partlyopenbook: Not me. :) (Default)
[personal profile] partlyopenbook
I can hardly write in a notebook-shaped journal anymore. It isn't that I'm disinterested in journaling, just not interested in writing in a notebook. I mean to, even pick it up and fill out the date, the time, the cycle day, etc... Then, inevitably, the first sentence often sees me wondering why I am bothering to write in there at all. Why bother writing in there at all?

It's occurred to me that the abhorrence for notebook-journaling has been born from a repugnance to a time when writing in a journal was far more comforting... back at the days I spent at home... and I don't want to think about any of that, or think about it as little as possible, to keep the sting from my eyes and the distressful, tight pinches around my heart. It's very hard to suffer a continuous broken heart, knowing that, in a way, I won't ever recover since the world is the world, filled with things, sights and smells and actions, constantly triggering reminders of home.

I do a lot to block away these things. Even when driving home these days, from work, I have the windows rolled up on nice days, with the air conditioning on. I try to pass it off as fighting off pollen and other airborne allergens, but me and my conscience are not so sufficiently self-denying. We know it has more to do with the whimsies of a spring day, the smell of sun-warmed viridescence, and the sound of a healthy breeze through baby leaves, or when that breeze is warm enough to feel that it's fully southern, baptized by the Kentucky and southern Indiana hillsides, warmed there, tumbling over itself, until it flits, against its will, into the flattened Miami Valley... where it stalls, stutters, and roars on to float upon Lake Erie... I close my windows and forget these things.

My life is not wholly rotten, anyway... There's a certain juvenescence that's returned to me. And by me, I mean, of course, the thoughts I have, the inspirations I feel. These are not meant to imply that I take actions to fulfill the inspirations, turning them, naturally, into motivations. I continue to sit more than I move. I work enough, hard enough and long enough, to want to sit, sit, sit for as long as I'm able. It's incredible how awful one's feet can feel the morning after standing around for seven and a half hours, give or take ten minutes. And how it isn't the bottoms of my feet that are sore and achy, but the joints of my ankles, as if the tendons and ligaments there have been stretched and pulled against the weight of bones, muscle, water, or against the tension of the job which ebbs and flows and beats against me like a fierce, incoming tide against rocks waiting patiently next to the sea. And it isn't a day or two of eight hours, but four or five days in a row at a place where I wish I had a clone, an effigy to take what I can't do or when I feel that I should be ripped apart for being ignorant of every detail, angry at myself for my ignorance, and wishing I could do something else far more peaceful, more solitary... to live again in my own head, be my own self, not drawn and quartered by an obsession for a job that I don't know how to do well enough to suppress speculation... Just a quiet, meaningless job.

I'm starting a new very part-time job this afternoon, a private gig to do computer-related admin. The informality of it pleases me. It'd be nice to have work to do that doesn't come with a list of common and hefty demands, and trying to remember a hundred things at once. There is no protocol but the standards of ethics, the common-sense variety of kindness and self-confidence that I've been implementing for ages.

I'm visiting with an old friend today, too. The visit will be shortened by part-time work, but that is the way it has to be... I'm looking forward to running about town with Jason, like the good old days, like 1997 but with wisdom and less hope for the future, less spasmodic reasoning, less convincing philosophy now that I know I can change my mind, alter my opinions, yet the rudimentary beliefs are housed in my core and have been nesting for two decades. I'm built of layers of myself: one year over another over another, and so forth, to my outer shell that's shallow but timid and fragile. I can see each layer's pattern, the created and etched integuments of every year... from the moldy inner sheath to the shimmer of newness surrounding me but not entirely a part of me, not yet...

It will be a nice day off from one job, a nice new start for a new job. The rest of the week will fly by, and I feel reasonably optimistic that it will get better. I'll find new jobs to apply for and something else to do... I'll figure things out that have been pressing their ugliness rancorously against me. Words will be written, paragraphs constructed, stories remembered and hopes remembered, dreams rekindled...


Reading
Iris Murdoch - The Sea, the Sea
Virginia Woolf - Mrs Dalloway
Henry James - The Reverberator

Listening
Namnambulu - Trapped

Watching
Family Ties
CSI: Miami
Coffee Prince

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