How can I even begin this one? With a cutesy little lyric? With a swear word directed at myself and my own brashness? With a wish that this evil ball of angst that has been residing in my stomach all day would intensify to the point that it envelopes me, my entire consciousness, my physical being, and most of all, my knack for behaving in an INCREDIBLY STUPID manner on certain occassions. But not stupid, because I was fully conscious of my reasoning and actions while they were being performed. "Impulsive" might be a better word. Dangerously so.

Yes, in case it wasn't already obvious, this rambling is about last night's spat with my mentor. God, I don't even know where to begin when it comes to describing my state at the moment. Maybe it's time for that cutesy little lyric. [No music playing on any physical apparatus. Just the memory in Bitscape's brain.]

That last spoken sentence of the song -- uttered after the hard smack of something hitting the floor, and the instrumentation stops -- echoing aronud in my head like a broken record. "You f[beeeep]d it up."

Isn't it incredible? The awful things that can be uttered when one gets caught up in the moment. When the whole world is rushing by, and all that seems to matter is grabbing a hold of that train that's traveling past you at 100mph. "Jump now, hang on for your life, and see where it takes you. Oh, and any of the people you care about, the people who have taken time to help you, the people without whom you wouldn't be where you are now happen to get kicked, stabbed, or otherwise hurt by your actions, oh well!"

Ehhh, that doesn't even begin to describe this. Not really. A shitty analagy in this case. That's just my mind playing free association for the terminally self-disgusted. No, what I did was worse. This hurt wasn't just the by-product of some other act of foolishness. This will willfull malice. As my mentor (I'm not sure it's right to even use that term anymore, but I do for lack of a better one -- and because of the hope that this might still somehow be mended eventually) so aptly put it in an email I received a few minutes ago: "You were *intentionally* hurtful."

And therein lies my knot. Well, that's one of the ingredients. There are some others.

The other thing that's really itching under my skin about this whole thing -- besides the fact that I may have lost a mentor, put a really cool friendship in grave jeopardy, and even if it does survive, the trust which has been built is now irreparaply damaged -- the other thing that's bugging me to no end is the trust I lose in myself. My confidence in my own judgement unravels, and it's not just because of this last incursion.

Throughout the past week, I could count three incidents off the top of my head which lead me to doubt my own basic functionality. Independently, these items wouldn't be such a big deal, but together in such a close timespan, it could be seen as a pattern. Last week: Speeding ticket. Due to my own short-thinking and impulsive behavior. Monday morning: I discover that in my rush to transport my new chair into the house, I left Tobias's lights on. Careless. And then last night: In a fit of rage, I hurl a psychological dagger at someone who has given nothing but kindness, tolerance, and gentle guidance to me since our first encounter. I weep and marvel at my own capacity for such rashness.

I look at myself, and see that I have already ordered a book meant to teach one the ways of higher powers. A book of magic. Who am I to learn to do magic? I don't mean this as a joke: It IS a scary thought. I have already managed to do plenty of damage on my own, without having spent a day studing such arts. How much worse would the inflictions be if I were skilled at honing my will in such ways?

In the email today (quite a lengthy one), my mentor also acknowledged contributing to this ugly mishap. That part, and the realization of what it implied, may have been the most painful of all. I hate what it means. In essence: My mentor concluded that in order to avoid inadvertantly tweaking my sensitive spots and causing me hurt (resulting in possible eruptions), every communiqué is going to have to be proofread, poured over, and checked again. All to make sure that none of the content contained therein would potentially lead to an awkward mishap, as happened last night. In a word: Censored.

If that's awful, here's the real kicker: Back in the earlier days of my tutoring, my mentor revealed that this precaution had been standard practice, but it had been dropped because it was thought to be no longer necessary. What I had been getting in recent times was the raw, unfiltered version. Now, that is no longer possible, it would seem.

As much as I hate it, I have to admit that given the criticisms I made, what other course of remedy could my mentor possibly take? It's the truth. I hate the truth. I can't handle the truth. (all apologies to Jack Nicholson)

I WANT to fly in the sky like birds, free and uninhibited. Not chained by the fear that some gesture or mis-spoken word will lead to disaster. I want life to be raw, visceral, honest, moment-to-moment. But every time I try to take off, something hits a snag, and we can spend another eon healing from that one. Now, not only have I deprived myself of that wish, but apparently I have deprived my mentor of such freedom in my presence.

What can I really say? "Please mentor. I'm sorry. Don't put up a barrier like that. I promise, I'll not strike again. Let your guard down. PLEASE, I just know that if forgiven this time, I'll be doubly, triply certain never to be such an ass again." So many words.

And then there's my old .sig from long, long, long ago:

What a mess.

Today, having filled myself up with coffee (not gonna do that again anytime soon), I wasn't even hungry when it came time for lunch. Instead of joining coworkers to eat, I went on an errand. To the bookstore. Before last night's awful... event, my mentor, having seen my interest in the ways of Pagan practices, had recommended a book to me: "The Truth of Witchcraft Today" by Scott Cunningham.

Well, they didn't have that one, but apparently that author is quite prolific. Another title looked interesting: "Wicca: The Guide for the Solitary Practitioner." I was thinking I might read out of it tonight, but now, after what happened, and having the full realization soak in upon reading my mentor's final response (final for a while, at least), I'm not sure I even want to venture into such territory. Maybe I do. I'm certainly curious.

I just can't get over this awful feeling that I, having been trusted, was allowed to venture onto some very sacred, rare ground. Precious. To be cherished. Appreciated. So what did I do? I squatted down, lowered my pants, and took a shit.

Having realized my sin, the thought of seeking out more sacred territory, perhaps in other forms, doesn't exactly seem like the most fitting way to make penance. Yet where else should one go to beg forgiveness? Aw damn, what the hell am I talking about? That's going back to the old Christian style of thinking. (No offense to Christians -- this is my own mental quagmire, and not meant to tarnish the faith of others.)

Read my book, or don't read my book. Blah. I think I'll go eat supper. The rest of the family is almost certainly already done. I know I'm missing the good tv, and I'm not too concerned about it right now.

One good thing I can draw from all this: Value those who are close to you, and treat them accordingly. You never know when you might lose what's been taken for granted. (Although spitting on them could make the chances of going bye-bye one HELL of a lot higher.) Like the people up the stairs right now. I've still got them. Let's not f---k that up as well.

Take every opportunity to appreciate and cherish what you have. If you don't, you may lose it.