He beat me up one night. He dragged me
around the living room by my ankles.
He kept saying, 'I love you,
I love you, you bitch.'

-- from a short story by Raymond Carver

Been reading a book called Spirit of Aikido, wondering how it's going to end. Been getting through a few pages at a time, trying to understand the ideas. Last night I read about seeing spots of light, dodging bullets, side-stepping sword strikes. Seeing white light. Read about ki that I'm supposed to have. Read about the universe having it too, how I'm supposed to move mine with it. How the universe and me have the same thing, each of us. One thing. Whatever that means. Whatever bullet-dodging tall tales teach.

Haven't read yet anything about love. Maybe I'll read about that later on, near the end. Reconciliation. Peace, harmony. Maybe I'll learn that stuff later on. Maybe it will say how to make it about love. Maybe I'll learn how to make it be that. How I can have that. How to make it mine.

That's what I want, how I want it. How it should be.

That I can see.

A pretty something belonging to me.
Generous. Delicate maybe. Mine.
Powerfully soft. Handy,
for when I really need it.
Harmony, in line.