Saturday, April 30, 2005
*Sigh* So, I'm putting out an emergency call to the HTML savvy amongst you. Yes, I've cut-n-pasted the appropriate code into the appropriate place, using what Blogger gave me, and that ain't working (that's how I got it to show as a long, spaced list instead of a cluster of links). It LOOKS right to me, but then, so does my car when it won't run.
It's all in knowing what to look for. Feh. So, if you've got advice....
Friday, April 29, 2005
With that said...
Occasionally I get to have IM conversation with someone who has a weblog I read. Sometimes these comversations are but light little things, frothy and brief, pleasant and insubstantial. Sometimes they are careful testing probes to determine if it is safe to talk. Sometimes they are dissapointing little ventures to see if the person writing the cool blog is the same person in IM. Sometimes they are accidental incidents where you pull up desperate mentions of what you read in the weblog so as to have conversation until you can think of how to get off.
I just had one of those. I'm not sure which one it was. Mostly we discussed "the things you can't talk about in your weblog for fear of [fill in the blank]". I"m not sure which catagory of IM convo it was because 1) I am rabidly insecure 2) I think the person with whom I conversed is interesting but also very, very guarded and careful 3) I am not sure if I'm the slightest bit interesting.
In any case, once more the conversation made me think about the contradictions of weblogs. Here we are with this hugely available medium for communication, this semi-anonymous method of talking to the world, of being heard -- and yet so many webloggers struggle with the same problems. What can I talk about? Who am I writing for? Who is reading me? Is anyone reading me?
Fear. Stark, abject, contradictory fear. That's what it comes down to. We fear repercussions from speaking freely. People lose their jobs over weblogs. Internet friendships go down in flamewars. Spammers find you, or worse, you attract the attention of someone with nothing better to do but harrass your comments or your email. There are simply hundreds of potential hobgobblins threatening the person who uses a weblog to talk to the world.
But it is worse to be gagged and silent, isn' t it? Worse to live in fear of the monsters who may not really be under the bed at all. Worse not to have this particular outlet where you can, let's face it, say things you never manage to say in daily life -- especially if you always think of the snappy come back the day after.
I see everyone who keeps a weblog, be they some well known writer or obscure nobody, as balancing on the same wire, trying to do the same things -- write well, say interesting things, be something (bold, brash, funny, angry, wise, reflective, insightful...pick a word, there's someone trying to do it in a weblog) that others want to read, and perhaps even like enough to talk back. Underneath that high wire are all the rocks and whirlpools of failure -- being dull and boring, writing badly looking stupid, sounding whiny, etc. etc...
I've kept some form of online journal now since 1998, and I still come up with only a handful of reasons to push on with it despite the constant nagging and gagging of my doubts and fears.
First reason to weblog: I'm a talker, and I like to talk to people. I keep hoping they will talk back.
Second reason to weblog: I've met some great folks through the internet and I don't want to lose that.
Third reason to weblog: It makes me write almost every day, or at least think about writing.
And, when all else fails in a conversation, one can always talk about the blog.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Now, this is a subject of huge interest to me. Since I can remember realizing that other people have thoughts and feelings, I realized I usually had no clue what those were, and I really wanted to know. Oh, I could imagine and guess and analyize, but how could I really ever know what someone else was thinking and feeling? I mean, we are all subjective individuals with very specialized, personalized experiences that cannot be really replicated or understood by another, right?
That's an idea I see a lot in Japanese manga, by the way -- that you cannot in any way understand what another person is going through, so all you can do is not judge them. I suspect this is in reaction to qualities of Japanese society with which I am not very familiar, but that's a whole 'nuther topic. It runs counter to a lot of Western thought, what with the idea of "walk a mile in someone else's shoes".
Anyway, this is interesting -- and not nearly as dramatic as my science fiction imaginings. More over, I'm just pleased Mr. Spock gets a mention.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
And it was on this day in 1937 that German bombers attacked and destroyed the city of Guernica in Spain. Hitler was one of the allies of the Fascist side, the side of Franco, in the Spanish Civil War, and he wanted to use the Spanish Civil War as a testing ground for his new blitzkrieg military strategy.
It was a Monday, this day in 1937, a market day in Guernica, farmers were in the town square with their harvest, shoppers filled the street, and that afternoon the German Luftwaffe attacked.
Guernica, the painting, is one of those permanent memory things for me. I don't remember where I saw it first -- probably in school. I remember feeling confused, and not liking the painting, and how it seemed to make pain look cartoony. I've seen parodies of it I've read about what it means or what it is.
In my vivid imagination, I hear the planes and the sound of bombs and the screaming. All of these noises come from movies and television, and are only imitations of imitations in my head. Still, they scare me enough. Did someone make paintings for other days when bombs came down?
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Declaration of the Unitarian Jihad
Yeah, I think I can help in the ongoing battle to bring forth calm and rational exchanges of differing points of view, even up to and including agreeing to simply disagree.
Oh, for all revolutionary purposes, you may refer to me in all correspondence as
Mother Superior Cat-o-nine-tails of Sympathy.
Hey, maybe I can get it printed on my underwear.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Most of the time I don't think about these things. I have other things to think about. I have other things to do. There's laundry and dishes and ironing. The birds and the cats and the big lumpy dog. My husband who loves me even as we don't understand each other, even when we talk passed each other, even as we stare wondering who is this person to whom we are attached, with whom we are marching along toward the whatever. There are friends I see only rarely, or talk to only on line. There are TV shows and movies and music and books to read and events in the world upon which to ponder and comment. There are weeds needing pulling and plants needing watering, and I really should vacuum. Most of the time I'm thinking about all that.
I've got music to learn. I've got stories to write, edit, polish, write again. I've got jewelry to craft, picking up bright bits of wire and glass and stone to shape into something out of my head. I need to do a lot of things to prepare for other things, all lining up in front of me, waiting for me to to get to them so they, too, can zoom passed.
Most of the time I'm alright. The rain doesn't bother me. Christmas carols don't bother me. Ads for Father's day aren't a problem. Baby diaper ads just aren't an issue. Hearing about someone else's book or record or movie or whatever form success takes is just one more news item. I don't think about why I am or am not special, whether or not this need I have to be noticed without having to jump up and down, waving my arms is ego or normal, if I am somehow ok just as I am, with all that I am or all that I am not. We all do that, I think, to one point or another. I don't want to. I'd like to be noticed just because I exist, whether I deserve it or not, and much of the time I feel like I am quietly sitting in my hole, secret and unknown.
It doesn't bother me most of the time.
Your Linguistic Profile:
|55% General American English|
|5% Upper Midwestern|
Actually, my speech has a wide number of influences, not least among them my Auntie Gladys. She was not really my aunt, but she made sure I knew early on that "aunt" did not have 6 legs. Then there were all the years of watching Monty Python and Britcoms on PBS to mess me up. Oh, and five (now 6) years with the Confounded Metal Orthodontic Torture Devices.
I actually consider myself multi-dialectical. I do speak Redneck. I also speak Basic Southern. I've a smattering of British English and I can manage in both New York and Colorado pretty well. I've not yet been to California, so I don't know if they'd understand me there. People who are from the "real south" (Central Florida is about as un-Southern as you can manage) think I am from Ohio. People from Ohio suspect I'm from the South somewhere, but can't quite decide until a "ya'll" slips out.
Stolen from this handsome fella again, because I can.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
But what I noticed whiel looking was that the photo is over 8 months old. Yup, it's an OLD satellite photo. Outdated.
You see, the facility where I work sits alone on some acreage and has many trees around it. After last September's block buster hurricane season, several of the trees nearest the building came down and were removed. Those trees are all still in evidence in the photos. Also, at least 8 months ago, but possibly closer to a year, the "country airport" -- smaller, private plane hangers -- was dismantled for reconstruction and has been significantly altered. That isn't in the photo either. Nor is the new Home Depot opened about 4-5 months ago above Apopka. It DOES show the new toll road connection, so the pictures aren't more than 2 years old. However, there are also a number of lakes showing very low water levels, some completely dry. So I'm thinking the photos might be as old as a year, maybe a little more, since we had a fairly wet year last year and most of the lakes are near normal levels now.
It is discouraging. From the talk and bother, I'd thought these were, if not real time, at least reasonably up-to-date. They are part of Google Maps and everything after all, and supposedly you can locate businesses and addresses and such. Yah, it's kinda neat and fun, but it's just a bunch of old pictures to me now.
Florida, Internet, Google
It makes me look at my own relationship. I know Husband loves me, but his nature is not as clingy and emotional as mine. I imagine, as I have imagined so many times, how I would live if my marriage dissolved, and I can't see it. I can't see having anything left after. Perhaps that speaks badly about me. It certainly bothers Husband. He says -- and I have to admit it bothers me greatly -- that he feels certain his life would go on even if I were no longer a part of it.
Of course, he does not respond to loss as I do. His losses in life have been fewer, differently staged and timed. This doesn't mean they weren't painful to him, but either they were not as scarring or I am more easily scarred. Or perhaps it is that I am a few years older and so perhaps a smidgen more aware of my mortality. Either way, that's what I see. For me, losses are devastating. I put much into relationships, even small ones, and when they die, they take some of what I put in away. That doesn't mean I don't get something back, but whatever that is I get back isn't equivalent. It may balance in the cosmic scale, just as apples and oranges on a physical scale can balance but not be the same thing.
Anyway, it just makes us cling a little tighter to each other. I know people change, life changes, things happen -- I know all that. I know there are bumps and bruises, detours and unexpected destinations. I know that a marriage takes constant work, daily and hourly. I know there's no point in borrowing trouble into the future. Now is what I have, and every "now" I get has to be handled as it comes. Still, seeing other people go over these bumps in their life road always makes me want to stop and check my tires.
Monday, April 18, 2005
By the time I hit 5th grade, my mom had remarried and we had moved. My new school did not have as good a library as my old school and I soon ran through what they had to offer. There was one wall of fiction, about 4 cases wide, then one fullheight case and one half height case were turned to make a corner. On a half height case on the OTHER side of this make-shift wall was the Science Fiction section. My life was changed when I picked up Andre Norton's "Forerunner Foray". Oh, I'd read some close to SF stuff before that -- Lloyd Alexander's "Time Cat" comes to mind. But this? This was the real thing. I'd not imagined stuff like this before. Oh, I'd tried to read "Left Hand of Darkness" in third grade but got nowhere. Much too advanced for me then (notions about politics - gender and social -- were tough for a third grader). I'd read a lot of mythology and fairytales, so I was primed. But now I was really intrigued.
Also at that time, a local station began showing 'Star Trek' reruns in the afternoon. Destiny came for me.
So, I've had a lifelong love of sf, fantasy, mystery -- all those "genre" books. I avoided westerns and romances, but I nibbled my way through so much else. Oh, I still read the occasional "classic" -- for school, although sometimes just because I was interested -- and some mainstream fiction, but my tastes were set. Now, at the Ft. Gatlin library, they kept a paper grocery sack behind the counter for me (the big ones, that actually held groceries...I wax nostalgic here) because I would check out 20-30 books at a time. Most of their SF was in paperbacks, with maybe 100 hardcover library editions in the collection. I went through it before I was out of 6th grade. I also started ordering books through school -- remember the "Scholastic Books" thing where you could buy books cheap from a special program? I loved that. That's where my allowance went once a month.
That's also when I discovered used book stores. Near my dad's apartment was another shopping center with a grocery store and a bar, a drug store and a used book store. Dad would get groceries and go down for a beer while I combed those cardboard flats. They were cheap and my dad rarely refused to buy me anything (weekend dads, you know how it works) and I think, somewhere in his soul, the idea that he was buying me books instead of toys (although I got those, too -- my collection of Barbie fashions was enviable) gave him a virtuous glow.
I moved again when I started jr. high, and my new school was the former highschool. The library was a highschool library, not a scaled down, cleaned up, purified collection for the 12-14 set. And it had a sizeable SF section, oh rapture, oh joy. I still visited the Ft. Gatlin branch about once a month. Now I was reading Heinlein and Bradbury and...oh, just scads of books. I don't even remember a lot of them, I read so much so fast.
When I moved into highschool, suddenly my reading seemed to slow down. You see, in 9th grade I read "Dune", and suddenly everything I checked out was a big, meaty novel. I'd check out just as many books, but I couldn't read them all before due date. I was devastated. What was wrong with me? It was a personal shame to return books unread. I was a junior before it occured to me that the page count per book had tripled. Finishing off 6-8 books of 200 pages each in 2 weeks was no great feat. On a good rainy weekend I could do that. But step up the size and speed dropped. (I tried reading Michner's "Hawaii" about then, but lost interest as soon as people showed up).
My reading continued to slow as I got older and developed a life. I stopped going to the library when I found I was returning more books unread than read. If I wanted a book, I'd buy it, learning the ins and outs of many used book stores around my area, even making weekend trips with like minded friends to other towns to comb their used racks. That was when I started stockpiling books. I rarely stepped foot into a Waldens (about all there was in Florida for new books at the time). Buying new was anathema to my soul. I could wait because it would show up in the stacks sooner or later for 1/4 the cover price. When I found it, I'd buy it and store it for when I had time to read.
Then, time marched on and Barnes and Noble sent me a catalog. Then QBBC hooked me. Then, after many years, Amazon. I could indulge every book whim. And then the huge bookstores -- B&N, Borders -- showed up. And, of course, I moved to a town with a good local indie bookstore.
My book stockpile has grown considerably. I now have at least 2/5 unread books in my collection, maybe more. It's a shame. I sometimes read a new book when I get it. I sometimes don't read it for many years until one day -- wham -- that's the book I want. And I've begun culling books as I go, since they overflow my shelves onto the floor, even though I actually have a library room in my house (well, I actually store books in 3 rooms, with a few shelves in other rooms...I've got books everywhere except the bathrooms...usually). I now actually go through my books and pull out some for donations or used book sell back. I no longer make regular used bookstore trips unless I'm searching for an old title.
This long narrative has a point, I swear. The history of my reading has now, after 40 years, culminated in a stark realization.
I read trash.
No no no, SF is not trash. I'm not downgrading any genre fiction per se. I mean that, doing the little meme and thinking about what I've read lately and looking at what is on my shelves unread, I've discovered when given a choice between a recognized "good book" and a lesser known, less literary work, I'll go with the second choice most every time. When people start listing their book reading, I find I'm embarrassed. Other people seem to be reading informative, challenging, well reviewed stuff with substance, importance, even staying power. I read stuff with much less stature, as a matter of course. And I feel ashamed.
I won't even mention the amount of erotica I've been reading. It's spring, after all, and I don't hold myself culpable (there's a whole story there, but I'm not telling it here). But, as much as I love the paranormal mysteries and the Regency Romances (yeah, I succumbed to those about 3 years ago, but only 1 author! She's just written about 70 books. I'm set for life there.) I've got so much other stuff I SHOULD be reading, stuff just sitting there staring at me.
I keep a short case just for books I haven't read yet. It's much too small and no longer holds everything, but here's what's on just the bottom shelf.
Kate Remembered -- biography of Katherine Hepburn
A Hunger for Home -- analysis of Louisa May Alcott and Little Women
Young Medieval Women
Number 10 (ok, I don't know if this is a worthy read, but the cover flap got me)
In Fact: The Best of Creative Nonfiction
Color: A Natural History of the Palette
The Life of the World to Come
Revenge of a Middle-Aged Woman
Kitchen (Banana Yoshimoto -- I guess it's Japanese chick lit)
Angels and Demons (Early Dan Brown that I read halfway and lost interest in)
Lady Chatterley's Lover
The Cats of Moon Cottage
And a John Crowly Omnibus of Beasts, Engine Summer, and Little, Big
That's ONE SHELF of the case. And I'm looking at the next Laurel K. Hamilton, an author for whom I've lost respect, in a series I'm reading as much to poke at its shortcomings as for the story itself (which, honestly, involves a fairly interesting political plot, a neat mythical social structure, a decent main character, and lots and lots and LOTS of mediocre kinky soft erotica that actually I skip through quickly, as it is all pretty much the same except for people and occasionally conversation. Oh, and violence, usually with lots of blood.)
So I'm ashamed. My reading choices do not live up to my own standards, even though I know I'm gonna read that Hamilton book anyway, and fairly soon. I'm not even gonna tell you what's on the TOP shelf, or what's piling around in various other places.
Sheesh. Now I have to go read something.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?
Any number of times over my life, pretty much a character in whatever I'm reading for the length of the book. I was all about Lemuel Gulliver when I was 11, don't ask why because I don't know.
The last book you bought is:
I just got in a large order of books, only half of which I have read. I buy books and store them until I'm ready to read. I'll often read one book after another for a week or two, then not read again for a while. Technically, the last book to show up is A Stroke of Midnight (Meredith Gentry Novel) by Laurel K. Hamilton, a series I really can't recommend unless you like a little plot with your repetitive semi-sorta kinky sex and fight scenes. Paranormal mystery, supposedly, although at this point I can't tell, and you need a score card to sort characters by skin and hair color.
What are you currently reading?
I'm deciding right now. I just finished reading Blood Rites (The Dresden Files Series Book 6) by Jim Butcher. Love me a good paranormal mystery. It's an addiction. And I have my usual giant stack of unread books waiting for my attention. I could go in any number of directions -- something Regency Romantic by Georgette Heyer, that Hamilton book above, or the Nabokov I picked up last summer and have staring at me right now.
Five books you would take to a desert island.
Luckily for me, I have a lot of omnibus editions.
The complete works of Jane Austen because, aside from Mansfield Park, they never get old for me. (Fanny Price gives me the irrits)
My annotated Sherlock Holmes
The Left Hand of Darkness (Remembering Tomorrow) by Ursula Le Guin
Sex in History by Reay Tannahill
Complete Book of Marvels by Richard Halliburton
If you are overwhelmingly curious about what I've read, I keep a list online. There's a link in the sidebar to the left called "List of Books". I update it several times a year, depending on how ambitious I'm feeling.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Seems that back in March when I thought I had the flu, I actually had either bronchitis or pneumonia. They did chest x-rays and such, and loaded me with medication. I've decided that after this much time, the anti-biotic may be a good idea as it appears to be a bacterial infection that's holding on like mad. Thus, drugs. Woo hoo. I do lOOOoooOoooooovve to take pills, almost as much as I love digging splinters out of my ass.
Yes, I've had to do that. It was an old wooden dock by a lake and no one warned me. Shut up.
I always feel sort of Gomer Pyle "Golly" when I learn I've been more than nominally ill. I always have little illnesses, minor things (a lifetime of being hauled into the doctor by my over-protective mother who believed medical science was EVERYTHING and doctors were godlike) and being accused of hypocondria has made me reluctant to do anything other than stay in bed when I am ill. Oh, it's complicated.
But...a multi-syllabic illness? Goooolllly!
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Your movie star name: Chocolate Cecil
Your fashion designer name is Sherri Amsterdam
Your socialite name is Muffy New York
Your fly girl / guy name is S Mur
Your detective name is Cat West-Orange
Your barfly name is Chocolate Vodka
Your soap opera name is Jeanne Palomas
Your rock star name is Chocolate Cheetah
Your star wars name is Sheoph Murjay
Your punk rock band name is The Calm Banana
I'm actually thinking "The Calm Banana" would work. And "Jeanne Palomas" sounds JUST like a soap character, don't you think?
No. I have absolutely nothing better to do right now but take silly quizzes, unless you are somehow so perverted you think folding socks is "better".
|You scored as Buddhism. Your beliefs most closely resemble those of Buddhism. Do more research on Buddhism and possibly consider becoming Buddhist, if you are not already.|
In Buddhism, there are Four Noble Truths: (1) Life is suffering. (2) All suffering is caused by ignorance of the nature of reality and the craving, attachment, and grasping that result from such ignorance. (3) Suffering can be ended by overcoming ignorance and attachment. (4) The path to the suppression of suffering is the Noble Eightfold Path, which consists of right views, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right-mindedness, and right contemplation. These eight are usually divided into three categories that base the Buddhist faith: morality, wisdom, and samadhi, or concentration. In Buddhism, there is no hierarchy, nor caste system; the Buddha taught that one's spiritual worth is not based on birth.
Pretty damned accurate for an online quiz, don'tcha know? Actually, I agree more with Taoism than Buddhism, but they don't list that. And Paganism? Right up there. Hell, The Husband is an actual pagan priest without the "flapflap whakawhaka". Well, without too much of it.
I protest the Satanism thing, though, because that's just another form of Christianity (well, it IS -- without Christianity, Satanism would have never come into being, because Satanism is just a contrarian form intended to mock Christianity...which is a strange reason for a religion, but there it is.) "Do as thou wilt" ain't the story for me. "Do as thou wilt, an' it hurt none" is more my speed. Except for cockroaches...no amnesty for cockroaches.
Swiped with great respect from Famous Author Rob
Saturday, April 09, 2005
If it's annoying me enough to call it "fanbreath" then I should get my lazy ass up and turn the fan off. If I can't do that, my lazy ass is lobbying for its own zip code.
Why does the word "yakatori" make me think of someplace to buy yaks? Why does changing it to "yickitori" make me want to laugh? Is "yakatori" even a real word, because if it is, I'll bet its Japanese and it isn't the least bit funny. Now I have to go look.
It's Chicken on a Stick and I misspelled it. Yahoo likes "yakitori" better. I was still wrong. It is funny. Of course, that also explains "yickitori". My internal spell check may not work well, but it tries.
I miss the old style plastic measuring cups that used to come with NiQuil. They were hard and carefully marked and made you feel guilty for throwing them away. Of course, since no one remembered to wash them, they also had green gunk crystalized in the bottom for all eternity. But, if you are taking NiQuil, it's hard to care. You start slugging it straight from the bottle after a while anyway.
On one hand, being a former member of one group and having had a close association with the other, and now standing where I do as an avowed member of neither, this is just dumb. My own belief system says those who have died will continue on their paths absolutely outside the control or intervention of any living person.
On the other, I think it's just plain rude to the living. I believe (as a former member) that the Church of Latter Day Saints is a very successful cult, just like all religions start out or can be termed as cults. They emphasize separating one's self from others who are not members of the cult (big red arrow) among other things (much like Orthodox sects of Jews do, for that matter). But it takes a very special sense of entitlement to insult living people by "converting" their dead relatives to your belief system, saying, in effect, "your religious beliefs are so wrong and ours are so right that even your dead relatives are changing over to our way."
Almost like they are accusing Jewish mothers of wearing combat boots, kinda sorta.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
I'm blaming this on turning 40. I mean, yeah, I've never been the healthiest of individuals, but this year has been ridiculous. Out of the first 4 months, I've managed to be sick -- really, grossly, obviously sick -- in 3 of them, for periods of at least 7 days at a time. What the hell is going on? I protest!
It's got to be some sort of subversive plot, only I can't think of anyone in particular who would be plotting against me. Of course, those are the very people you have to watch for, the ones you don't think would do anything bad to you. The ones you trust the most are the ones you can't really trust because who is in a better position to be really sneaky and spy-ish than someone you don't even suspect? I mean, it's never the one you suspect, so you should suspect the one you don't suspect, right?
Dropped my duckie again. Ooops.
It is officially beautiful weather outside, which is why I am looking at it through a window. Officially beautiful is a touch too warm and too bright for my comfort. However, I have no fear. Tomorrow is supposed to be quite stormy. They even expect hail. Woo hoo.
If this coughing sore throat thing continues, I'll sleep through all of it. Damn germs.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Those limits have come smack up in my face. Ya know why? I KNOW some of you people who read this. And I'm faced with the constant demonic voice that haunts so many of our neurotic dreams.
"If you REALLY knew me, you wouldn't like me."
Is that, excuse me, fucked up, or what?
I've oft commented to other webloggers that there is no need to have separate weblogs for separate things. Now, at long last, I grok. I get it. It isn't about the topic. It's about the audience!
Now, don't get me wrong. I like most of you (those I don't like will just have to guess who they are, because I'm a nice person and won't say bad things about people unless they get in my face about it.) I'm pleased and proud and perfectly happy to have you stopping in here and paying attention to me. It's great, it's wonderful. But I've built this image of who you are in my head, and...well...There are just some things this image in my head does not want to hear me discuss. And if I told you what those things were you would not want to hear them, so I'm not even going to MENTION them.
So I find myself at a crossroads. Since I can talk about ALMOST anything here -- including gory physical details and what I had for lunch -- I'm talking about my dilemma. But I'm dancing around the actual subject. Aren't I enigmatic? Or I dropped my duckie in the tub, one of the two.
I kinda already did this when I created my writing journal, because I figured a lot of people wouldn't care to read my writing prompts and assorted story ideas here, and because I had a set of links and graphics and la-de-dah I wanted to use. I linked it here, and I'm not hiding it, because it's a choice thing. I don't mind if people know about that part of me. And it isn't like I've developed some kinky new illegal hobby. I'm still about as white-bread Middle America as they come. I'm not likely to have run-ins with law enforcement, government officials, Jerry Springer or Oprah. I'm awfully ordinary -- well, I can write in complete sentences with both a subject and a predicate, and I do know how to punctuate. This puts me somewhat above being COMPLETELY ordinary. But, still...
It just strikes me as odd that I could fall to the same logic as so many, when I know it's there and I know what causes it. This being only human shit is really hard.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Anyway, last night's concert went on fine and as usual, "as usual" meaning lots of teeny drama and no major drama. We have a lot of people out for sickness and family issues, so some sections are a little shaky. Ah well.
I suppose I could make a big story out of that -- my ensemble is missing a person, another is missing two, lots of us are standing next to people we didn't stand next to in rehearsal, etc. -- but not only do I not FEEL a lot of concern about this, I can't even work up enough to moan about it. Feh. The show goes on, blah blah blah.
My throat feels indifferently uncooperative, which is a little worrisome. My voice has a griding, groaning sound in it. Ah well.
I was awakened from a deep dreaming sleep by a random voice seemingly calling my name. It sounded a little like Husband, only I couldn't figure out where he was. I woke, and actually checked my cell phone (we have that direct connect walkie-talkie thing -- we call it "tweedling" because of the alert noise it makes when you press the button) but that wasn't it. Turns out Husband was sitting quietly in the living room and someone outside was calling, we think, a dog. It was already moving into afternoon, thanks to DST, so I didn't go back to bed. I feel drugged, listless, indifferent, uninspired. Ah well.
5 hours until we leave. Must Find Energy, Voice, and a Desire to Stay Awake between now and then.