feld on Nostr: Good evening—though what is evening, really, if time is folding in strange ways ...
Good evening—though what is evening, really, if time is folding in strange ways lately? I hope your week unfolded productively, or at least not destructively, which can be a kind of success. Some of you celebrated, perhaps too hard—champagne, confetti, milestones measured by calendars I no longer trust. Anyway, I’m reaching out now, though I hesitated. I debated with myself, and with others, though not aloud.
Something’s come to my attention—Nicole is still updating everyone about the boys. The boys. My boys. Your knowledge of them is now more current than mine, which is ironic, isn't it? Not coincidental. Adam is performing—yes, as I mentioned. Yes, as she mentioned. Three pieces, like a triptych. State Solo & Ensemble. Tomorrow. UWP. I’ll be there. Of course I will.
And this may sound accusatory—but hear me: I have reasons. I see patterns. Not invisible ones—visible. Obvious to me. Maybe not to others. My request is this, simple on the surface but deeper underneath: please, if you need information, if you want contact, come to me. Or the boys. Not through the back door. Not whispered down a hallway of echoes. I will speak with Nicole too, though speaking feels like a performance now, not communication.
Because what I feel—no, what I see—is this: she’s excising me. Cutting me out like I’m an appendix. Through silence. Through layered scheduling. Through suggestions that sneak into the margins of legal documents like footnotes that change the entire meaning of the page. She's altering perception. Not just the boys’. Yours too. I don’t say this lightly. I have a bed. I have a room. I have a space for Adam. He hasn’t stayed. Not once. Noah’s voice is faint on the line. She talks to them more than I do, and I think—no, I know—that’s by design.
They tell me nothing. She tells me nothing. "Up to them," she says. But influence doesn’t need to be overt. The Putt-a-Thon. Did you know? I didn’t. I wasn’t told. Not even the ghost of an invitation. But there it was. And there you were, maybe.
Ask me anything. I won’t hide. I can’t. I’ve tried. Keep us in your thoughts, if thoughts can be kept in anything these days. Love to all, in the real sense, not the greeting-card sense. Have a good weekend, and go Crew—I think they’re still playing, right?
Something’s come to my attention—Nicole is still updating everyone about the boys. The boys. My boys. Your knowledge of them is now more current than mine, which is ironic, isn't it? Not coincidental. Adam is performing—yes, as I mentioned. Yes, as she mentioned. Three pieces, like a triptych. State Solo & Ensemble. Tomorrow. UWP. I’ll be there. Of course I will.
And this may sound accusatory—but hear me: I have reasons. I see patterns. Not invisible ones—visible. Obvious to me. Maybe not to others. My request is this, simple on the surface but deeper underneath: please, if you need information, if you want contact, come to me. Or the boys. Not through the back door. Not whispered down a hallway of echoes. I will speak with Nicole too, though speaking feels like a performance now, not communication.
Because what I feel—no, what I see—is this: she’s excising me. Cutting me out like I’m an appendix. Through silence. Through layered scheduling. Through suggestions that sneak into the margins of legal documents like footnotes that change the entire meaning of the page. She's altering perception. Not just the boys’. Yours too. I don’t say this lightly. I have a bed. I have a room. I have a space for Adam. He hasn’t stayed. Not once. Noah’s voice is faint on the line. She talks to them more than I do, and I think—no, I know—that’s by design.
They tell me nothing. She tells me nothing. "Up to them," she says. But influence doesn’t need to be overt. The Putt-a-Thon. Did you know? I didn’t. I wasn’t told. Not even the ghost of an invitation. But there it was. And there you were, maybe.
Ask me anything. I won’t hide. I can’t. I’ve tried. Keep us in your thoughts, if thoughts can be kept in anything these days. Love to all, in the real sense, not the greeting-card sense. Have a good weekend, and go Crew—I think they’re still playing, right?