Go to today's entry first. Or start at the beginning. This is page 8 of my diary, and follows on the previous pages in some web-like sense. The other pages were full. So soon I need an index for my diary.
I went there yesterday with Olga. We shopped our faces off, although I must admit she is way braver and more daring than me! Me, I'm the wavering sort who never actually gets around to making the purchase. Sort of counter-balance to the shop-o-holic inside me waiting to get out - when I make all those millions!
Speaking of money... I warned Peter the other day [thank god there was no response from the brood to my response to the broodlette's intrusion] [let "nice" people breed unto themselves, I always say] that I might just turn out to be a gloater if / when my finanical situation becomes really good and really stable. As the business really is picking up speed and momentum both, this is a strong possibility at this point. Having lived for so many years by not spending a lot, saving a lot, and earning only a little, primarily through grad student funding, I find that the rebound may be quite interesting. I think the save most philosophy will remain, but my attitude toward having to be that way may change. As he is still living in the former way, I don't know how that will effect him.
There are effects already though, to two things. My bravery in writing publically bothers Peter. And I suspect my bringing home the bacon may bother him too. I think the only solution to that is for him to stop judging himself by comparison to others and to approach life from his own concerns ... without the constant comparisons. His evaluation of his life usually starts with how are the others of my peer group (age-wise) doing at this point. In my opinion though, this starting point always puts you in a tie at best -- and also always in a race.
I don't want to live my life as a race. Even reading my competitors' literature hurts my feelings. It makes me feel the race in my heart - as a sense of fear. If I stay away from their literature, I get a strong sense of doing well, and can put myself to the pressures much easier. I'm not a hardy soul for some things. I love the feeling of progress and advancement so long as I never feel as if I'm just trying to catch up to others. I refuse to try or even want to try to keep up with the Jones's. When friends who are also competitors, hold such conversations, I simply stay quiet, and let them run the course alone. I know this does not make them doubt my abilities since they seem to want to run against me again the next time. Perhaps not running the race in the first place puts me in a good and mysterious position.
I skip conferences which all my competitors attend for the same reason. I don't want my heart to race at 120 beats/minute for any reason not connected to physical exercise.
I think these sorts of races limit one's view of what is possible to attain. The possible is most certainly greater than that which most of my so-called peers achieve. And I think its even greater than that too. Where most of the peer group (say with respect to age alone, and not including factors such as education or background connections) races internally, I think the visionaries race against the greats -- the big success stories. However, I suspect that each member of the peer group makes this move at least .. looking to the greats in their area(s) to emulate reverently. Internet consultants like to gaze at a combination of Bill Gates of MicroSoft and Arthur Anderson Consulting, hoping to become one of their competitors. giggle The visionaries must haave something more again then! More than luck, for sure.
Why race at all? Why crack a whip over your shoulders and into your flesh? Why standardize your life by measuring it against others in the first place? To be original or to be happy, take your pick, I suspect that inner peace is the route. The meanderings of the business world, or in academia, are side issues, games to play for fun and challenge, places to meet friends and establish greater endeavours of cooperation (through contract and negotiation of course :).
I will not race for glory. I choose to emulate neither the tortoise nor the hare, and to instead embrace being alive. I want to feel my whole life at one time. The beginning middle end of me-ness will include lots of trials and games, jobs and experiences, learning and failure. The experience to me is to travel through these stages and processes with grace and understanding of the whole. Of course, this is to be done without pretending that I really know what the future holds -- I don't think I confuse a metaphysical guiding hand with a dogmatic picture of the way things are. But who knows.
There is a way of possessing the difficult by inverting the language used about it and embracing the inversion. Many organizations use this approach. Objectivists for instance embrace selfishness as a virtue. Standard morality suggests that to be selfish is morally undesireable. So the Objectivists have inverted the term's value while keeping its meaning otherwise so as to position themselves against the standard morality. They succeed nicely in doing this. And as a consequence they have created only a mirror image of the standard morality. [Just another example of limiting your views by focusing on another set of views in some way.]
Similarly, many people I know, including myself 10 years ago, have inverted concepts on their own -- in a less organized fashion. Just as some groups such as the feminists and the gay/lesbian community empower themselves by embracing terms that would have been derogatory towards them in the past, so individuals utilize these tools. We saw also Michael Jackson make very public the switch from good is cool to bad is cool. In our Judea-Christian tight-assed little society, where being nice is mandatory in public, many have indeed inverted the concept of being nice. Some to fool us into allowing them to do real harm, others out ofrebellion to the tightly ensnaring loops of social manipulation -- let's all be June and Ward Cleaver!
To many being nice has come to mean a form of fascistically imposed, personal repression. (Nice strong words there!) To these same people, calling someone nice is equivalent to saying that they are closeminded and that they dogmatically hold some version of the standard morality. People who are nice in this way do not notice the inverted meaning of the concept very often, and so this form inversion often serves to self-select the nice from the reactors to niceness. It also serves to camoflage the later fromthe formers' notice. Very nice indeed!
Inversion, or whateve the proper semantic technical term really is, serves as a simple and transparent form of parody. I learned in university to write the perfect essay by parodying the profs' styles back at them. I did it with the utmost of contempt - knowing that the prof would in all likelihood simply react better to the familiar and comfortableness of their own style. As far as I can tell, they actively wanted students to do this -- to learn the proper way of doing academic stuff. Meanwhile, I was really incredibly sarcastic -- my reaction to the employment of fascisistic mechanisms.
So Peter didn't write me off. Hmmm. Also he assisted Athena in sending the letter to me .. even though he had already said he would attempt to manage her ie. to keep her away from me. He said that withholding hte technological skills was not his way of managing. Understood, but typing in the email address with full knowledge that I didn't want her to contact me again was not an effective way of managing either. I don't think either of them took my claims all that seriously, but both of them got very hurt. An interesting reaction to take. I find it curious that my claiming to simply be uninterested if not hurt by this is not taken to heart by anyone. If she needs a strong male - father replacement - and he needs a strong female - mother replacement - so be it, but I do not. And since each of them primarily consists in actions leading to these parental roles, I should simply stay away from them. Without the prior history I have with Peter, I would be just as repelled as I am from Athena. With the prior history, I love and respect him. They shouldn't confuse the two. Having no longer any room for a parent in my life, the brood should understand that I can oly tolerate so much exposure to their colony-mind, even when only one member is present.
Peter suggests that their friendship isn't so. That is fine. From my own veiwpoint, that is how I see it. What is good for these people who bonded as a friend with their respective partents of the opposite gender is not good for me who did not. [I sound like Bradshaw -- yikes.]
Furry friends aside, I am glad to have moved away. As I slowly forget that I ever loved Dagney and the Kitten and the rest, it should be easier to stay away from visiting them. Since Peter cannot ever offer me a free space to visit them, I think I must. Even divorced parents get visitation rights. I don't know why I can't have them. I suspect that Peter doesn't really understand that without visiting cats, they will forget me and me them. Asshole.
Maybe I should take them all away from there. I don't think they are well loved anyway, just well-cared for. There is a difference. Peter is a prophet type person -- he loves only principles - or so he lives and claims. I wonder why, if that is so, he visits me as often as he does. He sometimes says that he loves me, but I wonder what that can mean. Oh I believe that he does have some very intense baseline feelings about me and even for me. Principles are more important though, by far. By very far.
I often thought a long time ago (and still do) that he had something important to do in his life time. He certainly hasn't done it yet. For many years I worried that I would have to do it in his name - after he got run over by a truck or something. Now instead I am doing things in my own name. And still he doesn't - hasn't yet - done the thing I thought he would do - an astract thing of some sort to be sure. Now, I will never find the interest or desire to complete his mission for him if he should fail to. He didn't pay the price for that level of consideration - he didn't even recognize it. I think that it is harder to live for oneself, and that now I am doing the harder thing in choicing to do so. So be it. I wonder a lot what he will choose to do himself. Will he in fact do that which his life has been built to do?
I love him either way. Only in one of the two scenarios will I be able to feel happy about him though. Looking at the bums in the street, I see people most of whom didn't live out their dreams, and so live in a dreamworld instead. Curious move. The harder choice is tougher indeed and without the right people around to love you, I think it becomes almost impossible.
What sort of double talk is it for Peter to claim that he lives alone now? He lives as alone as he ever did when I lived there. I lived upstairs on the main floor, and he in the basement, with a third person in the other bedroom on the main floor. Three roommates? I live alone completely now. The oly person in the apartment. At night when something goes bump there is the phone to snuggle up to only. And maybe a new cat friend - no old ones to like my nose. Not that bumps inthe night would bother him, but when he wants the company of a friend or a smile, there is that friend not ten feet away in another room. That to me is the difference.
The stress of moving is almost complete, and I do really kinda like where I live now. The missing of my cats is almost gone. I know this because Neko no longer reminds me of them directly. I have to think actively about them to even remember that they were once my friends. [And now finally I cry at the loss. A vague sense of furry emptiness.] I even considered moving again in less of a rush.. of optimizing the options a little better.. but not for now.
Can Peter really feel that he lives alone now? Can he really believe that after living together for ten years there is no difference now, and that therefore he has always lived alone? WHat the fuck kind of evaluating can he be making such that these obvious ways of taliking and describing the standard situations in life do not ever fit his life? I realize that we did do that a lot. But I don't so much any more -- in other words, I really enjoy the more effective communication that occurs. Living with someone means that they are close by whenever you want them to be so. It means that noone else in the world can tell if you slipped into each other's beds or had morning coffee together. Or if you yell at each other every day. There is a certain level of privacy attained in the neighbours knowing your car is always parked in front of your shared house, and not only a few times a week.
That is living with someone. Privacy of intimacy. I have none living here on my own. If someone should stay over with me here, many others could know of it - my nieghbours, my landpeople, the bums on the street, the dollar store family below. no privacy of intimacy that comes with living withsomeone.
I must run.
Hmm. How do I feel? Only I should ever really know that, no? How then..
There is a voice screaming inmy head loudly with a piercing edge that pinches the little nerves in my shoulders tightly together. The voice of my childhood, the one that resists the coercive pressures of civilization and society for me, the one that keep sme from crossing lines I will not cross ever. Why now can I hear it so clearly? Too many people leaning on me. Pressure building in me to escape, to run, to kill. Why? I need to not be treated to feasts of anger -- my own mostly, mostly a reaction to what I see as impossible situations. WHere the people I love are unstable critters who hurt me as often as not, and who cannot be relied onnot to hurt.
So more towards solitude I will travel swiftly. The voice in my head that hurts.
I saw a small car on the highway today as I took the subway home. It looked familiar - it was the sister clone of a car I had for many years, a car I bought from my mother years ago when I got job that required travelling. I had that car for many years. Peter andI had that car. And as it died a slow rusting death, I realized that the last tie to parental existence rusted with it. Peter's mother found my mother selling the car to me to be offensive. A couple years ago, when the rust completed its journey across the engine parts, she gave her shiny car to me. To show me that not all parents were like mine I think. I don't ever know how to thank her. But I do know htat I grew up wthmy parents and not her. I think being her friend is really nice, but I have doubts about the healthiness of children who do so befriend their own parents in replacement of that parent's spouse. There is always a heavy behind the scene cost to a free meal too.
That car reminded me further back of the old chev my mom drove whenwe were kids. It was a metallic teale greenblue, really pretty. The two looked like they had the same shape exactly in this flashback, and then an incredibly sharp pain the voice pain erupted in my head. It felt like I was fragmenting into little bits skattered in the pasts and in the present only a little. Many bits of pasts all skittering in me without cohesive storyness. I could recognize them all at one time and feel the context of each too at the same time. I tried, it turned out successfully, to pull myself bodily into the present again. Without the complex of academic mental stimulation, my mind searches for more complexes anywhere - in the past. The screaming links these events tightly.
Last week too a whole bunch of unrelated events cohered together into an is if it happened to event - that never did happen to me actually. But the pieces connected. A nightmare from childhood, a recurring one. A figth between me and Peter in January, one that caused Athena's predecessor to move out because of what he saw. An argument with a new neighbour, who pounded on my door to yell at me for having spoken to the landlady rather to him first (he hadn't found my notes or heard my knocking on his door before that so it was a truly mutual miscommunication) - his tempted leaked out of his ears, and I manipulated him by showing exactly how afraid this 26 year old red neck made me feel. These three events all gelled as one to crete inme the feeling of having having been a victim of physical abuse. But I haven't. FOr two days I wondered around feelign that way after he yelled at me. And then a friend made a crude commment onthe street about a women who was scared of his reaction, and it came to me that his comment fit my feelings as well as her behaviour. He had said loudly to me that the woman should take her victim mentality to the abused women's shelter where it belonged, and off of the street. Putting aside his rather obvious and disappointing chauvanism, the coment brought home to me a pattern of thinking and feeling new to me. I have never thought of myself as a victim ever.
I walk the streets without fear. I leave my doors unlocked, and the windows open. I do this here and I did it while living in Pittsburgh. I just don't like the feeling of cowering.
And I still don't. I phoned Peter once I realized what was going on. He helped me thalk through the whole thing, and it has since dissolved back into the appropriate components. It is nice to be able to understand the whole, but to stay there permanently.
'ello self. There are times when the internals don't match the external sof a person. This is one of those times for me. As my standards and values switch majorly from inside the bubble I lived in before to something bigger (I hope), my mind fragments often in confusion. Little pieces here and there flash around reflecting glints of each other back at that thing that feels like me in spite of the rest.
I visited the Big City Improv (another urless place) last night for their Pulp Friction show. Very fun. And this afternoon, I'm off to ... can't say at the moment. Heh.
It's time reality was faced. I will have to get over Peter in the normal way people get over each other -- by calling this a break-up, and divying things up accordingly. I can't take the hypocrisy in me in being supportive of a person who I can't even live with. Being nie, kind, wise, not angry, not hurtful. Mostly. And mostly I get that back so long as the only thing I ever want from him is psychological help once in awhile. Guess what .. I don't want his psychological help. I want to be able to know that when someone says something - that they remember it, that they care about it, that they in fact take note of what they said in the first place.
I asked very politely if and when I could pick up a few things I need from the house I can no longer call home. Things like my electric piano, a vacuum cleaner (we agreed to share). I asked when over the next few days that there would be an empty of brood house - through email. I received no response. In person I asked politely, and was told that mynote had been read earlier. In person I was asked if Monday morning would be alright, and I indicated that I had to work during the day, but around 5 or 6 that night would be fine. We agreed that the brood would go elsewhere between those two hours, and that I would bring Richard to assist incarrying the things out of the house. And I said I would enjoy petting the cats for a few moments - not for long.
And at 5:30, Peter was standing at the fridge looking like a sleepy troglodyte with a stupid look on his face as I walked in (none of the doors were closed). I immediately turned around, and walked back out, asking Richard to leave too. He hadn't seen the reason for the gloom.
I cried so hard as Richard drove the car away. It is two hours later, and I am still crying so hard. I found email here saying oops, and offering me a whole bunch more times - tomorrow, during the day - when I have interviews to conduct - and at night - late at night, after he knows I go to sleep - hours after. His times. Oops.
I wrote back that he is an asshole. He is. The stuff is not much of an issue. But that he could care so little to prevent the psychic harm of allowing us to bump that way. Last week I tried to be more casual about going there, and I ended up causing the last Athena fiasco.
I am not allowed to see my cats. I will have to find a way to acquire and store all of the things Ihave so far left in the basement there in storage. I shall have to face the fact that I am now completely alone in the world - without my love. I guess I deserve it. I haven't loved many people, and I haven't done more than build friendships in the last few years - more than I had before that, but not enough.
Some people double-book their relationships - they overlap the current witht he next one so that they don't have to be alone. I would have done that if I had known.
Writing here makes me feel better as nothing else can. Richard tried to talk me done fromthe pain an danger and betrayal I felt. But he confused calmness with a lessening of agony. And I got really angry at him for treating me like a repressable wasp. I wish that I hadn't had to push him away so far. But I'm absolutely not going to repress myself instead of letting these thoughts out. No way. And he makes fun of others for being repressed.
Every person at some point learns what is the right sort of thing to be done to them to allow them to be soothed. I haven't yet met anyone who feels soothing to me. God I wish there was. Being understood without effort
There is a knock at the door... Since the person will obviously have a key it will be interesting to find out if they are willing to enter without my permission.
Yup. It is Peter and he just walked in ...
... and left again a couple of hours later.
This makes so little sense. The difficulities -- miscommunication? Can I not trust my own senses, and instead update my (lack of) memory to say, nay believe, that miscommunication is the culprit? I feel in my heart the room to do so. The desire to. And I know writing here that the thoughts I have will not remain private, and yet I need to be honest - and honesty is in me associated with this so awkward a forum. (awkward because there is either no room for white lying, or no room for honesty - I opt for honesty, and think that white lying never really pays (I hope))
Of course details are to be left untouched since there are secret keepers that are not me from whom I value the truth nevertheless. I cannot enforce the openness, this openness on others if they do not choose to live that way themselves. Only in matters directly consequential on my life primarily can I speak. [Again not true. Some matters will directly impact my life, and yet I cannot speak. But I do think, and the honesty is not lost on me. Remember this, I tell myself.] [And I realize that truth seekers more properly touch my heart then those who cannot deal so ... my friends' hearts are never made of hamburger :]
Away from the vagueness, I have asked a frined to visit me .. now that I am alone and silent here. I would otherwise try to sleep. Only in writing can I face my thoughts. I know why now. Without the structure of these little <P>'s and <br>'s, could I write?
Infuriatingly slow. Mundane perhaps?
Peter and I gently disengage the problems that could have been, and we start to learn each other anew instead. This is a good time. Changes I had the courage - really only a desire to remain sane - to make have inflicted on all of us a new tolerance and a new respect for the others. (I of course only speak of my point of view .. but it does strike me so.)
Life seems to be a continuous stream of me being surprised that I'm alive. I have for quite a long time now felt that my life is extra and borrowed. To survive the hell I configured for myself as a child - a purifying hell though - I had concluded when I was around the age of eleven that it was an absolutely certain fact that I would die on May 26 when I was 19.
I didn't pick this date at random. It was clearly to be a few years after I was out on my own - finding out what the world really did have to offer, if anything. (Good thing I thought ahead.) This was an important decision. It forestalled any further attempts to kill myself or anyone else (yes I did try the latter rather unsuccessfully). I ended up putting myself onhold for the interveneing years .. waiting to become a legal citizen, a person, capable of legally and rightfully making my own decisions. I had never been good at acheiving or acquiring anything that I wanted, and by that point I attributed the main source of the problem to be the stultifying environment I spent all of my time in. As the property of the parents who I arbitrarily acquired, I had to wait - and I knew this then - until the jail term ended. As I had skipped through school like a smooth flat rock over water, the term was to coincide with graduating from high school. And then with a few years after to find out if the rest of the world was really like the part I knew only too well, the date May 26 (I don't recall which year it was anymore!) fell into place. Easily. And I embraced it.
A soothing awareness of that date was to become my mantra for the whole of my teenage endurance. I may not have lived fully during those years, I may have become a completely dweeby 20 year old, but I retained my internal purity, a sense of right and wrong and of fairness, a hope. Having completely isolated all of my dreams from the surrounding I encountered every day, I grew into myself more and more. A land of torment and private sobbing, I, like so many other children, lived completely by myself - I my head. I turned down the fairy tale fantasies of boarding schools, having my real parents show up, becoming an orphan. Endurance was the key. Though certainly not a contentration camp, some aspects came to be remarkably similar. I sense that the whole world did not know I exsisted lingered in me - still does to this day. My expressiveness became louder and louder in the closed wasp environment that ignored all pleas for contact. And my mantra held me close, that and my cat, Suky.
So you can imagine my surprise when on the 27th of May I noticed somewhere in the middle of the day, that I was alive. I had lived with such a full metaphysical commitment to the idea that my life would simply cease on that May 26th, that finding myself on the otherside was equivalent to an atheist's first encounter with God. My world view radically altered. Indeed although most of the world didn't make sense to me still, I knew something was out there. I suspect, although I can't really remember, that my complete writing off of parents came shortly after. I just remember the shock of being suddenly adrift in an unknown universe.
To me, inside, inorder to survive the suicidal window of teenagerness, I had made a deal that I was not wont to back out of. The moments that have followed, although I never am able to remember most of them, are all borrowed bonuses. As a rather thoughtful adult I realize now that I am free and that a full and happy life although not a right is an easy possibility, and that I don't owe the universe someting extra, although the winds of fate seem to be false breezes stirred up by the large and artificial fans of bureaucracy, I still feel deep inside of me that I am lucky. I am surprised to be alive, and I am constantly surprised at how good and at how bad life can really be. Mostly I find myself so self-aware as to be laughable given the realities that actually are.
[There is this absolutely incredibly annoying fly that I've been chasing around the room trying to kill while writing this. The universe has a sense of humour.]
There is a whole metaphorical world that I see as easily as I do the real one as I look around.
In the city, there are ancient trees crowning above my head hundreds of feet up, and still lower than the rooves of the tallest buildings. Their cool greeness in creating the wind drops browning leaves onto the forest floor as pedestrians wade through them unseeing to cross the street at a green light.
These trees have always lived here in peace, never having met any monkeys' cousins. They live in peace, and stand tall and strong. Padded walkways wonder in almost every direction, and occasionally I can make out a brook creating lower-banking valleys meandering between. In this land, fresh and cool, everything is truly voluminous, whispered secrets travelling freely everywhere, I walk with a natural stealth. Neon billboards shine from as if in a haze behind the branching trunks. I know I am in the heart of the city.
Without hesitation, I can sit anywhere in the streets of traffic leaning against one of these ancients, gleaning from the soothing wisdom a sense that all can be well.
Some more mystical friends I've had suggest that serentiy lies at the bottom of a well - a dark and still pool at the foundation of one's soul. They understand something and yet still they understand the artificial - the artifact - a translation of the all into a function suited to a more limited vision than the all can fit into. I think they know something like what I do - perhaps that mankind is a part of the all as much as my ancient friends. But I know deeply that they do not sense that the true way lies without artifice.
Others of these more deeply thinking and feeling people allow enlightened states to approach them, without artifice, as totem animals - companions through the journey of life - as guides. I know little of this mythos though it is more similar to mine. However, I look around at the forest standing loudly and boldly around them and wonder why I cannot see the footprints of these higher risen vertebrates in the richening soil. So too, these people seem to anthropomorphise the motion obviated by their own animalness and grasp onto it. Still in them I feel a need for progress - styled in the grasp of the motion capable fauna of our planet.
Unlike these others, I find the stilness peaceful, and not still.
Before I could see this way, I used to feel the freedom in my soul that could only be reached through the exploration of a new frontier - space. I've read every scifi story I've ever run across, and now I see that in these stories (and in the reality probably) there were always people, co-occurring with all of their peopley ways: politics, interrelatings.
Now my dreams run to people-free lands - do I really believe what I can see? I care not to doubt my senses so fully, and yes, I believe this, though in all fairness perhaps not ontologically.
And just as I get warmed up, I'm off for a breakfast meeting, and then three more. Hmmm. This business thing gets busier and busier. Hence its name? Busier ... busiest ... business. Of course that could also mean having the traits being very large, rectangular, and having only four wheels. Hmm. I think I'll stay out of etymology.
Time for the hair drying ritual - all my friends know and tolerate me during this one, and then off to the closet.
Neko's foot is sore, and so he has been great company for the past few days ... if only I had been. I decided last night that a bit of sleep deprivation would assist in making me a friendlier person. Look out world... halluciatory friendliness. Yuck.
mickey mouse in the morning,
air hockey turnaments,
fights with my friends,
teenage cats miauing early in the morning,
rain-polished bird feeders spilling small seeds for small birds,
new employees and many new web sites,
somewhere someday a person who I just completely like,
a Rhodes piano in my living room,
space to think in,
no more verbs,
granola crumbs on my stove,
small bits of mental peace,
letters from Aaron to make me smile,
no baseline left to be me from,
That's funny that I thought that last bit. People I know personally are mostly tempted to worry about me it seems. I think that my non-conventional stuff is taken for temporarily illness. Heh.
Emerging from darker spaces feels refreshing, and even familiar (interesting). Others of my friends have been chatting me up more openly than ever. I am encouraging this a bit (humility added for reasons of decorum). The world really is a better place - according to my vision of the "How the world should be" dream goal. Even Peter emerges to embrace .. well .. horror:
I wonder why he sees the world always in such bloody terms? He lent me a book of short fantasy stories from pre-1950 really. Much curiousness in that these stories too have the bloodier violent imagery of the warrior. Horror imagery. "Are you afraid of the dark" crap!
I gave up the feeling that there are horror causing elements to the world when I realized a couple of things: the world seems to be the way we perceive it (no, not full-blown relativism - rather, an emotional overlay from within each of us that encourages certain interpretations of some thigns and discourages other interpretations, to the point of effecting what we build and what we destroy (accidently and purposively); all of the universe is there to be understood if we so choose (science kicks in as one tool eminent in the assisting of this quest, story telling another whereby stories assist us in using the godless tools with purpose still).
o o o
Why do people bore me? Why do I find myself boring? Ah but right now I do not. A twist - yesterday I felt like a piece of cardboard. With some real rest and having shared moments of intimacy with Peter, whom I do love, I feel again refreshed - that a long first day of the bureaucratic work-week bath. Mmmm. Time to do some other stuff.
As the web surfs along behind me in random jest, I try to think a little more clearly... It is getting too dark to see the keys, and I can't seem to type without them being watched intently.
... Just A Sec ...
There, light. And Netscape takes a nose dive.
I finished up a project this afternoon, and just a moment after, I felt such a strong sense of relief. It must have been what was weighing me down so much -- well one of the things. I'm not much of a worker bee. But I have done so much typing here in emacs that I can tell down to a keystroke when the wordwrap will kick in. :) Yipes.
What I have been thinking about lately, not what others try to talk to me about, I asure you, is vague. A sense that the mind readapts to a different environment by taking with it the abilities and tools, and leaving behind the subject area. I find myself thinking complexes of organizational thingamajigs [and I'm sure there is a way to spell that word].
And off I ran just now to the IPPE to read a new submission, which is interesting to me as Quine was one of my pet philosophers when I did this stuff for real.
Wandering. And sleepily I think that I should o lie in a bed now. G'night.
...flip the page...