(no subject)
We're on another day of delay here in the field. Something went wrong last night and so my part will be occurring tomorrow, likely tomorrow night. Until then we rest, and I lay here and hope my sniffling is the result of a lot of dust in the air and not from the cold worming it's way through everyone in my group out here.
Last night I sat up with some of the hands and played Texas Hold 'Em, the chips obstensively valued at hundreds of dollars. One of the guys wanted to play for real money but I was against it. They offered me beer and I declined. (I drink too much with regular work already.) When the night finally ended I came back up and went to work on emails and whatnot from work. It's always the whatnot that weighs you down here.
...
Some journals that I track have ended... if not ended then entered a torpor that is effectively eternal enough to count (unless some outside factor suddenly changes that). It's happened to several but a few have died off recently to spark more notice of the chain of events. My journal has waned, but mostly just hidden itself in the protective layerings of permission access.
For some, it seems, a journal is a record of a phase of life and, phase completed, the journal remains a record on parchment of ancient days left behind, possibly something to read when nostalgia kicks in. "This was me," you think, scanning the lines. "I was like this."
I write just to write, and my hope, originally, was to bleed words of truth over the page. Well... people found my journal, and an inconsistant audience formed. That's destroyed any semblance of truth, because truth withers in the opinionated winds of the world. I've considered sneaking off and just putting truth somewhere that others could not identify. Hell, for all you know I have. *laughs* But continuity is also important to me, and so I jot little spikes of information here, keeping the tally running, adding new facts... as years of postings spill backwards.
Last night I sat up with some of the hands and played Texas Hold 'Em, the chips obstensively valued at hundreds of dollars. One of the guys wanted to play for real money but I was against it. They offered me beer and I declined. (I drink too much with regular work already.) When the night finally ended I came back up and went to work on emails and whatnot from work. It's always the whatnot that weighs you down here.
...
Some journals that I track have ended... if not ended then entered a torpor that is effectively eternal enough to count (unless some outside factor suddenly changes that). It's happened to several but a few have died off recently to spark more notice of the chain of events. My journal has waned, but mostly just hidden itself in the protective layerings of permission access.
For some, it seems, a journal is a record of a phase of life and, phase completed, the journal remains a record on parchment of ancient days left behind, possibly something to read when nostalgia kicks in. "This was me," you think, scanning the lines. "I was like this."
I write just to write, and my hope, originally, was to bleed words of truth over the page. Well... people found my journal, and an inconsistant audience formed. That's destroyed any semblance of truth, because truth withers in the opinionated winds of the world. I've considered sneaking off and just putting truth somewhere that others could not identify. Hell, for all you know I have. *laughs* But continuity is also important to me, and so I jot little spikes of information here, keeping the tally running, adding new facts... as years of postings spill backwards.