Just an ordinary day, but it sure doesn't feel that way to me
totally tl;dr
This reads like a diary entry, but I don't feel like writing in my diary. I have about two or three notebooks functioning like diaries. It's quite interesting to see the leaps of time in between them. Sometimes a day or weeks or even months. I daresay perhaps even a year or two. Sometimes I fancy that a biographer would have hell of a time trying to date everything I wrote. I never date my notebooks. At least I date my diaries, as haphazard as they are.
I always ends up going off-topic, at least from what I intended in my head. If I never said anything, one could believe that I meant to write all that I did. Often my writing is unexpected. Mostly good because I am caught off guard. Of course I am a little shocked that I never see what's coming.
To this day, I've never written anything that I can proudly call finished. Most of the time, I can't bear to look back on my old writing. It pains me so. Utter crap.
Silence is a very useful tool, these days, I find. Interesting that I also like to dissect language. Funny the classes that stressed and/or stressing me the most make me think about this the most. What the hell do I look for in language? I think I actually look for ambiguity. That sure as hell explains the way I write.
I don't read much at all, but I really get into my required reading, sometimes I think to a degree that can get too far. Why too far? I get so into a book, and it doesn't help that it's so depressing most of the time. Maybe I'll get a break with something "happy" like Austen, but God knows the ending never feels real to me. Most "great" literature is pain and misery. I know I thrive off of this. I channel this into my writing. I feel driven to learn for the sake of writing. I think I'm possessed with an urge to write. Like the rest of humanity, I'm plagued with procrastination. I would not make a career out of it. I feel like that would kill me. I'm a shoddy excuse of a writer now, but I want to improve, by my standards. I won't write something just because it pleases other people. I'll write about something that is meaningful. Hell, I write and have written meaningful things before, but I just can't find the right words and/or thoughts to express myself, hence my interest in language. Like hell my goal is complete comprehension and complete mastery. Dear lord that's boring! Besides, only morons believe that everything can be known. Personally, the journey is far more interesting.
Sitting in a cafe in leisure is a pleasure. Such wording is simple up to a point that is rather irksome to me. To tack a word, an adjective, to it is even more trite.
I order a drink, sit down, and do some simple solitary activity. Sometimes I pick up bits of conversation, like the business man complaining about brain freeze. I do puzzles that I suck at and I take take notes of some ordinary thing that is striking enough to write down. I read a snail's pace and let the meaning of the story shock me.
I would like to make a habit out of reading for the hell of it. I could say what I was reading, but I don't think it really matters now, which completely blows the intended point of the entry. The important thing to remember is the awe from the last few words.
I think I'll end with how my day went.
The first and last item
My Day
I feel sleepy.
I also made a very miserable play list. Most of my music is rather miserable :( It's great for my writing though :)
This reads like a diary entry, but I don't feel like writing in my diary. I have about two or three notebooks functioning like diaries. It's quite interesting to see the leaps of time in between them. Sometimes a day or weeks or even months. I daresay perhaps even a year or two. Sometimes I fancy that a biographer would have hell of a time trying to date everything I wrote. I never date my notebooks. At least I date my diaries, as haphazard as they are.
I always ends up going off-topic, at least from what I intended in my head. If I never said anything, one could believe that I meant to write all that I did. Often my writing is unexpected. Mostly good because I am caught off guard. Of course I am a little shocked that I never see what's coming.
To this day, I've never written anything that I can proudly call finished. Most of the time, I can't bear to look back on my old writing. It pains me so. Utter crap.
Silence is a very useful tool, these days, I find. Interesting that I also like to dissect language. Funny the classes that stressed and/or stressing me the most make me think about this the most. What the hell do I look for in language? I think I actually look for ambiguity. That sure as hell explains the way I write.
I don't read much at all, but I really get into my required reading, sometimes I think to a degree that can get too far. Why too far? I get so into a book, and it doesn't help that it's so depressing most of the time. Maybe I'll get a break with something "happy" like Austen, but God knows the ending never feels real to me. Most "great" literature is pain and misery. I know I thrive off of this. I channel this into my writing. I feel driven to learn for the sake of writing. I think I'm possessed with an urge to write. Like the rest of humanity, I'm plagued with procrastination. I would not make a career out of it. I feel like that would kill me. I'm a shoddy excuse of a writer now, but I want to improve, by my standards. I won't write something just because it pleases other people. I'll write about something that is meaningful. Hell, I write and have written meaningful things before, but I just can't find the right words and/or thoughts to express myself, hence my interest in language. Like hell my goal is complete comprehension and complete mastery. Dear lord that's boring! Besides, only morons believe that everything can be known. Personally, the journey is far more interesting.
Sitting in a cafe in leisure is a pleasure. Such wording is simple up to a point that is rather irksome to me. To tack a word, an adjective, to it is even more trite.
I order a drink, sit down, and do some simple solitary activity. Sometimes I pick up bits of conversation, like the business man complaining about brain freeze. I do puzzles that I suck at and I take take notes of some ordinary thing that is striking enough to write down. I read a snail's pace and let the meaning of the story shock me.
I would like to make a habit out of reading for the hell of it. I could say what I was reading, but I don't think it really matters now, which completely blows the intended point of the entry. The important thing to remember is the awe from the last few words.
I think I'll end with how my day went.
The first and last item
- Did want to lock entry. Decided not to. Not much point to it.
My Day
- Got insomnia. Too much sugar. Damn cousin. Damn candy corn.
- Brought dad to work early morning. Just when sleepy. Of course.
- Waited till 8 to call friend for breakfast. Did not wake till 11:30.
- Expected that much so read book in car in front of bank. Did not expect to finish dang book.
- Did finish book. Misery. Pain. Duh.
- Shop therapy fixes all, supposed to. Bought for fathers.
- Nth call, friend awake. Finally. But auto errand first. Friend's car wonky.
- Auto Asians speak Engrish. Friend prefers Pidgin. Sumo Japanese Auto window is win.
- Finally. Not breakfast, more like lunch. Crappy TexMex yay. Yay, no diarrhea.
- Potty mouth. Un-PC. Going to hell. Then books.
- Books, but more like DVDs. Friend, not me. I buy nothing.
- Drive friend home. Sit in car, talk about God knows what. Probably something that sends me to hell. Either that or something poignant. Friend goes home. Can't meet friend in a few days. I'm busy. Kind of sad, but hell that book screwed me over. Damn.
- What now? Another bookstore. Bought for me, and for dad. Should buy fathers more so bought more. I don't know, I feel and don't feel like a consumer whore. They were on clearance yippee. Then a planner, it's red this time. Already prepared, with a nice bit of dread. Need to see counselors, definitely. Picked up a book, did not meant to feel compelled to read something I just discovered. The thought must've been in my head.
- Called dad. Again need to stall. A cafe. Gift card not used up yet. It's Christmas. It's not though. Maybe I'll find some good tea.
- Dang, decaf. Not for me.
- One lady struck me as a bitch kind of. Whatever. Ordered. Girl messed up drink. Lots of people there. Guy at register. I knew him, but he doesn't remember me. Good customer service. Dad likes coffee.
- Place empty now. Try to read, dad calls.
- Pick him up. Shop for groceries. Pretty store. Adequate beef. Reasonable wine. Then post office.
- Missed turn. Felt distraught. Convinced I convinced myself, unconvincingly. I was upset.
- Went home. Wine tastes like shit. Good wine at home anyway. Promptly clumsy with dish. Ceramic's damn sharp. Fingers incapacitated. Chopped potatoes anyway. Watered basil of course.
- Made an awesome dinner with just the right portions. I think I cook well. Steak came out wonderfully. Ran out of steak sauce, but steak good on own. Cheap wine sucks ass.
- Watched TV and ate dessert with sis. Sis thanks me for dinner. Dad finished his dinner.
- On laptop, did not intend to write long ass entry but did so anyway. Did not mean to stay up late but did so anyway. Sucks because will probably bring dad to work tomorrow. Jesus Christ mixed tenses and a sense that sounds like crap!
I feel sleepy.
I also made a very miserable play list. Most of my music is rather miserable :( It's great for my writing though :)