Saturday, February 5, 2022

an ended call is called the ending

The week has been a crazy series of exchanges between me and ATT Internet employees who don’t know how to solve the problems they’re employed to address, re: why I didin’t have connectivity most of the time anymore—which is an irony of human being: needing connectivity in order to fruitfully complain about its absence.

Loss of connectivity in the session of complaining about the lack of it not only looks like abandonment of the problem, but requires starting all over again when connectivity returns, trying to explain to some new “agent” (addicted to his/her customer relations protocols) what I’d recently spent an hour trying to make clear to the previous agent (addicted to the same snail-paced protocols).

Maybe an analogy is that interpersonal relations need mutual bonds in order to address their waning fairly. A friendship ends, and the new one takes so much time to get to the point of avoiding what caused the previous ending.

A lover grows to resent being a muse for the writer’s characterizations, as if that is the writer’s actual conception of their love. Yet, she wanted to love The Artist. The writer mixes true love with inspiration it affords, which undermines
the other’s trust in love, inasmuch as she doesn’t anymore enjoy enough
the difference that she loved—and reads the writer’s inspired explaining (dramatically characterized) as lack of true love for her.

Or the lover resents that the story is not actually about her: She never wanted
to not be actually dramatized. She wanted to be the story. “And if you really loved me, you’d not use me for fiction. You’d honor our love by making the story truly about us.”

I didn’t know. You didn’t say.

How many an affair to remember.