the playing of it safe

I was writing in my little moleskin.
"What are you doing? What is this?" she said motioning to the pad, exaggerating the way drunks do.
"It's my notes. I take them everywhere. Record my thoughts."
"Get rid of this," she says motioning with certainty.
This behavior has worked for her before.
"No. You should get one of these. Y'all should," I motioned back quietly.
"Nooooo," she answers coyly in upspeak.
Well, Fuck it, I thought and continued on. I knew if it takes a measure of complaint it would be a worthless effort.
It's in my nature to find limits and I felt bad at that moment for my friends, my lover and myself as a loser. One who does't see. I let the irony of this thought rest.
Then I thought of Constance, her crime and her poker face and how I just nearly belted her one.
THE PLAYING OF IT SAFE, I wrote down to be the title of the next entry. Because, when I thought of her and the academic madness that scoops up the valuable pieces and germinations of authentically derived and expertly crafted expression as a cud to be chewed and gnawed like so many undercooked pumpkin seeds I have a measure of pity and fear. Fear for having it wrong and pity for seeing what essentially is the root of wasted efforts, power politics. And if 'authentic' is a trip then hammer it out. Beat the romance out of the thing and let it simply mean 'derived' as in out of life or out of body experience and not crafted from the necessity of smartness, laid out in the particular measured code of proverbial boredom.
Join the cast of characters bitch, we need each other for the dreams that unfold. I'll explore it, whether in the known or unknown. Friendship is weathering the cycles. Go round, go silent, go blind, but go. Go go go.