C a r o l y n ' s D i a r y diary.carolyn.org
|be warned: this is my diary... clb||page 30|
Moppins and I sit here in the cool air, 7 am. I awoke out of a heavy sleep to wander around htis empty and foresaken house looking for something to do. Somthing. Shower. Dress. Log on. Hang out online.
Whipping around the thoughts - my own thoughts. Am I really unstandard insome waythat I think? Are our own insides shaped only by our own whims, meeting the needs of surface conformity in any way we invent? Where isthe telepathy that connects us? How does it really work? I cry out almost in jest and surely in hope of being heard once, just once, as I really am. Communication melts our fingertips and we don't notice.
Desparation filled into our heads by high-school curriculms dedicated to training the sheep into servitude. Democracy embraced as the true answer to working slavery. What a monumental accomplishment our forefathers have acheived.. Indeed we do all listen and understand the same drummer - when we march to war. Is this war? Is life really war? Must we fight and bicker, must we let disagreement slow us down? Must the only way to move on be in consensus? No!
Disagreement, one of our most natural states, needs to find a home too in our thinking and planning. Hold out opportunities for those who do indeed disagree with us, for inthem lay opportunities not open to us within our own beliefs. The power of a fuller possibility space blossoms with hope. The future structured with hope allows all disagreement room to breath.
What am I saying? I am frustrated with the closedness so many people hold their own goals with. Share the goals. In the end the scope is not so different between us, and only monomania can rally against cooperative disagreement effectively. Why so many? Is it cold enough yet for the blossoms to hold their strucutres long enough for others to see? Am I cold enough yet?
Thinking issuch ways... is it insane as so many have suggested? I should go for breakfast and think how things again. And yet something of a why nature clings to everything I percieve these past few days. I like this - and know it is a sign of positive adjustment in me to change. But what change? Knowing that I become, as Richard said of himself, more ruthless. knowing that we grow up and understand from the otherside the motive structures of holding power successfully. Who knew? Watching the chasm grow between my desires and opportunities and those of the people who do not decide to learn these lessons just yet.
I remember my mum's boyfriend, now her husband I believe, subtly implying to my roommate back 15years ago now that my roommate should want to work for him in his company - if not work then at least want to try to. My roommate, Mike, didn't notice the hint. Later my mother told me that Mike seemed to lack ambition, that Bill had beenoffering him a job opportunity. She asked what was wrong with Mike. She asked, adn I didn't get why she thought this. I missed it too. But I don't now. I've seen enough missed opportunities - usually in others - I cannot see my own as clearly, or I would take them up! They always look like terrible decisions - except with Peter. He refuses some opportunities for the person he would have to become to take them. I respect his understandings. Although even with him I wonder sometimes if he wouldn't feel as frustratedly misunderstood if he adopted more standard reasonings. I hope he never does though. I suspect Joe and others also hold onto this wish ardently. I wonder why we don't do more tohelp him keephis dreams alive.
My fingers are too cold to keepon going.
Further to my own wishes, I am writing here. Trying to warm up, and trying while at the office to remain in a private space. Relaxing into myself gently is scarey here. I may be allowed to tell others to go away... the door knocks... not for me. Some guy wandering through this space without knowing not to bother me. I'm angry about a lot here. It's funny because business is really great. But things should be ...
[ hours later ]
headache. Tired. TIme to relax.. with some work.
It seems I am isolated from the internet today as seems rather fitting to my mental state anyway. I am agonizing. somewhere inside me is a viral infection menacing my thoughts. There is a right way to do things. Find it. Use it. What is nwo isn't right. Fix it. Improve. Don't let up on the way things could be. Squeemishly hold out for this improvement that cannot exist sanely.
My lack of balance shouldn't be allowed to spread. Victim to a grinning pessimism, I hold on top the knowlegde that it is not always this way. Other ways exist. My balanced self does not worry about getting things right. Getting things moving and growing, watering and weeding. I want to cry now. But I amtoo angry to let out the feelings in anything other than pointed attacks.
Attack. This stupid writing thing for instance. What for. Does it really improve my life? Yeah right. The fact of the matter is that it once did - when I had something I felt I needed to say. But do I really now? As I fall ever more quickly downt he pit to be a common person with a commoners vocabularly and instinct, the polish and value of an interesting mind distances itself. Did I ever really have anything going for me? Perhaps it was an illusion, an illusion as great as those surrounding me now.
The meaning is in oneself, and I have been searching - expecting - t find it in celebrity. I hunger to be recognized on the street. But for what. What truly have I done anyway? Nothing that thousands of people world wide haven't also done. I had thought that I had something more to offer in writing out who I am publically. I don't know that anymore. Perhaps once I did? Now I am some dead white male in a suit. Say hi on cue. Stand on the "X". Is there any meaning there? Really?
Empty friends. Friends who slowly lose their own vibrancies out of bitterness, surprise at being all alone, failed idealisms, failed get rich quick schemes. No endurance. No faith under fire. Fuck it. Not even the firey energy of suicidalness any longer.
I know too well that that vibrancy is deadly fatal. Is my life worth living? Peter's question. Is life worth living? Is he fucked? How can he ask this seriously? Why does he tolerate the bitterness he ends up feeling after each orthogonal shift? What does he expect to see in the light rays of each vantage point? A faceted stone with ever more facets will end up as a curved surface - no sparkling planes left. Polished through experience, he will
screams through my mind a scorching path.
I want hope. I want it need it rely on it.
Heavier thoughts hold even more silent deeper in still. The phase war between peter and richard. visible to each other but polarized just that little bit. nothing significant enough to hoold onto. but noticed and carried into our hearts. agents - those actively engaging the world as contrasted with patients who passively fail to engage the world and are acted on if at all - bump and grind each other when they are close. the interference patterns are beautiful. to me. perhaps we should not call them that though - cooperation patterns. :) yes. the analogy is harder to make out but is encouraged more positively. a good story told.
People. My heart aches evenmore as so many I care to hear from go off on their own lives perhaps never to drop by again. What kind of horrible creature am I to live intheir lives and not to return mine? I s burbbling on enough? I can hope, and also wonder.
Richard calls me a fink a lot. also beautiful. never meaningful or impactful. never significant. his tortured viewpoint with him as most successful of entities bars reality from my own doorstep I think. I know so well and even use a little the fact he has taught me thorugh his life choices: advertising is important. And yet must I believe that there is only one form of advertising? NO! His inflationary story telling is marvelous, and completely unpalatable to me. Let me have the positive soothing version in which we are all pursuing the good which is everywhere already. Joe knew. If only he had been happy while dispersing it himself. Perhaps he was. But I needn't wonder about his life. It will be the same as when I knew him for that brief time, him but not his last name.
The scream was wrong - it lead me away from the painful core. I must try to go back again. Will power mustering... deep breath... let go...
Of course. Self criticism. Harsh questioning of all my choices at once. The whole system that is me cliche ridden boring little me. I worked for these cliches, and now they make me feel so grey. They arenot bigger chunks of meaning. They come with baggage attached that does not contain clean laundrey.
Can I choose to do well in society and not speak the common language? Finally I feel the trap closing. I don't even want t say it - to say it might make it true.... [terrible reasoning. say it look at it. learn about the options your silly little hind brain isn't telling you about. traps don't exist. PAINNNN] OUt here again - cannot linger in dual conversation there.
Not an integrated mind today. not just off balance a little. wyhole personality schizm. wow. hasn't happened in years. and yet the truth of my situation, and the reality of all I have done int hese past two years in FSC and inthis writing.. something feels so wrong - everything does, and some one thing may be accoutnabel. but what.
[read back a little.. learn what came out] communication problems, leadership problems, lack of coherent goal set - NO: goal set altering a bit - wreaking havok an earthquake internal.
merging analysis with awareness.
There once was a king who did not know how to lead. He knew that the hoe of his kingdom relied on his judgements and that this was the most important thing he could do - to judge wisely and wtih much forsight. And to lighten up. there were no disasters only inefficiencies. Funny that little perspecitval adjustment make shte king look rightly foolish.
So stop hating the problems. Enjoy the growth pains for that is all that troubles you. Staring at them. Thinking about what should be done. Emerging with a new cluster of possibles. Don't let richard shoot them down. Have him listen and build with you in this. Stop concerning withthe the jostling htat healthy young men need to do. They do it. And without weapons so be at peace with it although it seems foolish, it is what is.
Common language? No one else has one either. That is the biggest joke of all. Here I am feeling isolated because I don't speak the common language, and then I remember only richard thinks there is one. He uses its existence and his use of it to justify his own personal language choices. What a fish ball.
Got it. HEy who cares if I'm wrong either. I sure as hell don't.
[It is been noted noted that I don't swear here or talk about sex. They should also note I don't talk about cleaning the floors, fixing my car's taillights, combing knots out of cat fur, etc. Get it? That's not what life is about to me. That is just the physical glue that binds us into one life - something I'd rather not really acknowledge and affirm. I will live several different lives somehow. Oh, and I find the mundane to be a bore at the best of times.]
Echo the footsteps carry. Something is wrong. Declarative sentences in a mocking description of our concerns echo less.
I wait in a dilemma of concern. To be cheery andsupportive of the shallow doer. To be critical of the thinker. I can do both, andI enjoy neither. I should enjoy both. D owe choose what to enjoy.
Garbage writing. Not going anywhere. Tear up, destroy the pages, andthen fit themback together. Electronic pages can not be untorn except by expert hackers, but aren't we all expert at cut and paste wtih paper? I want to be someone different. I want to enjoy thesocial situations, to meet people, shake their hands and allowthem to wamr upand relax while talking to me. I want them to remeber me as someone they enjoyed talking with. Not sex. Why only sex?
Can anyone really enjoy talking with this creature with talons tearing at their souls? Am I that hungry. crying
crying more staring at the screen watchingimaginary tears .. tear on the dotted line. why is this more real? or is it htat it has nowhere to go, and I am with it.
Outside of language a cliche of torture. Peter bends cliches purposefully wrong, but still recognizable in auncomfortable way. Has he mimicked by own silly dyslexia? Is disease meme worthy?
What isn't though.
Shallow perky happy layers of social stuff I cannot understand. It is perhaps not so shallow, and yet it is invisible. I have looked this past while at magazines, hundreds of different kinds. And at billboards, their waves of pseudo-influence washing over me for thefirst timeinmy life. An untouched consumer - born at last out of thedesire to make FSC an advertising giant. Laughter in scarcastic resonance with the trees. And I don't talk about FSC openly either.. I will change that. perhaps hte day to day office politics are not so relevant, but something is. My cares and feelings for this thing birthed of my 20's. A master's degree and a couple of companies. Several lasting friendships. Somany lessons. And who I am.
God.. that last one hurts. Am I really the woman inthe bathtub photo? What does it mean to be her? I knew that shot was the right one. But I didn't know others would also understand it. I communicated that one thing to the world. Little me. Where is my self esteem this week? Bad puns so tempting, the wit of the mundne sinks into my liver etching an identa-tattoo where my soul should have been.
Am I any more a person with intrinsic value so great that it is worth getting to know me in spite of my eccentricities? NOOOOOO. Now my pretty physical form overshadows this. It was always an illusion. [Belief in something as ephemeral as a POV is life blood ] Goddamned ego. My very owninternal argument. And I get nowhere.
The facts ofthe matter are that I have evicted my interesting personness for social awareness. But I get no return onteh social stuff yet. I just don't get it. help
still an offline day.
And later still... I am going away for two days. Solitude quiet. I'll wirte offline some more. I hope my thoguhts cohere better.
Winding down for a couple of days didn't work. I'm still wound up tight. It's like important things hurt in comparison so I only do the work things. What is going on?
The thing with tracey it hard. Perhaps I am too full of it to have maintained a quality working friendship withher. We went out last night. The only time I talked about something important to me in relation to her, she asked me to stop. She insisted on a diminished relationship now. In this diminishment, she is a fat person with an ego problem who doesn't know how to get a job. A spinster housewife. This is just not what I thought of her before. Now... with all hope for her getting off her butt gone, I cannot but just stare at the future that is. Tracey makes me cry.
And so does Richard. He is suffering from soul meltdown so much more than I am. I have Peter to stay warm inside with (I love him). Peter likes us to remind each other of what we can be. I owe him much while I bury myself in the business world, the social critter weave and weft. I must learn these things and not lose what I know.
Bill, to you I must say that I am gambling htat what I go through now is not permanent and that what I am learning will be of great value. You say "I am angry at the way you devalue yourself . . . I am angry at a world that 'allows' that to happen . . ."
I hold this anger too. I decided that noone would ever create a place for me in this world, and that I had better do this myself. That I had better do it for the others who will also not find benefactors. The others didn't and couldn't have done it. I have friends whothought there was no way to live except in giving up to this social fabric, 9-5 job life in order to stay alive. I am not doig htis. I wandered around all weekend wondering why people work at 9-5 jobs. I couldn't understand it. And then I got something. The mechanism of society offers soul substitutes for those who have put their all into the "less than human" pursuits required of holding a job. Tracey is perhaps not wrong to avoid this traumatic end. Soul substitutes are the powdered down public forum informations: news, sports, movies. Things we can all access, and quickly. Things which later in theday when we are not working anymore we can discuss intelligently because we have been briefed on the shared details and can pontificiate with our buddies and family. The society's soul shards get used to give us that feeling of accomplishment. All the normal people things must get done, and one of these is what people with wamr souls do - converse about their own thoughts. So we converse about the Ontario Health Minister resigning, or the Maple Leafs' winning streak (?).
Soul sucking jobs plus soul substitute filler. Not a bad system. I always wondered why people shared interets so much. I think now that they don't, but htat for this system to work, they must act in compliance with the fewer topics put out. The internet might just change this!
But now my soul is getting sucked out a little more each day. Hiring and firing. Talking unwilling people into learning, and too willing people into sharing politely. Incorporating companies, creating a better market share. Blah blah. Stuff that needs to get done, and I'm the doer in charge. SO I do it, and I read the newspapers to find soemthing to talk about.
My dad used to do this when I was a kid. I thought then that thenews was magic. Something he had access to only, not us children. Now I see it differently.
And I hate it.
Must run to work now. :)
Quiet thoughts wilting under stress. Am I anymore an individual? i think i am too scared to be on ereally. I have always wondered at the people , the insiders, how they did it. Now I know a lot about htis. I cannot sit here in FSC without this clicking into place. The media layers, the business respect, the mortgages, banks and lawyers. From being treated like an insider, I figured out what the motivations for the persons we are are. A little anyway. I hope I will come out the other side as more of a person, a professional person, rather than as another assembly line manufactured automoton.
You see, I already know what I need to know. Courage only takes us further than we are towards our own dreams. I muster courage sometimes, and sometimes instead I hold back hurt by my friendships. We are beginning a courageous period I think, and things will do very much better as the butterflies flutter. Cowardly optimism. Hold onto it when times are blacker and then we'll talk about courage.
Self-flagellation though is not an answer to any problem, regardless of its glittery temptation. Just do, be wonderful, look inside into the basement darkness and behold the wonderousness of the self. I already know that too.
Discovery is gone beyond the academic surrounds into the real world. Sculpting the influences on others' minds from within their own perceptual beings, and holding out hope in return. Watching the causal efficacy - effectiveness - cannot last. Being causal is the only answer I know, and yet there is no satisfying peace in this. Perhaps life-fulfilling enjoyment can substitute. Instead.
Hold out my hand in yours. Squeeze a little while staring into my eyes. Watch the warmth or anger for a moment too long. I am in here. Watching. Thinking. Planning. And admiring others. For they are beautiful. Or so I once thought in high school. Breath the fresh air of knowing that I am also beautiful. No loathing of the self can ever travel to wonderous places to see the clouds and mountains - the glorious [Carolyn feels good. Bullshit spews in founts, and she knows it too. Can awareness of this help?] view humanity struggles to live in.
Details. They clog the brain's perceptions. Mine anyway. And I flushed them out like a stale ghost. Can I actually feel good today for a while longer. Probably not. Feelings after all are less important than .. what.. I don't know that.
In the mists of time, back when I was young and thoughtful, the cats also knew. Swirled cliches leaked meanings into the ether winds. We didn't need to wonder what it all meant.
Now we do. Photorealistic memories purge the present's influence on my soul. Was it like that for you? The edges cutting deeply into the mind's flow as you worry out another detail. It all means something. We imbue meaning into everything I thought. And now somethings mean only failed attempts at creation, isolated and impotent gods running amok in the dusty streets. Meaning in the sidewalk cracks, in the fold of fnord the newspaper, in the direction my eyes glanced just now.
The precision pins us onto the small-grained, cork board as we wriggle to change the situation. There is room only for the feet to move really. Nowhere to fly up upsidedown. A fashion of tall and graceful losers walking aisled weaving between the potato losers. We do not generate our own meanings it seems. How could I have guessed this?
Hope springs from the meanings into the bigger picture stories and tales we tell each other over dull dinners. And from this hope, new meaning is drawn into the media for even more to draw inspiration from. We share any glimpse of this through entertainment and news. The wellsprings of our society are the disposessed for whom the meanings are painful to create - the populus consumptory hidden from their overly sensitized desire for new solution. Small-grained precision photorealism governed by big picture hopes.
As the coffee pours down our collective throat keeping us awake in the pursuit of the great and unbearable meaning, we toss in the bed at night, awareness glinting in the curtained windows.
The how people dance their dream songs in sleep, undisturbed.
And we look back to the golden days when we did not know the meaning. I didn't know it even yesterday. What a fool I am.
What should I do today? Have breakfast? Talk with friends? Meditate? Kill myself? Shop for a new bell for Fleiss? Read some more? Try do do something difficult instead?
Toss myself into an interesting situation where the little questions disappear and only the details need to be worked out.. safety in the details. and traumatized whyness fragmented beyond pleasure. Still, what should I do today?
Frame: Black cats and a lot of trees. A superhighway wafting through. White fish eaters overhead. No tourists please.
Picture: Painting of youngish woman, a few grey hairs in her dark mane. A sadness and a happiness both hidden in an artificial smile, knowledge of the world. Black dress, not mourning though, cocktail, and a small bell on her little right finger. Typing.
Wall: Oceanic surfaces. blues greens expansive open
Foundation: Thoughtful architectural innovation made in modular stone peaks and troughs, covered in ambitious organic forms.
World: Gibsonian civilizations sprawling the surfaces connecting foundations and ruining the view.
The observer: Youngish woman, a few grey hairs in her dark mane. A sadness and a happiness both hidden in an artificial smile, knowledge of the world. Black dress, not mourning though, cocktail, and a small bell on her little right finger. Typing.
A cardinal sings in the rain outside, while in my head a jumble of detailed thoughts race around. There are certain things a human brain can do which foster different mental spaces. I stopped believing that anything could be changed in teh present - though not in the future. As well I became convinced that this future change happens through step by step causal journeys. On eof the corrollaries to these beleif changes seems to be that my concerns and thoughts turn more towards the steps and the feeling that they lead soemwhere. Someone once gave the bad advice that it is the means and not the end that is important. The advice is not bad in that it grants one causal power over the future. It is also not bad for being easy to implement once one believes it. It is bad however for the opportunity cost, the what it could have been like to be me problem. What it would have been like now to be me if I hadn't taken on this committment.. I would be now more internally interesting to myself. My thoughts from the deeper well springs inside would be richer and and leading inexoriably to greater understanding of the is. What is is like to be me now is instead the details flowing and coursing around each other - romanticized here I should think. A society in which it makes sense to scope out each detail rewards this petty thinking. What if this little detail were different, and that one, or how about these 3? What if people did not think of little details as being so crucial to the success of designed change. Heh. What if these details were all so similar that the mechanistic drives we live inside of were more obviously boring. Aren't they though already boring enough?
How much money does it take to screw in a light bulb, after all?
To dinner now. ciau
I read The Age of Innocence. It's a well written thing. I can see why it won prizes. But how awful. A story of a society goverend so tightly by convention that people couldn't breathe if they'd seen anything else even once. They were storng and courageous at the books beginning, and by the end they seemed scared of the world and of any change. I think I am like this. I feel rather rule bound and tightly held in by some sense of propriety. This sense has surfaced to deal with having friends. They are all so happy making up rules or invoking ones that I started to too. years ago. it was a farce for me then, but now it is simply the way I am. It's funny how rationalizations have appeared in my head to keep these things there once I started the farce. Children in part learn by mimicry and then the mocking tones of their imitative play stop being unserious and their scripts are written. Thanks indeed Mummy for these scripts in me. I, an anarchist and free thinker, a self explorer, am now the consummate wasp in ontario society. I don't know how not to be finally since these are the only conventions that come easily to me. I have to break the crystalline mold I live inside and spill out in freedom - in chaos too though. Fight gently.
A chick in an egg use the little knob on its beak. I should do no more.
Christmas party tonight. The FSC thang. Hmmm. Should be quite a laugh.
It's hard to be in here at the office and think at the same time. Richard on the phone ordering hardware parts. People working still. Up and perky. Sigh. Where is the slow, delicate and fragile department?
I was looking back to last year here. A lot of spooky bullshit went down. I've played it conservatively, except with Tracey, since then. And the thing with Tracey didn't work so well either. Hmm. I don't like the conservative approach in spite of the explosions. I do however think that decnet protocol between people is necessary, and not just an option. We have only our civilized and socialized layers between us. What each one of us brings to the interaction beyond these guidance lines is the thing of value. But the fragility of human value is beaten and crushed without the smooth ointment of civilization.
Or so it seems.
Who are you all anyway? Behind the veneers are lurking any possible formulation of humanness. Do we really know the range of the possible? Allow me the grace to keep the veneer in its place of significance: between us.
Carolyn's Diary has been rehidden. With these domain names though, the move should be transparent. Thanks Richard for helping!
It's been a day of reading a bad book with a cold. Messages from people who think I'm a fool. Suddenly I hurt inside from the feeling of being ridiculed. I think I don't want to care though. A simple mention to myself out loud like this is good enough. Ridicule is not wit, and humour used at another's expense is not amusing for long. I shall settle on believing that laughter should derive from hope and pleasure and not ridicule.
Volumes of trying to know myself - an adventure that few undertake. A valuable quest for me I think though. To document is the human way. To collect, store up, organize and categorize. Why, science was based in part on this practice. Collecting volumes does not of course mean one has collected anything of worth. But within or because, worth might thrive if one has tried to create some.
Self-indulgence? of course. I wirte a diary and where if not there would one indulge oneself and not others?
Crap? The eye of the beholder sees what needs to be seen. The delineation between those who pursue different salvations has already been made clear. Mine is to be open and understandable even if ridiculed. But perhaps it is time for me to move on in to other creations. Then again the book I am reading is not very good and is hopeless, frustrating hatred for research.
If I were a painter, and I painted a mural for all to look at, certainly some would regard the mural - perhaps a self-portrait with all of its distortions - as sic.
Tsk. I know but I do not feel that this chattering will help. Some integration would be nice.
-- thanks, clb
I wonder a lot about why I don't write stories so much as essays. There is an ease in saying what I want to say directly. Stories require some guile, something I lack.
I was just talking to Peter about things, Tracey in particular. Trying to understand her actions currently. Right now she is invasively sticking her nose into FSC's business, something she was once more than welcome to do. Now though with everything that has happened it isn't a good feeling to have her look and touch everything there is if it were hers too.
I felt rather invaded physically everytime she came to my house since the whole thing happened. Now at the office too she makes me feel as if I've been sneakily felt up by a stranger. She made a lot of people there feel something like that this week. It must be a healing phase for her as she recontacts her external life. Funny, I see her as someone who would do really well as a bag lady now, a filled up shopping cart with all her precious excercise equipment living in the best street life has to offer. I think she'd do really well that way actaully with her knowledge of the city and of social interaction. I can't see her asking for money. She'd have to make little objects, crafty things, to sell to passersby.
An odd perspective on a friend really. SOmehow I know she still is. It'll take a long whle for that to resettle. And perhaps it won't. I hold no hope either way finally.
I've often confused together people who are acquaintences with those who are my friends. Truly my friendships are few but strong. And these other relationships should be many but are not. I should no longer hold these latter to the standards of friendship. This has been a mistake brewed from Peter's old perspective that everyone in the world should be friends. Heh. Yeah right.
Peter's opinions on Tracey are not these in any way. He has a much clearer perspective probably though. Hmm.
He came over here just now. Without warning he started to talk about his assessment of business. I said very clearly that this was not a welcome subject and that I was simply not willing to listen.
Perhaps I should have said something different.
Working more closely in FSC, Peter has had some of his inflated illusions shattered about it. Funny that the truths are still very much as they have always been.
First he spent an hour on the phone telling me what he was going to do about Tracey, and then in person he started to tell me what he was going to do about my company, and after I asked him not to. I think he needs some distance for awhile.
I wonder if we really change a lot compared to how differnet we are from each other? I seem to reenact my own life over and over, with additions to be sure, but also like clockwork recognizable themes. This diary reaches two years of regular attention paid by me to my own life. And although my moods fluctuate up and down, my situation stays very similar. Can we really change these things?
I think that I could if I were to change some of the things that I don't want to. If I were to marry someone from a big family, let's say, and have a pile of kids, I would get to do the big Christmas celebration that I've never been to. Although the latter is made to look really kindof fun, the marriage and family life look cruelly inelegant. I'll stick with doing the laundrey and learning about how and why to be a person, in solitude.
The desire to play the game conventionally is standardly known to crop up the strongest during such holdiay seasons as now. This would explain the solstice party I attended several days ago. people remarkably like me all banding together warmly creating a social gel. This particular group has done such things for years. I've hovered on the periphery also for years, never really committing to full membership - I think I could have. But I like who I am, and I like my own personal integrity enough that the compromising behaviours required to fit in more smoothly would hurt too much.
And about Richard.. I've figured out that he should be the colourful and bright teller of the glorious and leave the reality dwelling - like living in a basement for too long - to me.
Yesterday was a day of explosions - with Peter, and with Richard. And now the way is clear for awhile. And I look back to last year and see these explosions happening.
Instead of regretting my methods, and trying to twist myself into some publically condoned shape, I shall live who I am proudly, flaws and methods and all. I do explode at people when they are being riduclous. Beyond a certain point, coopeation becomes destructive, and old ways become a hindrance rather than a safety. Damn right, I'll explode. And I'll be there the next day with a smile.
Alone in the blizzard, and yet finally clear headed. Fuck social pressure, not people.
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