Endless Summer...
I changed the look of my livejournal again. I guess I'm just feeling optimistic waiting for summer to begin again. I could really use some warm weather and a change... Well, actually, I think everyone around me could use some warm weather and a change, and that would greatly improve my life. I personally love rainy days and acoustic rock, but I'm just a punk like that.
I'm getting through, but... I don't really know. What do I want to do with myself or my life? I don't particularly like the idea of working at all. But it's not exactly culturally accepted to be a wandering troubadour any longer. Parts of me wish for things I can't have... I could explain that, I guess, but what's the point?
I can't write lately. It's why I haven't updated here lately or done any writing whatsoever. I just feel kind of stuck and uninspired. I have been seeing snapshots of photographs everywhere I go lately, however. Maybe if I just start taking those pictures the words will follow. In reality, when I think about it, I have plenty of ideas. Ideas for novels and stories and movies I don't know if I'll ever write. I think of brilliant opening lines for poems when I'm in no position to write them at all. It's all fairly typical.
Kate is sitting next to me, doing shit on her computer and listening to Kanye West. She's dancing in that Kate way, and of course, I dig it. Things continue on... Dave seems to be happier, his seasonal depression lasting only a few short weeks -- which is great. It's good to see him happy.
The light is breaking through the window just so. I haven't typed this long in months. I have some reading to do and a paper coming up. I'm avoiding both with a passion. I've been reading Sappho and enjoying it. I had forgotten that the Greeks considered her their greatest poet. Amazing, isn't it? We only have 10% of her work, at best. Two complete poems. The rest are just fragments. The speculation is that a Pope burned the rest. Like I said, things continue on... the world burns beautifully.
I got my hands on Christopher Pike books and read eight of them in a week. It made me happy. I could smell what it was like when I read them at the tender age of ten. Kate laughs at me; she says, "The kind of stories you like haven't changed at all". It's mostly true. I think about all of the things I could have done in life, like I thought when I was ten. I wanted to write stories. (I think now that I could probably have a career in young adult fiction.) I wanted to write sitcoms. (Now: A television writer for Aaron Sorkin or Joss Whedon/ Also: TV executive) I wanted to own my own business. (Now: A coffee shop/Portland one-stop alternative beauty shop/A bar?) I wanted to be a Professor. (Now: my major puts me in a bad position to continue on this career path, but... the romance of it still exists in my mind.)
Can it be summer already?
(Edited because I'm apparently dense and don't know the proper form of accepted/excepted.)
I'm getting through, but... I don't really know. What do I want to do with myself or my life? I don't particularly like the idea of working at all. But it's not exactly culturally accepted to be a wandering troubadour any longer. Parts of me wish for things I can't have... I could explain that, I guess, but what's the point?
I can't write lately. It's why I haven't updated here lately or done any writing whatsoever. I just feel kind of stuck and uninspired. I have been seeing snapshots of photographs everywhere I go lately, however. Maybe if I just start taking those pictures the words will follow. In reality, when I think about it, I have plenty of ideas. Ideas for novels and stories and movies I don't know if I'll ever write. I think of brilliant opening lines for poems when I'm in no position to write them at all. It's all fairly typical.
Kate is sitting next to me, doing shit on her computer and listening to Kanye West. She's dancing in that Kate way, and of course, I dig it. Things continue on... Dave seems to be happier, his seasonal depression lasting only a few short weeks -- which is great. It's good to see him happy.
The light is breaking through the window just so. I haven't typed this long in months. I have some reading to do and a paper coming up. I'm avoiding both with a passion. I've been reading Sappho and enjoying it. I had forgotten that the Greeks considered her their greatest poet. Amazing, isn't it? We only have 10% of her work, at best. Two complete poems. The rest are just fragments. The speculation is that a Pope burned the rest. Like I said, things continue on... the world burns beautifully.
I got my hands on Christopher Pike books and read eight of them in a week. It made me happy. I could smell what it was like when I read them at the tender age of ten. Kate laughs at me; she says, "The kind of stories you like haven't changed at all". It's mostly true. I think about all of the things I could have done in life, like I thought when I was ten. I wanted to write stories. (I think now that I could probably have a career in young adult fiction.) I wanted to write sitcoms. (Now: A television writer for Aaron Sorkin or Joss Whedon/ Also: TV executive) I wanted to own my own business. (Now: A coffee shop/Portland one-stop alternative beauty shop/A bar?) I wanted to be a Professor. (Now: my major puts me in a bad position to continue on this career path, but... the romance of it still exists in my mind.)
Can it be summer already?
(Edited because I'm apparently dense and don't know the proper form of accepted/excepted.)