jmoiron.net

Its been quite a few days since I set out to rewrite this site in python, and so far, I have only constructed a minimal scaffolding where I want my great statue to stand. How the brilliant fire of fervor can die down to the smoking head of a recently lit match, blown out by the wind or put out of its misery by a single rain drop, is beyond me. How my mind that seemingly lives only in pursuit of its own destruction due to overactivity manages to latch on to something so completely only to let it go is also not yet within my understanding.

So what happens? The site sits idly by, a testament to my innability to procure white stripes tickets. My projects stand first and foremost, tall and proud, ivy clad mossen monuments of the effects of time and the ability for someone to break down and be unable to build back up. And even now I can feel it; my mind is a stagnant pool where there was not too long ago a roaring ocean, but a body that was once made of water is now made of gasoline, poised to ignite in a catastrophic display of self destructive feverous activity.

What will ignite it? What was it last time? Was it a person, or was it a thing; a song, an injury, a movie, a flat white rock with golden letters, half rubbed out by attention? If it was love, surely today I wouldn't feel like this.

And until I can make that synapse fire off an exploding ocean of production, i can only sit here in the cold, cold night, drifting on the sea explosive potential energy, observing life in high fidelity, fishing for an idea without any bait. I can't say its not a relaxing trip though, but perhaps I force myself back to the frenetic pace too early; It feels as though its like I always try to go back to work JUST before I really should; and then all of that time spent gathering energy is simply wasted.

Or spent playing freecell. Or playing Zelda. My current freecell record is 97 and 4; I have quite a few failed games of minesweeper to my credit as well. The fucked up thing about minesweeper is that sooner or later it comes back down to a guess. And this rambling of course details the reason my brain doesn't work well.

I started writing this 'weblog' again after a long absense because I wanted to write; and I wanted a forum for my work that was frequently updated enough for people to actually read it; and I think thusfar I have been successful. A major tenet of this rewriting is that I would write about what I want to write about; its useless to me to outline the day's fucked up happenings around the world as I got into the habit of doing previously; after all, there are much better places to gather that information, and much worse places as well.

It brings me so much more pleasure to bring up some small, unimportant truth or insight that people don't already see than it does to bang people over the head with yet more proof that the things they already know are right. Its a dangerous trap to fall into; trying to be informative and actionary ends up sounding repetitive; and it ends up not being interesting; a trap that others are heading towards; its not just me.

And the only way to bring up unimportant truths is to be blatantly truthful. I only usually put one side here; and lo, Wendy noticed. I mention her in passing, or when I'm upset about something, but the truth, if I were to use so bold a word, is that she's far more important a friend than her coverage here would suggest. Why? Perhaps because I wouldn't want to mention her over and over superficially, or perhaps because theres nothing ever interesting to say that you would want to read. But, as long as we're being truthful, might as well set the record straight: Wendy, you're important to me, and I love you.

Maydrea made a long and conclusive post showing how my innocent musings were actually socially unconcious attacks on a feminist movement that I have not read enough material on to understand. I can't say that is really the truth, although it sure sounded straight on; but I'm not really perplexed by the questions I posed; I was just wondering if anyone else found them to be sad ironies. Apparently, people do.

Which reminds me; sooner or later, I wish to escape the legacy of a long line of my ancestors that persecuted women, and the long line of half of my ancestors that might or might not have persecuted black people. Its obviously a grievance that most women have grown up with a puritan ethic and some socialy debilitating feeling that they need to be "the good girl", or that hundreds of thousands of Africans were shipped here against their will for a life of hard work and humiliation for no pay; but I grew up 80 years after the initial womens rights movement; 70 years after womens sufferage, 30 years after the destruction of Jim Crow, 20 years after the civil rights movement hit warp speed, and 5 years after it was generally accepted that these movements were in fact right. I do not have first hand knowledge of a time or place where it was OK to be prejudiced. Forgive me if I don't understand why my peers are so sensitive to these issues, but perhaps I just have the unique position of not being concerned with these things because they do not impact me. Forgive me if I know more guys that are p-whipped than girls who are beat by their asshole boyfriends; forgive me if I don't live in your overbearingly patriarchal society.