post-thanksgiving post.
Thanksgiving was uneventful but lovely. My mother is the queen of boxed foods, and turkeyday did not disappoint. I left very early into the holidaying to nap at home, and woke up to mathematics (geometry!) and a pudgy dog demanding a walk. Did not write my personal statement, which needs doing. Desperately. (Tonight’s the night! #ineffectivemantras) I avoided going to my Uncle Mark’s cabin in the woods for a hippie-dippie end to the festivities, and I wonder if I ought to have, now. Apparently my dad and my brother killed it at darts, and dad came home (late) and assured me that I was missed by the generation of young bucks that had come. He’s gone tonight, too, but I … I really like it, actually, when I’m on my own. Don’t get me wrong. I do get a lot of doggish when-will-the-people-come-home feelings, but I also recharge during these nights alone.
My mood at work is disproportionately affected by how many coworkers greet me on my way inside.
/NEEDY
Funfact: my friend Amanda told me during a lovely catch-up phonecall that she was involved in a gay-rights event called Thanksgayving and everyone she'd talked to about it so far had asked her if it was the past tense of Thanksgiving. Glory be. Now, as the rest of this entry is mostly just for yours truly, a courteous lj-cut is called for. Behold!
(Apologies, brave f-listers. This is me trying to remember the feelings from November 2011 than trying to make a lick of sense, and the prose reflects it.)
Also, my right eye has started to twitch. “Right now?” No, I mean lately, all too often at work, which made me initially speculate that it was an (oddly cartoonish) response to stress. A cause for concern, of course, of course: and so begins the vicious psychosomatic circle: an eye that twitches because I’m stressed about my eye twitching. And then I thought that I was being mighty lazy about this, that maybe I ought to give my body more credit, a more beautiful anthropomorphism than an assumption largely grounded in Southpark’s Tweek. “Hmph. So what did you decide on? Eyelash mites in revolt? A right eye in secession?” Nothing, yet. But I was thinking about how standardly I ignore every body part until it aches, and that maybe this is the beginning of a sound-off, organ-by-organ, until I notice them all. I really ought to do more with myself. Go to the gym. Running. Heavy lifting. As is? My main form of exercise is jigging around my room. I used to walk everywhere, in Ireland, and Philadelphia, and even at school, but not anymore. There’s nowhere to go.
… that thought is going south fast, so let’s switch it up. Driving agrees with me! There are two reasons to suspect this might be so:
I wrote to a penpal, Scott, about the B-factor, once, in a longwinded rant that included Charlie Sheen and the Black Eyed Peas. He has yet to write back, which ain’t boding well for him ever writing back, but what can you do? I wrote to another friend (an old friend) on LinkedIn requesting a return to contact, and likewise got no returns. Even Becca, my flakey best friend, said she missed me and would call and, true to character, did not.
And I’m okay with this.
Sometimes I'm told, very kindly, that I ought to write something. The truth is I do: I've roleplayed for years : and yes, I don't count that as real writing, either. Having practiced it for hours on end, however, I can safely say that it's taught me how to make a lovely nothings. So it's true in a separate sense that I really haven't written anything at all. If I am good at writing, it's only in making one atomic piece ring prettily (sometimes), but then there's the trouble of linking it up to some beautiful conceptual skeleton, which is the real force behind a good literary work, and I can't do that, yet. Rather, not even linking it all, but beginning there. I think that's one reason why I write (shitty) poetry, because I feel less guilty about falling all over the expression of some very simple thought. I wish I could write like this:
Or this.
It's amazing how mere positioning can spring an object into subjecthood. Touching, too. Having a tumblr makes me realize certain persistent patterns in what I like, that I'd never noticed before. One of them is just that same sense of subjecthood in the strangest places -- lamps, and overturned chairs, and hubcaps. And odd faces. I go gaga for portraits, apparently. Related: there is a L.A. boy whose tumblog I follow for beautiful photography, but I wade through so many pictures of women's asses to get to the occasional glorious item. Related: I swear that 'We Found Love' video made me realize that Rihanna's glorious ass is glorious. It also looks like everything I fully expected my roaring twenties to be, but have found wanting, being more of a creature to stay in and learn basic math, evidently, than a wild child in ripped stockings. I should work on this (maybe). Lazy edit: By 'it' in the sentence preceding, I meant of course the video, and not the ass contained therein. Lulz.
And that's enough crazy for one post.
My mood at work is disproportionately affected by how many coworkers greet me on my way inside.
/NEEDY
Funfact: my friend Amanda told me during a lovely catch-up phonecall that she was involved in a gay-rights event called Thanksgayving and everyone she'd talked to about it so far had asked her if it was the past tense of Thanksgiving. Glory be. Now, as the rest of this entry is mostly just for yours truly, a courteous lj-cut is called for. Behold!
(Apologies, brave f-listers. This is me trying to remember the feelings from November 2011 than trying to make a lick of sense, and the prose reflects it.)
Also, my right eye has started to twitch. “Right now?” No, I mean lately, all too often at work, which made me initially speculate that it was an (oddly cartoonish) response to stress. A cause for concern, of course, of course: and so begins the vicious psychosomatic circle: an eye that twitches because I’m stressed about my eye twitching. And then I thought that I was being mighty lazy about this, that maybe I ought to give my body more credit, a more beautiful anthropomorphism than an assumption largely grounded in Southpark’s Tweek. “Hmph. So what did you decide on? Eyelash mites in revolt? A right eye in secession?” Nothing, yet. But I was thinking about how standardly I ignore every body part until it aches, and that maybe this is the beginning of a sound-off, organ-by-organ, until I notice them all. I really ought to do more with myself. Go to the gym. Running. Heavy lifting. As is? My main form of exercise is jigging around my room. I used to walk everywhere, in Ireland, and Philadelphia, and even at school, but not anymore. There’s nowhere to go.
… that thought is going south fast, so let’s switch it up. Driving agrees with me! There are two reasons to suspect this might be so:
- I hate arriving anywhere, and I love the suspension of time in a car. You know? Just you and the music, mile by mile, nothing to do but turn right or left or brake lightly or stop under a light. I’m aware this is a vice.
- I love coming home after work and closing the garage door and turning up the tunes. I’m sure there’s a creep-factor, because I’m in the dark, blasting R. Kelly’s ‘Ignition Remix,’ but whatever.
I wrote to a penpal, Scott, about the B-factor, once, in a longwinded rant that included Charlie Sheen and the Black Eyed Peas. He has yet to write back, which ain’t boding well for him ever writing back, but what can you do? I wrote to another friend (an old friend) on LinkedIn requesting a return to contact, and likewise got no returns. Even Becca, my flakey best friend, said she missed me and would call and, true to character, did not.
And I’m okay with this.
Sometimes I'm told, very kindly, that I ought to write something. The truth is I do: I've roleplayed for years : and yes, I don't count that as real writing, either. Having practiced it for hours on end, however, I can safely say that it's taught me how to make a lovely nothings. So it's true in a separate sense that I really haven't written anything at all. If I am good at writing, it's only in making one atomic piece ring prettily (sometimes), but then there's the trouble of linking it up to some beautiful conceptual skeleton, which is the real force behind a good literary work, and I can't do that, yet. Rather, not even linking it all, but beginning there. I think that's one reason why I write (shitty) poetry, because I feel less guilty about falling all over the expression of some very simple thought. I wish I could write like this:
Or this.
It's amazing how mere positioning can spring an object into subjecthood. Touching, too. Having a tumblr makes me realize certain persistent patterns in what I like, that I'd never noticed before. One of them is just that same sense of subjecthood in the strangest places -- lamps, and overturned chairs, and hubcaps. And odd faces. I go gaga for portraits, apparently. Related: there is a L.A. boy whose tumblog I follow for beautiful photography, but I wade through so many pictures of women's asses to get to the occasional glorious item. Related: I swear that 'We Found Love' video made me realize that Rihanna's glorious ass is glorious. It also looks like everything I fully expected my roaring twenties to be, but have found wanting, being more of a creature to stay in and learn basic math, evidently, than a wild child in ripped stockings. I should work on this (maybe). Lazy edit: By 'it' in the sentence preceding, I meant of course the video, and not the ass contained therein. Lulz.
And that's enough crazy for one post.