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thanateYes, yes I am quoting from something in the unitarian hymnal. How odd of me.
A few more things. Because I am posting compulsively rather than attempt to write a newspaper article from the Intelligent Animals Weekly, small creatures edition. I hate newspaper format (and most other formal sorts of writing.) Which would explain why I never was tempted by the journalist-to-novelist sort of career path...
I think I'm missing ViOliVia. Though I seem to be the only one.
I pulled out an old tape (made, bizarrely enough, by a friend from faire for some girl he dated briefly before she kind of wandered off and disappeared on him, so he gave it to me after a conversation in which I was explaining that I only acquire new music from other people-- and it's possibly one of the best collections of songs I have) because of a random association with ornamental fruit trees in the field, and have re-discovered this song instead. Now I want an mp3 copy so I can put it on a short playlist with the other few things I want to listen to over and over and over.
Among all the totally useless things that my old harddrive knew was that in iTunes alone I had listened to "Bleeker Street" (a cover off a tribute album to Greenwich Village in the '60s that I got from Steve, who stole it from the library, so I really don't know who did it or anything) over 200 times. Since I got it... slightly over a year ago, I think?
There's a blue duct tape rose on my floor, given me randomly by some weird high school chick at the last combined fencing/heavy practice I went to. And it's an interesting addition to the collection-- I didn't have a tape rose before-- but I'm weird about accepting roses from people (particularly blue ones) and this ultimately means that I either buy my own or get them from random strangers under odd circumstances, instead of actually having presents from people I actually like. Which is probably rather silly of me.
As I was telling Jillian this morning, the long lost Stephen Mark Kazimir, who I "met" because a mutual friend was looking for people to e-mail him & wish him happy birthday, once said he had seen my brain hiding out behind a slot machine in Ocean City asking for lettuce. It may still be there. Unfortunately, despite having a web page claiming he exists, the occasional e-mails I've tried to send in the last two years have all bounced with a creepy pseudo-personal error message from the outgoing mail server. And... I have a number in my phone for him, which a normal person would have called by now. But if I can't even get around to calling the friends I know, so much less someone I've never actually met in person...
My shoulder is trying to hurt. This means I need more tea, I think.
My rug, which always needs vacuuming, really needs it right now. In fact, the last time it was vacuumed was... a very long time ago, when the world was a rather different place, and about to begin a halting descent into less good. Never mind.
I feel a little bit recently as if I've gotten caught up in some sort of gravitational force, as strange and distant as planetary motion, where some strong anchor-chain of my soul has gotten tangled up with someone else's, and is dragging me and my whole constellation of people I reach out to ever so slightly out of alignment. And something perhaps similar, but unknowable, at the other end. Which is odd given my lack of any particular belief in fate as a force in the universe. Although how I differentiate that from the occasional instinctive recognition of the inevitable I couldn't quite tell you. And the little I know leads me to believe I should try to untangle myself for the sake of everyone's sanity, if nothing else.
Although it's bad form to reason in advance of the evidence... if difficult not to try to pick apart the interesting puzzles of life. Although I've also been told that my curiosity will kill me some day.
I have this picture, that lives somewhere in the back of my brain with the visceral image of the way it would feel to have wings, of myself falling some interminable distance, spinning slowly, spread out like a sky diver but staring upwards at the clouds receeding from me. Sort related to the jumping sequences in Labyrinth, or like the bit at the end of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, only it was in my head before either of these. Maybe, come to think of it, sparked a little by being read Alice in Wonderland as a small child, or the sensation/half-dream I used to have occasionally when half-way to sleep that my bed had started falling slowly down a deep well where the sides were lined with different dream-worlds like the stories of a building. And I could climb out into any one of these, or leap back out of it and continue falling if I didn't want to be there. Maybe it was more a linguistic thing, my subconscious reacting to the concept of "falling" asleep. In any case, it's the falling part that stuck with me, a sort of image of freefall, so far from anything that gravity or landing isn't even a part of the concept, with air as viscous as water and my hair fanning out around me instead of streaming past my face with the wind of my passage. If I were ever in the improbable future to put together a music video, that would be one of the images I'd use.
I can't remember if there was a name for the capital city of Cheshire Cheese. It's the mouse &ct version superimposed over (well, under, more lke) NYC. But it might have had a better name than Cheshire City, which it has been dubbed now. Speaking of vast incomprehensible things.... I wrote a novel once. And it was all there, words in black and white, so many thoughts forced out in an orderly fashion, laid down one after another to create something beyond all that, which might or might not have been good, or resonated with anyone but me. And that vastness-- 50 thousand words of it-- no longer exists. Except for a kind of tundra of things glossed over by memory punctuated by events and thoughts I had writing it the first time 'round, and great chasms of things I know I once knew but can no longer remember. Which is perhaps why my brain is currently so suceptible to metaphor.
Or maybe it's something else, that I didn't know for certain about myself, and am watching to see if my hypothesis is actually correct... And I'm not sure if it's a thing I should be proud of, as it sort of follows from my principles, or if it should disturb me. In theory it is a good thing; a thing that will make people I care about happier. Possibly even myself. But I'm not quite sure if I'm comfortable with this new view of the way my brain works or not. And the factors it's based on are still mutable and subject to crumbling. And I don't know why I'm trying so hard to sort out a way to describe this when I'm trying to make sure no one knows what I'm talking about at the same time...
And why, oh why, can I not put this sort of attention into writing things that I want to have written, that follow a plot or have a purpose besides my meandering thoughts?
Ok, the wireless is getting turned off now. And if I can't get myself to write anything productive, I'll at least mess with music or pictures [darnit, I don't have the photoshop versions of the doll page icons anymore, either] and stop babbling at everyone else. Or get off the computer entirely, which would also be no bad thing... Right. More tea.
A few more things. Because I am posting compulsively rather than attempt to write a newspaper article from the Intelligent Animals Weekly, small creatures edition. I hate newspaper format (and most other formal sorts of writing.) Which would explain why I never was tempted by the journalist-to-novelist sort of career path...
I think I'm missing ViOliVia. Though I seem to be the only one.
I pulled out an old tape (made, bizarrely enough, by a friend from faire for some girl he dated briefly before she kind of wandered off and disappeared on him, so he gave it to me after a conversation in which I was explaining that I only acquire new music from other people-- and it's possibly one of the best collections of songs I have) because of a random association with ornamental fruit trees in the field, and have re-discovered this song instead. Now I want an mp3 copy so I can put it on a short playlist with the other few things I want to listen to over and over and over.
Among all the totally useless things that my old harddrive knew was that in iTunes alone I had listened to "Bleeker Street" (a cover off a tribute album to Greenwich Village in the '60s that I got from Steve, who stole it from the library, so I really don't know who did it or anything) over 200 times. Since I got it... slightly over a year ago, I think?
There's a blue duct tape rose on my floor, given me randomly by some weird high school chick at the last combined fencing/heavy practice I went to. And it's an interesting addition to the collection-- I didn't have a tape rose before-- but I'm weird about accepting roses from people (particularly blue ones) and this ultimately means that I either buy my own or get them from random strangers under odd circumstances, instead of actually having presents from people I actually like. Which is probably rather silly of me.
As I was telling Jillian this morning, the long lost Stephen Mark Kazimir, who I "met" because a mutual friend was looking for people to e-mail him & wish him happy birthday, once said he had seen my brain hiding out behind a slot machine in Ocean City asking for lettuce. It may still be there. Unfortunately, despite having a web page claiming he exists, the occasional e-mails I've tried to send in the last two years have all bounced with a creepy pseudo-personal error message from the outgoing mail server. And... I have a number in my phone for him, which a normal person would have called by now. But if I can't even get around to calling the friends I know, so much less someone I've never actually met in person...
My shoulder is trying to hurt. This means I need more tea, I think.
My rug, which always needs vacuuming, really needs it right now. In fact, the last time it was vacuumed was... a very long time ago, when the world was a rather different place, and about to begin a halting descent into less good. Never mind.
I feel a little bit recently as if I've gotten caught up in some sort of gravitational force, as strange and distant as planetary motion, where some strong anchor-chain of my soul has gotten tangled up with someone else's, and is dragging me and my whole constellation of people I reach out to ever so slightly out of alignment. And something perhaps similar, but unknowable, at the other end. Which is odd given my lack of any particular belief in fate as a force in the universe. Although how I differentiate that from the occasional instinctive recognition of the inevitable I couldn't quite tell you. And the little I know leads me to believe I should try to untangle myself for the sake of everyone's sanity, if nothing else.
Although it's bad form to reason in advance of the evidence... if difficult not to try to pick apart the interesting puzzles of life. Although I've also been told that my curiosity will kill me some day.
I have this picture, that lives somewhere in the back of my brain with the visceral image of the way it would feel to have wings, of myself falling some interminable distance, spinning slowly, spread out like a sky diver but staring upwards at the clouds receeding from me. Sort related to the jumping sequences in Labyrinth, or like the bit at the end of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, only it was in my head before either of these. Maybe, come to think of it, sparked a little by being read Alice in Wonderland as a small child, or the sensation/half-dream I used to have occasionally when half-way to sleep that my bed had started falling slowly down a deep well where the sides were lined with different dream-worlds like the stories of a building. And I could climb out into any one of these, or leap back out of it and continue falling if I didn't want to be there. Maybe it was more a linguistic thing, my subconscious reacting to the concept of "falling" asleep. In any case, it's the falling part that stuck with me, a sort of image of freefall, so far from anything that gravity or landing isn't even a part of the concept, with air as viscous as water and my hair fanning out around me instead of streaming past my face with the wind of my passage. If I were ever in the improbable future to put together a music video, that would be one of the images I'd use.
I can't remember if there was a name for the capital city of Cheshire Cheese. It's the mouse &ct version superimposed over (well, under, more lke) NYC. But it might have had a better name than Cheshire City, which it has been dubbed now. Speaking of vast incomprehensible things.... I wrote a novel once. And it was all there, words in black and white, so many thoughts forced out in an orderly fashion, laid down one after another to create something beyond all that, which might or might not have been good, or resonated with anyone but me. And that vastness-- 50 thousand words of it-- no longer exists. Except for a kind of tundra of things glossed over by memory punctuated by events and thoughts I had writing it the first time 'round, and great chasms of things I know I once knew but can no longer remember. Which is perhaps why my brain is currently so suceptible to metaphor.
Or maybe it's something else, that I didn't know for certain about myself, and am watching to see if my hypothesis is actually correct... And I'm not sure if it's a thing I should be proud of, as it sort of follows from my principles, or if it should disturb me. In theory it is a good thing; a thing that will make people I care about happier. Possibly even myself. But I'm not quite sure if I'm comfortable with this new view of the way my brain works or not. And the factors it's based on are still mutable and subject to crumbling. And I don't know why I'm trying so hard to sort out a way to describe this when I'm trying to make sure no one knows what I'm talking about at the same time...
And why, oh why, can I not put this sort of attention into writing things that I want to have written, that follow a plot or have a purpose besides my meandering thoughts?
Ok, the wireless is getting turned off now. And if I can't get myself to write anything productive, I'll at least mess with music or pictures [darnit, I don't have the photoshop versions of the doll page icons anymore, either] and stop babbling at everyone else. Or get off the computer entirely, which would also be no bad thing... Right. More tea.
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no subject
Date: 2006-10-14 12:58 am (UTC)