Yah, ok. I've majorly skimped on blogging this month. In my defense, the person I blog to doesn't have the Internet.
I wonder if I need a private private blog. One that seriously NO ONE knows about. Because this one has turned into me writing to a person.
Maybe I should just stop doing that.
I really feel like I've lost my voice, because everything I write does not feel or sound like me at all.
I'm really really really up in the air about moving. Really nervous. Really torn. I guess I shall take Sir Joyce's advice, and use my downtime on my triple shift tomorrow (today? I am supposed to wake up in three hours) to make a pros and cons list.
I'm worried about losing my sister. Today, as I looked around the house, I thought about how much stuff there is. Where is it going to go? If I move out, and everyone moves somewhere...where is all this stuff gonna go? A lot of it we can live without. A lot of it is just...filler. (Which leads into a whole thought process about how maybe, just maybe, having all this stuff is just that--I'm trying to fill my life, fill this great hole I've always felt I had. Why do I have this whole? Why do I try to fill it with material things? Which makes me think that if anyone read this from a religious viewpoint they'd think I need a god/figurehead, but that's not it. Do I really want to get into all this now? No) But what about something like a dining room table? Or the cherry wood desk I've had forever, that was hand made by a guy Amelia used to take care of? Do I really want to get rid of it? Sometimes I wish we'd never left our first house in Keystone. It had shit tons of storage space.
Ok. So. I guess I really need to talk to my ... gulp ... parents ... about this. Even her. Can't just talk through my dad. I think....
Oh man.
I think I need to get rid of a lot of my stuff. I have a lot. Of. Stuff.
But I mean, really. Do I want the kitchen table? I look at it as a reminder of what my dad tried to do but failed at.
Everything in this house reminds me of failure.
Please let me out of here.
I think I will be so much better once I'm out of here.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Starbucks cup
“The irony of commitment is that it’s deeply liberating - in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.” - Anne Morris, Starbucks customer from New York City.
I like this. Which is funny because I'm a commitment phobe.
I like this. Which is funny because I'm a commitment phobe.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
E
Excerpt:
No man, proclaimed Donne, is an Island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other's tragedies. We are insulated (a word that means, literally, remember, made into an island) from the tragedy of others, by our island nature, and by the repetitive shape and form of the stories. The shape does not change: there was a human being who was born, lived, and then, by some means or another, died. There. You may fill in the details from your own experience. As unoriginal as any other tale, as unique as any other life. Lives are snowflakes--forming patters we have seen before, as like one another as peas in a pod (and have you ever looked at peas in a pod? I mean, really looked at them? There's not a chance you'd mistake one for another, after a minute's close inspection), but still unique.
Without individuals we see only numbers: a thousand dead, a hundred thousand dead, "casualties may rise to a million." With individual stories, the statistics become people--but even that is a lie, for the people continue to suffer in numbers that themselves are numbing and meaningless. Look, see the child's swollen, swollen belly, and the flies that crawl at the corners of his eyes, his skeletal limbs: will it make it easier for you to know his name, his age, his dreams, his fears? To see him from the inside? And if it does, are we not doing a disservice to his sister, who lies in the searing dust beside him, a distorted, distended caricature of a human child? And there, if we feel for them, are they now more important to us than a thousand other children touched by the same famine, a thousand other young lives who will soon be food for the flies' own myriad squirming children?
We draw our lines around these moments of pain, and remain upon our islands, and they cannot hurt us. They are covered with a smooth, safe, nacreous layer to let them slip, pearllike, from our souls without real pain.
Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, those other places, and look out through other eyes. And then in the tale we stop before we die, or we die vicariously and unharmed, and in the world beyond the tale we turn the page or close the book, and we resume our lives.
A life that is, like any other, unlike any other.
From American Gods, by Neil Gaiman
No man, proclaimed Donne, is an Island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other's tragedies. We are insulated (a word that means, literally, remember, made into an island) from the tragedy of others, by our island nature, and by the repetitive shape and form of the stories. The shape does not change: there was a human being who was born, lived, and then, by some means or another, died. There. You may fill in the details from your own experience. As unoriginal as any other tale, as unique as any other life. Lives are snowflakes--forming patters we have seen before, as like one another as peas in a pod (and have you ever looked at peas in a pod? I mean, really looked at them? There's not a chance you'd mistake one for another, after a minute's close inspection), but still unique.
Without individuals we see only numbers: a thousand dead, a hundred thousand dead, "casualties may rise to a million." With individual stories, the statistics become people--but even that is a lie, for the people continue to suffer in numbers that themselves are numbing and meaningless. Look, see the child's swollen, swollen belly, and the flies that crawl at the corners of his eyes, his skeletal limbs: will it make it easier for you to know his name, his age, his dreams, his fears? To see him from the inside? And if it does, are we not doing a disservice to his sister, who lies in the searing dust beside him, a distorted, distended caricature of a human child? And there, if we feel for them, are they now more important to us than a thousand other children touched by the same famine, a thousand other young lives who will soon be food for the flies' own myriad squirming children?
We draw our lines around these moments of pain, and remain upon our islands, and they cannot hurt us. They are covered with a smooth, safe, nacreous layer to let them slip, pearllike, from our souls without real pain.
Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, those other places, and look out through other eyes. And then in the tale we stop before we die, or we die vicariously and unharmed, and in the world beyond the tale we turn the page or close the book, and we resume our lives.
A life that is, like any other, unlike any other.
From American Gods, by Neil Gaiman
Goals 2009: March
Update, March 5
My 2009 goals.
It seems to me that I haven't done much.
My 2009 goals.
- FULL TIME JOB. *don't get me started*
pay off car*sent off the final payment today!*- replace timing belt on my car *not yet*
- pay off my unemployment bill
- visit Morgan
- empty & clean my car. monthly. *completely cleaned the interior last week*
- reread Hobbit/Lord of the Rings
- get tan-visit beach at least once a month, april thru october
- move out
- have 1k in savings by 2010
- blog once a week *continuing to do so*
- spend as much time off the computer as on. if I wow for three hours I need to do something off the computer, not work, not sleep, for three hours. *don't even have wow right now!*
It seems to me that I haven't done much.
Monday, March 02, 2009
D
D seems a little hard. I know what words I want to talk about--Discipline & Detach--but both of those words seem really difficult after yesterday.
Okay. Having him as my friend again drives me crazy. Like, I've never met someone who was not the sum of their parts, but a different thing entirely. As far as I can guess, what keeps me coming back is just HOW different we are. Almost exact opposites in social interaction. I don't understand him sometimes at all, but I'm pretty sure that's because I'm not able to sit back and watch. I'm too invested. So I guess this week I'm taking a break. Going to try and detach myself from my head, not overthink anything, decide whether or not I can really live with this. I still feel so much; I can't just turn that off. What I do know is that even with all this crazy in my head, there is this steady undercurrent of calm. Like what I've been missing the last however many months, I found. Even when I'm upset, I'm ... joyful, underneath it all. And I think that is something good. It's just dealing with my head that is the problem. I explained it to you best last night: for so many months, my brain has consisted of playing WoW, watching cartoons...counting to 25 over and over and over. My social interaction has been severely stunted, and even more so just by the sheer fact that I'm not around enough people who challenge me mentally; now all of a sudden there is an influx of energy and my brain is like gogogogogogogogogogogogogogogogogogo. To the nth degree. And I'm not dealing with it as well as I should be. I'm wearing my own self out mentally, and as you said, probably the other party as well.
I don't know if he gets it. I don't get it. I do but I don't. It feels so unresolved and I don't like that. I want an answer. Maybe that's it. My mind can't handle not knowing the eventuality of it all. Maybe my mind knows more than it's letting on. I definitely hate all these dreams I've been having. I don't know if my brain has been this active in a very long time; definitely not in my sleep, to where I remember it, do I ever remember having this much activity. And I despair because all of these things.
Dependence. It's not something I ever wanted. But I can feel myself drifting towards that path, of feeling he's a necessary part of my life. Not necessary...but needed. I don't like needing other people. I don't like anything that makes me feel less self-reliant than I already am. So maybe some of this also has to do with not feeling like I have any control over the situation. Not in a helpless, well I feel how I feel so I can't fix it way, but in a I feel this way and this person can hurt me and he probably knows that and he therefore has power over me which means I'm not as in control as I thought I was. And for a control junkie that is the ultimate downfall. Not having the control we think we do.
I want to share all of this with him, and I'm afraid of the reaction. Is it so wrong to want to share? With him? I don't know. I think....hmm. I feel the deepness of it all, in my life, and I wonder if it's something he can relate to. If it is deep to him at all. Or not. I mean, there has to be something holding him onto it, for him to put up with the crazy like this. I'm not confident enough in my own value to fathom any real reason for anyone to stick around, really.
But so much of all my relationships I just contribute to my knack for...relationships. I put people at ease, for the most part. I make people comfortable and able to share. To me, people ALWAYS say I've never told anyone this but...so for any one particular person to do so is not indicitave of anything deeper. Is that selfish? Do I trust so much in my own ability that I miss things? Definitely a possibility.
Ok I know I sound horribly depressed and pathetic, but I'm not! This is just what's on my mind right now. Sometimes if you don't get it out you just explode and I don't want to explode anymore. I want to be relaxed about it all and at peace in my own mind. Okay. The dog is looking so sad curled up on my bed that I'm going to join her.
Damn me for not being able to sleep anymore.
And fuck discipline. Andrew Jones can suck a cock.
Okay. Having him as my friend again drives me crazy. Like, I've never met someone who was not the sum of their parts, but a different thing entirely. As far as I can guess, what keeps me coming back is just HOW different we are. Almost exact opposites in social interaction. I don't understand him sometimes at all, but I'm pretty sure that's because I'm not able to sit back and watch. I'm too invested. So I guess this week I'm taking a break. Going to try and detach myself from my head, not overthink anything, decide whether or not I can really live with this. I still feel so much; I can't just turn that off. What I do know is that even with all this crazy in my head, there is this steady undercurrent of calm. Like what I've been missing the last however many months, I found. Even when I'm upset, I'm ... joyful, underneath it all. And I think that is something good. It's just dealing with my head that is the problem. I explained it to you best last night: for so many months, my brain has consisted of playing WoW, watching cartoons...counting to 25 over and over and over. My social interaction has been severely stunted, and even more so just by the sheer fact that I'm not around enough people who challenge me mentally; now all of a sudden there is an influx of energy and my brain is like gogogogogogogogogogogogogogogogogogo. To the nth degree. And I'm not dealing with it as well as I should be. I'm wearing my own self out mentally, and as you said, probably the other party as well.
I don't know if he gets it. I don't get it. I do but I don't. It feels so unresolved and I don't like that. I want an answer. Maybe that's it. My mind can't handle not knowing the eventuality of it all. Maybe my mind knows more than it's letting on. I definitely hate all these dreams I've been having. I don't know if my brain has been this active in a very long time; definitely not in my sleep, to where I remember it, do I ever remember having this much activity. And I despair because all of these things.
Dependence. It's not something I ever wanted. But I can feel myself drifting towards that path, of feeling he's a necessary part of my life. Not necessary...but needed. I don't like needing other people. I don't like anything that makes me feel less self-reliant than I already am. So maybe some of this also has to do with not feeling like I have any control over the situation. Not in a helpless, well I feel how I feel so I can't fix it way, but in a I feel this way and this person can hurt me and he probably knows that and he therefore has power over me which means I'm not as in control as I thought I was. And for a control junkie that is the ultimate downfall. Not having the control we think we do.
I want to share all of this with him, and I'm afraid of the reaction. Is it so wrong to want to share? With him? I don't know. I think....hmm. I feel the deepness of it all, in my life, and I wonder if it's something he can relate to. If it is deep to him at all. Or not. I mean, there has to be something holding him onto it, for him to put up with the crazy like this. I'm not confident enough in my own value to fathom any real reason for anyone to stick around, really.
But so much of all my relationships I just contribute to my knack for...relationships. I put people at ease, for the most part. I make people comfortable and able to share. To me, people ALWAYS say I've never told anyone this but...so for any one particular person to do so is not indicitave of anything deeper. Is that selfish? Do I trust so much in my own ability that I miss things? Definitely a possibility.
Ok I know I sound horribly depressed and pathetic, but I'm not! This is just what's on my mind right now. Sometimes if you don't get it out you just explode and I don't want to explode anymore. I want to be relaxed about it all and at peace in my own mind. Okay. The dog is looking so sad curled up on my bed that I'm going to join her.
Damn me for not being able to sleep anymore.
And fuck discipline. Andrew Jones can suck a cock.
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