Or I could get on with something useful instead
I've been in an unfortunate sort of place (maaan...) of late, as evidenced by the ratio of swearing to post-size.
Anyway.
While looking for one thing, that I knew was somewhere in the electronic pile of text and stuff I'm pleased to call an archive, I found a couple of others. This lead, as these quests are wont to do, onto a half-day delve through old emails and LJ posts. This was not the sort of thing that could be done by a chap in the grip of post-migraine stuffed brain chemistry and expect to have it end well.
Thinking about it, if I have any sort of order in my filings of, well, anything, it's essentially after the school of JL Borges.
So I was confronted by a past where I'd regularly been a bit of a pillock. I've been carrying that around and tending to it relatively carefully, and I begin to wonder why. See, before they invented LJ and when HD storage was expensive enough that no-one actually kept anything much, I didn't bother with this diary malarkey.
I lived in this blokey and oddly zen state of permanent now, with only a dim and alcohol-mediated version of the previous weekend. The past was something other people brought up because they were festering for an argument, while for me it was some kind of unravelling staircarpet and as long as I kept moving forward, the unravelling wouldn't catch me up and pitch me into space.
Or something like that.
While I suspect it's useful to keep reminders of the past about so one has some idea of what one was thinking, it also feels like I'm carelessly anchoring myself with the weight of this stuff.
Anyway.
While looking for one thing, that I knew was somewhere in the electronic pile of text and stuff I'm pleased to call an archive, I found a couple of others. This lead, as these quests are wont to do, onto a half-day delve through old emails and LJ posts. This was not the sort of thing that could be done by a chap in the grip of post-migraine stuffed brain chemistry and expect to have it end well.
Thinking about it, if I have any sort of order in my filings of, well, anything, it's essentially after the school of JL Borges.
So I was confronted by a past where I'd regularly been a bit of a pillock. I've been carrying that around and tending to it relatively carefully, and I begin to wonder why. See, before they invented LJ and when HD storage was expensive enough that no-one actually kept anything much, I didn't bother with this diary malarkey.
I lived in this blokey and oddly zen state of permanent now, with only a dim and alcohol-mediated version of the previous weekend. The past was something other people brought up because they were festering for an argument, while for me it was some kind of unravelling staircarpet and as long as I kept moving forward, the unravelling wouldn't catch me up and pitch me into space.
Or something like that.
While I suspect it's useful to keep reminders of the past about so one has some idea of what one was thinking, it also feels like I'm carelessly anchoring myself with the weight of this stuff.