wednesday

Yesterday, I posted the Pessoa quote: “I am at one of those points, and I write these lines as if to prove that I’m at least alive.” That has been my journalling philosophy going back to the 90s. I have been falling away from that lately. Over the years, it has been lie a mood that comes and goes. A lot of times I feel like I need to keep plowing through my reading instead, knowing that I will never get to read half of the books I want to read if I live to be a hundred years old, which probably isn't the best way to spend my time, especially since I hardly really remember anything I read anyway, in one ear and out the other, hence rendering my life that much more of a waste. Writing, by contrast, tends to feel fulfilling, like food for the spirit. Maybe I need to make a point of keeping my priorities straight. Of course, it all seems fucked, because I never worked in the priority of making my own living in the world. Everything about me feels crazy, cracked, broken. But when I am writing, it at least feels as though I am trying to be sane, like I am picking up the pieces and trying to put them together. Pi says, "Are you sure that you aren't just letting Kant depress you?" LOL It doesn't help. I have been thinking, as for my reading life, that maybe I should just stick to Plato. But I still want to give the Critique the old college try ... ... Such overcast weather. I have been thinking about going back to the lawn, taking out the weed-eater, perhaps thrilling Pop's heart that I am finally taking that chore over. On the other hand, still feeling pretty clean and fresh from last night's shower, why not wait until tomorrow? ... ... Moira changed her Twitter userpic, favoring a more comical theme. If she had done this list week, I might not have been captivated to keep following her. Looks are important: even when you have absolutely no expectation of meeting the person. Amazing, isn't it? It is still very meaningful to you that the person on the other side of your Internet connection, thousands of miles away, is attractive. Ugly people have no reason for living, unless they like the lonely hum of their thoughts ... ... Pi says, "Have we given up on survey questions?" It has been a while. Since I am not writing up a storm, I suppose it can only help. Shoot! Pi says, "Do you have any tattoos. Do you want any?" No, I guess I could never be that cool. Though, I must say, in my high school and college years, at least where I went to school, nobody was getting tattoos, not even our hoods, our criminally inclined. Tattoos were something that sailors and marines got, I guess, and prisoners. Daimon says, "You thought about getting one, one time. This wasn't during your school days, but still." Gabe, of course. That dandelion summer. LOL She was urging me to get my ear pierced, for when I got to Florida. I guess she needed me to have achieved at least a minimal level of coolness. This was when she still looked upon me as a lover. Daimon says, "And you wussied out." Yeah, I agreed at first. If teen girls can do it, I didn't see why I shouldn't be able. But then I googled it, and read of the blood and infections, and I think she wanted an amateur friend to do it. "Too much for you." Yeah. But I did flirt with the idea of getting a tattoo instead. Which I know is kind of crazy, since that is even much bigger than an ear-piercing. Pi says, "Did she suggest it? Of anything in particular?" No, she didn't. She actually scoffed at the idea. I guess she realize that if I was going to chicken out on an ear-piercing, the idea of getting a tattoo must seems especially unlikely. I was thinking of getting a dandelion on my chest. I was kind of big on the dandelion theme for a while there. Remember, it was a symbol she chose for herself when she was a little girl. I had a userpic of a dandelion for my LiveJournal. I might have gone through with it, I fancy, but only after we became lovers. A tattoo for my one successful love affair sounds kind of right, something worthy of such a personal and permanent marker. If it could have happened ... ... Oh, fuck, Jack is apparently in need of a new house. Although he and Pop don't seem to be even considering the possibility of him and his family moving here, I cannot help fearing the worst. Maybe this is why Jack has been so super-friendly toward Pop over the last months: maybe he knew that he was going to be in this situation, keeping it to himself until now. I don't know how they maintained the house they have for this long. Jill has had some good-paying jobs, not pizza delivery stuff, but it always seemed an unsteady proposition, losing this job and having to land another one. But they held on for close to twenty years. Still, it looks like that streak is in serious jeopardy. I heard Pop tell him that he has a few months to figure it out. A few months is the blink of an eye.