(no subject)
|I’m not very good at this|
I miss blogging. I think I used the lack of internet at my apartment as an excuse to stop. I want to start again. I miss seeing the world through the eyes of a writer. This is Monday. I’ll try to write every day this week.
::disclaimer::
you probably shouldn’t bother reading what I write this week. It will be mostly drivel. Just practice.
|happiness|
is up to you.
I tend to think of it situationally. That if x, y and w were to change/arrive/disappear, I’d be blissfully happy. I’m pretty sure that’s not true. I’m pretty sure it’s always up to me.
|Job|
is a strange book. I read it this morning in a little more than 3 hours, (with breaks to make coffee, etc.) It’s different when you read it all at once like that. I wish I could read Hebrew to fully appreciate the poetry of it. It made me wonder about the real story it’s based on. (Calm down, it’s not blasphemy. No one speaks in iambic pentameter when he’s distraught or trying desperately to comfort a distraught friend.) I wonder if Job and his friends were real people who lived through a far messier and less poetic ordeal, or if they are made-up characters created embody ideas (if so, who made them up? Why didn’t he tell his own story? Maybe he did. Maybe this is it.) Philosophy is always more interesting as a conversation. Socrates knew that, I think.
Everyone always complains that God doesn’t answer Job’s questions. And maybe I didn’t read carefully enough, but I don’t think that’s really what Job wanted. I think he gets what he wants. The whole book he’s just asking for an audience.
|I want to write a story|
about a penguin who falls in love with a flying fish. She sees him one day from under the water. She’s looking up at the distorted view of the sky and the sun and the flying birds, and he’s looking down at her through the air. They must always hold their breath to talk to each other. One of them, at least.
|shallow grave|
Some songs make me sad but I listen to them anyway. Sometimes I’m not even sure why they make me so sad. They’re not necessarily about sad things, and they don’t remind me of sad things. Just something about them inspires a deep, quiet sorrow. Sometimes I go looking for it.
|If|
you could have any job-any profession in the world (they would hire you immediately and pay you a comfortable living,) what would you choose?
I miss blogging. I think I used the lack of internet at my apartment as an excuse to stop. I want to start again. I miss seeing the world through the eyes of a writer. This is Monday. I’ll try to write every day this week.
::disclaimer::
you probably shouldn’t bother reading what I write this week. It will be mostly drivel. Just practice.
|happiness|
is up to you.
I tend to think of it situationally. That if x, y and w were to change/arrive/disappear, I’d be blissfully happy. I’m pretty sure that’s not true. I’m pretty sure it’s always up to me.
|Job|
is a strange book. I read it this morning in a little more than 3 hours, (with breaks to make coffee, etc.) It’s different when you read it all at once like that. I wish I could read Hebrew to fully appreciate the poetry of it. It made me wonder about the real story it’s based on. (Calm down, it’s not blasphemy. No one speaks in iambic pentameter when he’s distraught or trying desperately to comfort a distraught friend.) I wonder if Job and his friends were real people who lived through a far messier and less poetic ordeal, or if they are made-up characters created embody ideas (if so, who made them up? Why didn’t he tell his own story? Maybe he did. Maybe this is it.) Philosophy is always more interesting as a conversation. Socrates knew that, I think.
Everyone always complains that God doesn’t answer Job’s questions. And maybe I didn’t read carefully enough, but I don’t think that’s really what Job wanted. I think he gets what he wants. The whole book he’s just asking for an audience.
|I want to write a story|
about a penguin who falls in love with a flying fish. She sees him one day from under the water. She’s looking up at the distorted view of the sky and the sun and the flying birds, and he’s looking down at her through the air. They must always hold their breath to talk to each other. One of them, at least.
|shallow grave|
Some songs make me sad but I listen to them anyway. Sometimes I’m not even sure why they make me so sad. They’re not necessarily about sad things, and they don’t remind me of sad things. Just something about them inspires a deep, quiet sorrow. Sometimes I go looking for it.
|If|
you could have any job-any profession in the world (they would hire you immediately and pay you a comfortable living,) what would you choose?