Livin in Dixie
so if all goes well this is entry number one. today is something like day 11 of living in dixie, in a place i own in norf carolina. (or calorina, as kazuko once said, in the continuation of her kawaiing of the english langugage). although i don't like to think of it as my usual state, and people around me generally can't tell, i'm feeling pretty anxious. anxious like my faucet drips and i think "oh shit one more thing to do! how much will that cost? will i ever find a roommate? ach, i don't even have a job yet. are there more things broken about this place i don't know? will this come to haunt me? will i be a failure in grad school this time around? am i all alone?" which sounds really stupid when you go and type it out but is pretty much the way the mind works, flitting from one thing to the next in some mad attempt to fuel a flame of whatever emotion seems to come along that day.
you know that feeling of dread that comes along when you look at something you have to do and really really want to put off doing? it's like that for me with unpacking. i have all these books in boxes i need to stick somewhere, and in the move i not only lost hardwood floors and people like jet who i would call to ask very basic questions like where one goes to buy household items, but also some swell bookshelves and closet space. there is one part of me that is dying to getting back to the lean mean state i have reached now and then in a siddhartha-aspiring state of perfect self control in which i boldy trash things no brian has trashed before and moderate my possessions based on the contours of my free space, but that part of me is hiding behind another part of me that is just too lazy or overwhelmed by the whole thing. maybe self-conception is what controls it all. if i see myself as someone who needs to be pampered i'll let myself lie in bed and read some book i'm not really interested in reading (amazingly, i'm at a period right now where i'm not thrust headlong into a book, another oddity), my music is too inaccessible to get to and even my music is mostly far away, tucked under piles of things encased in cardboard and stacked in the room i should be finding a roommate for. bah!
ok so is this bitching, venting, amusing, constructive? this is entry number one motherfucker. that's right.
you know that feeling of dread that comes along when you look at something you have to do and really really want to put off doing? it's like that for me with unpacking. i have all these books in boxes i need to stick somewhere, and in the move i not only lost hardwood floors and people like jet who i would call to ask very basic questions like where one goes to buy household items, but also some swell bookshelves and closet space. there is one part of me that is dying to getting back to the lean mean state i have reached now and then in a siddhartha-aspiring state of perfect self control in which i boldy trash things no brian has trashed before and moderate my possessions based on the contours of my free space, but that part of me is hiding behind another part of me that is just too lazy or overwhelmed by the whole thing. maybe self-conception is what controls it all. if i see myself as someone who needs to be pampered i'll let myself lie in bed and read some book i'm not really interested in reading (amazingly, i'm at a period right now where i'm not thrust headlong into a book, another oddity), my music is too inaccessible to get to and even my music is mostly far away, tucked under piles of things encased in cardboard and stacked in the room i should be finding a roommate for. bah!
ok so is this bitching, venting, amusing, constructive? this is entry number one motherfucker. that's right.