prostitute myself again. I failed at it. No one knew me.

No one knew me, even into my early twenties, my early sobriety, and my early therapy. I was shattered to know and admit these things. I knew despair. I knew I was forever broken by this history. I knew that the stain in my mind, the stain in the fabric of my life was permanent.

Someone told me “You just need to forgive yourself. You need to love yourself. You’ll need to forgive the man who did this. You’ll need to find love, compassion for the man who did this. You need to forgive yourself.” They meant this; I saw the sincerity in their eyes. I wanted to forgive, I wanted the freedom I heard other people feeling about their past. I tried.

I really tried. I tried to forgive myself. I tried to forgive the man for what he did; I tried all kinds of mental and emotional gymnastics. I tried all kinds of suggestions and techniques. I tried for the better part of a year and I lost my mind. I lost my mind to despair again. I’d found some hope from my therapist; he asked me to trust his experience. I shakily trusted that I would get better. I did not get better. My therapist saved my life; but he could only take me so far.

Some one told me that I needed God to forgive me; that I should pray that God forgive me. They told me to also pray for the man who did this. They told me that God’s forgiveness if I prayed for it would flow through me and be given to the man who did this. Out of desperation I prayed.

I really prayed; I clenched fistfuls of fingernail marks into my palms with desire to be forgiven. I sweated and cried and rocked myself to sleep wanting to be forgiven. I prayed and prayed. I was not set free. I knew again that forever broken I would suffer this shame and separateness. Despair came to me again.

I met a man who told me that despair is the arrogant certainty of a foreseeable awful outcome. This man told me that I was unable to forgive; that it wasn’t my business to forgive. That is was a misuse of my will to attempt to forgive. I would like to say that I heard what he said. I didn’t. I couldn’t just yet. It took many moths of working with this man for this idea to become real to me.

I need to parse this out: despair is the arrogant certainty of a foreseeable awful outcome. Just as blind faith is the arrogant certainty of an unforeseeable awesome outcome, despair starts with an arrogant assumption: that I can predict and control the future. When my view is at its bleakest I’ve believed that it is always going to be like that and worse. When I despair I predict that the bad feelings, that the shame, the internal chaos will continue and worsen over time.

I cannot wish away, cannot think away or cannot pray away a belief in a bad future. I am unable to change the future. I will think these things again; I will feel these things again. The stain is permanent. The facts of my past are facts. Thus my future will be awful. This is arrogance.

When I tried to forgive on my own will; I failed. When I prayed for God’s will to forgive; I fell empty when I reached up with prayers to the heavens for help. I failed because I had the wrong problem in mind.

It is not my business to forgive anyone or anything. It is not my business to implore God’s forgiveness for anyone or anything. My business is to recognize my shortcomings (arrogance in the case of despair) and strive for humility, perspective on the facts of my life. There are many pathways to humility, perspective. Mine came through many avenues, in fact too many to list here. When I stated the fact of the indelible stain in the fabric of my life I wove another new strand into my life. When I admitted these terrible facts each time I added to the distance from my stains. One thread doesn’t make a cloth; thousands do.

When I relived the horrors, the shame of the horrors, the anger at the shame of the horrors; when I relived theses things I added to the stain. For an alcoholic this is the grave addiction to resentment. As an alcoholic I am powerfully predisposed to resentment. I am unable to change my ability to resent on my own efforts. I have changed resentments often, but never has my ability to resent been taken from me; for what ever reason it is a part of the spiritual disease I have. Resentfulness as a character trait is the same as the inability to forgive. For an alcoholic like me, resentment is second nature. Reviving a pain over and over is the opposite of forgiveness. This seems self-evident to me.

Being unable to forgive I had no ability to change my repeating thoughts that led to despair. I needed to undo the resentment and this began when I put my efforts into the correct place. When I focus on my ability to resent, when I focus on undoing my arrogance stances and postures, when I apply myself to the causes and conditions; my perspective changed. When I focus on what I am doing (arrogantly predicting awfulness) and not on my desired outcomes (forgiveness), my perspective on the horrors of my past shifted. When I focused on the arrogance that caused my despair instead of the outcome of forgiveness I began to find freedom.

Perspective changed as I walked daily from these terrible days of despair. When I gave up on forgiveness and strived to add to the fabric of my life, I found the proper use of my will. When I stopped imploring God’s Will for my outcomes, I found a resource for adding to the fabric of my life.

I am stained. I cannot change that, but I haven’t added a stained thread anew in some time. I am never free of the stain but I am far from being it and it being all of me. I am stained. I have not changed that but I am far from it.

One of my best crafted poems
After A Last Look Around 

After a last look around, 
at my life, the lives of my life 
do I pat the lock, pocket the key 
and stand waiting for my breath 
to catch up with my carpet-slippered shuffle? 


After a last look around 
at my life, the lives of my life 
do I throw open the doors and shutters 
chuck out to the lawn, the whole damn lot 
to stomp away swearing never to take it back? 


After a last look around 
at my life, the lives of my life 
do I set it all afire 
spinning, dancing, forgetting me, them, then, now 
to curl up in the ashes, a fetus into the earth? 


After a last look around 
at my life, the lives of my life 
do I tidy up a bit, set the key 
under the flowerpot, look back from the gate 
and look forward to bringing home more 

“A blog about nothing”

2012.06.02.20:31

I was on the bus going to work. I looked out the window and noticed white spots on the thin edge of the plate glass on the bus shelter. Chalky white spots, all about the size of a pea, each was no wider than the 3/8” glass. They stood out on the greenish-gray tint of the glass. The bus sat; I was warm and cozy lulled by the rumbling bass of the engine at idle as it aligned itself with the satellite tracked schedule. My brain turned over the meaning, the origin of the spots. As we pulled away I remembered seeing a similar color of chalky white residue on my black leather boots as they sat and dried on the heater vent after walking thru a spring rainstorm. Salt. The residue on my boots, the chalky white spots on the glass are likely sea salt. Carried aloft over the Coastal Range, dumped on Portland. Evaporated into a powder.

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I wake up a couple of times every night. Sometimes in unframed terror, sometimes in simple annoyance at waking, sometimes manically changing my whole life in my minds eye in a minute. Needless of where my head goes or why I think I wake up, I wake up several times every night. I also have green eyes. I can change neither. Colored contacts sure, heavy drugs sure, but neither changes the fact, just the perceptions of the fact. I’ve learned when I wake to not ask “Why?” When I put my mind to poor use asking “Why?” or detailing the grievances in my world or trying to rewrite my past I suffer and go nuts. The volume in my head creeps up. The committee of voices grows more strident. A therapist once recommended putting my mind to good use. Here’s the trick: think about something and break it down into its sub-parts. For example one of my standbys is to plan extravagant feasts. First I pick a number of guests 50? Okay. Then a structure for a menu: appetizers, soup, salad, entrée, cheese course, desert. Then a menu: Bacon wrapped dates and asparagus, tomato bisque, field greens with wild mushrooms and pickled beets, wild boar in cherry balsamic reduction, farmer’s cheese with black currants, walnuts and truffle shavings, cherry almond torte. Then the recipes, which I’ll leave out here, then the shopping lists. Finally I imagine my way thru the meal, storage and gathering food, prepping items, sometimes days in advance, cooking in an order to present the freshest possible outcomes. Finally serving and enjoying the meal. I have done this innumerable time. Another favorite is methodically deconstructing an object back to its natural resources, like a car. First I make piles of the various components: metals, glasses, rubber, vinyl, plastics, etc. I get granular with this step. Then imagine each component’s manufactory process, smelting, forging, extruding, weaving etc. I like that part; the big industrial trails that materiel follow holds much fascination for me. I readily see trailer trucks, dump trucks, rail cars of ore, silica sand, petroleum rolling backwards from manufactory to processing plant, backward still to mine, oil field, forest. I usually imagine a hawk’s eye view, returning to the auto maker then backward to the resource again and again until all the components are home again. I almost always fall back to sleep, whether I put my mind to good use or not. I fall back to sleep. In the rare (monthly?) event I do not fall back to sleep; I do get up. I have probably seen 4 am more than anybody I know.

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2012.06.03.13:14

I’m different, I get that. Here’s the short, incomplete inventory: I’m bisexual, polyamorous, recovering alcoholic, vow-carrying lay Buddhist, apolitical, history of mental and emotional illness. It embitters me to know that (especially) the initial two on this list are the place-marks for others’ insecurities. It wearies me to work hard at being true to myself, kind to others and still face the sly accusations. Once on a camping trip with other men I was told that the guys felt they couldn’t be themselves because I was there. Once a friend’s wife after seeing me jokingly put my head on her husbands shoulder accused me of seduction. Once a woman I was dating broke up with me before I left her for a man. Once another friend’s wife asked what business I had making friends with straight men. Once a friend’s girlfriend accused me of being the other man for her boyfriend, without ever meeting me she surmised my motives were suspect, you know because I’m different. There’s the rub: my motives are suspect because I’m different. I can’t win. I can’t battle their insecurities; in fact brining them up in the moment of the accusations against me blows up. Besides their insecurities are none of my business, not my problem. The culture, the medium (like agar in a Petrie dish) that is the growing place for their insecurities is the long held belief that sexual minorities are inherently immoral or worse, amoral. Our culture slyly undercuts being a different sexual identity by claiming the identity is immoral (wrong) or that the inflicted person is incapable of being right (amoral.) In my life there has been a long string of seemingly disparate events grown in this medium of suspicion. It’s the reoccurrence that emitters, that wearies. I have no tools it seems against this culture of suspicion. I do my best to make the world a better place. I avoid the easy comfort of the life in the Gay Ghetto mentality. I live as best as possible to my vows and ideals in the real messy day-to-day reality. Maybe by quiet example I create a bit of space free of suspicion. Maybe.