collecting dusk
I feel that I should probably start writing again. The problem is, I don't think I really have much to say about my life in it's current incarnation. Nothing that isn't boring (see below... as in, "this belows!")
Har har.
I write a lot of correspondences to people, and have frequent deep, insightful conversation via googlevideo. Mostly I talk to Professor Farrell (email), Chris Jones (email + googlevideo), Harry (googlevideo + gchat), Kyle Bernard (email), Jock Palfreeman (letter). Men. Lots of men, I guess. Particularly men in the army/prison. Writing to Jock and writing to Kyle seems very similar.
Most of the things I would want to say in a journal aren't for the world. And they're not really things I feel like writing about anyway. I have them in a little box that is properly labeled and exists primarily in the 4th dimension. I guess it would be nice to have something to look back on in a few years and be able to see what I was doing, because God knows, I will have no idea. I really just don't feel like, no motivation. I haven't had the mo for years.
Whenever I look back at anything I used to write, I cringe anyway. I particularly cringe at how open I was about things. I'm leading a much more private life now, I guess. "Much more" as a qualifier here is almost completely devoid of meaning. I would like to say that it is because of a growing awareness of the permanence of cyberspace, but I think it has more to do with lack of motivation.
Things I got Charles for his birthday:
* Charlatan, Martyr, Hustler poster
* a few threadless shirts we picked out together
* a frog laundry basket
* a bacon wallet
* a glass pastry keep-it-fresh thing, under which I attempted to put a bird's nest, but failed because paypal + I suck together
I think Charles really liked his gifts, but I don't feel particularly good about it... He did like the Bacon wallet a lot... (I just delete several lines from the paragraph about embarrassing "feelingsy" type blather -- exactly what 90% of this journal used to be)
This Friday is our 1.5 year anniversary.
It feels good to be typing text that is not java. Not that I know so much java. Getting there..? Extremely frustrating. Especially because the syntax has to be perfect, and my typing skills are apparently not terribly great. I'm working hard to teach myself lately to type with the appropriate fingers. It's not going so hot. Over the years I've somehow developed a strategy that involves I think a subconscious relational location algorithm. I'm not sure that that makes sense to anyone other than me. Maybe I'm just slow at typing because I don't know what I'm writing.
Everything is so fucking busy. We've got to clean the house this week, in an attempt to get rid of the million million cockroaches (we kill about 2/day). And we've got to get Charles on the bank account so we can have direct deposit. God, I want to kill myself... so boring.
Charles is joing a kickball league, which means even less time together, and more alone time for me. I'm unemployed, so all I have is alone time, and that's how I like it, basically. Homemaker4life?
Everything's boring and saturated with adulthood. The dusk is collecting.
I've started painting, though. I hadn't painted since high school. I painted a stegosaurus, and an alien homonid. They're cute. Very time-consuming. I wish I had more time to paint. I am able to maybe fit in 30 minutes in the morning on a good time.
I don't have time to read the Huffington Post anymore. But who cares? Because the Huffington Post is pretty fucking lame these days. Celebrity gossip and celebrity writers and all that.
Mostly I just watch an episode of Veronica Mars here and there before bed, and fall asleep. If I'm not too exhausted to just fall asleep right away, that is.
I cook a lot though, being a homemaker. And go to yoga once a week. My knee is bad.
Could I possibly be more boring?
All summer I've been holding Mike up as this gold standard of a passionate adult. I just talked to him though, and it turns out he's not. Details would be inappropriate in this public forum, of course. I'M AN ADULT NOW.
It's not like I'm leading this passionless life though. It's just a boring, passionate life.
Har har.
I write a lot of correspondences to people, and have frequent deep, insightful conversation via googlevideo. Mostly I talk to Professor Farrell (email), Chris Jones (email + googlevideo), Harry (googlevideo + gchat), Kyle Bernard (email), Jock Palfreeman (letter). Men. Lots of men, I guess. Particularly men in the army/prison. Writing to Jock and writing to Kyle seems very similar.
Most of the things I would want to say in a journal aren't for the world. And they're not really things I feel like writing about anyway. I have them in a little box that is properly labeled and exists primarily in the 4th dimension. I guess it would be nice to have something to look back on in a few years and be able to see what I was doing, because God knows, I will have no idea. I really just don't feel like, no motivation. I haven't had the mo for years.
Whenever I look back at anything I used to write, I cringe anyway. I particularly cringe at how open I was about things. I'm leading a much more private life now, I guess. "Much more" as a qualifier here is almost completely devoid of meaning. I would like to say that it is because of a growing awareness of the permanence of cyberspace, but I think it has more to do with lack of motivation.
Things I got Charles for his birthday:
* Charlatan, Martyr, Hustler poster
* a few threadless shirts we picked out together
* a frog laundry basket
* a bacon wallet
* a glass pastry keep-it-fresh thing, under which I attempted to put a bird's nest, but failed because paypal + I suck together
I think Charles really liked his gifts, but I don't feel particularly good about it... He did like the Bacon wallet a lot... (I just delete several lines from the paragraph about embarrassing "feelingsy" type blather -- exactly what 90% of this journal used to be)
This Friday is our 1.5 year anniversary.
It feels good to be typing text that is not java. Not that I know so much java. Getting there..? Extremely frustrating. Especially because the syntax has to be perfect, and my typing skills are apparently not terribly great. I'm working hard to teach myself lately to type with the appropriate fingers. It's not going so hot. Over the years I've somehow developed a strategy that involves I think a subconscious relational location algorithm. I'm not sure that that makes sense to anyone other than me. Maybe I'm just slow at typing because I don't know what I'm writing.
Everything is so fucking busy. We've got to clean the house this week, in an attempt to get rid of the million million cockroaches (we kill about 2/day). And we've got to get Charles on the bank account so we can have direct deposit. God, I want to kill myself... so boring.
Charles is joing a kickball league, which means even less time together, and more alone time for me. I'm unemployed, so all I have is alone time, and that's how I like it, basically. Homemaker4life?
Everything's boring and saturated with adulthood. The dusk is collecting.
I've started painting, though. I hadn't painted since high school. I painted a stegosaurus, and an alien homonid. They're cute. Very time-consuming. I wish I had more time to paint. I am able to maybe fit in 30 minutes in the morning on a good time.
I don't have time to read the Huffington Post anymore. But who cares? Because the Huffington Post is pretty fucking lame these days. Celebrity gossip and celebrity writers and all that.
Mostly I just watch an episode of Veronica Mars here and there before bed, and fall asleep. If I'm not too exhausted to just fall asleep right away, that is.
I cook a lot though, being a homemaker. And go to yoga once a week. My knee is bad.
Could I possibly be more boring?
All summer I've been holding Mike up as this gold standard of a passionate adult. I just talked to him though, and it turns out he's not. Details would be inappropriate in this public forum, of course. I'M AN ADULT NOW.
It's not like I'm leading this passionless life though. It's just a boring, passionate life.