C a r o l y n ' s D i a r y
diary.carolyn.org
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vIRTUALLY yOURS:
mY
cOGNITIVE
aND
... Today |
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| be warned: this is my diary... clb | page 48 | |||
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C a r o l y n ' s D i a r y
diary.carolyn.org
|
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vIRTUALLY yOURS:
mY
cOGNITIVE
aND
... Today |
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|---|---|---|---|---|
| be warned: this is my diary... clb | page 48 | |||
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very tired, uninterested in most things and lethargic. why?
that seems about right
wishing i hadn't lost the infrastructure to create diary entries... manual works, but i am put off by the thought that i might only write one entry and then back off again as i did after i stopped writing carol'ns diary
would writing online help though? the big issues are still outstanding, and dare i write about the past anyway? would those thoughts and events not just harm everyone?
i don't know how this lethargy will end. i've been just waiting for a sign or some energy, some enthusiasm to jump int o help. it isn't. it probably won't. such things happen because one puts out energy. reaches out. and i know so little now. wading through oceans of factoids trying not to sink into the dark oblivion, to drown. is i
t the solitude? the lack of media presence? the comparison to kelly and carly who do things and are being recognized for having done things. why am i isolated? can I blame richard for that? i want to. he's the doer of horrible things, the holder of the kill-it mindset. and i am dead. lax mumblings about how he's sorry he lied to me, and how it bothers him when he thinks of it. and visits to chinese buffets with chicken balls with sweet and sour hot sauce... reminescing back totimes when he lied to me. ties to tragic, information distortion, lying. what can my future be anyway? i don't know any longer. floating about on clouds woven of cross-fingers. maybe they won't notice that i only make pretty charts and don't know anythng more than that. acting like they invent these ideas and thoughts, craig, richard, others, while i know that research and idea-theft are a large part of the wevae, perhaps the only part with a bit of relevent timing tossed in to sound profound or inspired. practice it all and spill it out yuor moth to impress other folks.
my ideas lost awash the beaches of sound bytes. do i have any? why don't they ever reflect back to me? where is my voice? who hears it?
the streets dance with festivity open to all, andi sit alone looking out my window... trying ot shower, trying to get dressed, trying to feel alive without a stimulant. trying to push myslef up the beaches into the green organic forest. but still barely keeping afloat.
i wish i could love my life again. where is it though? what was it before when i still liked things?
neurotic phone calls from an ex-boyfriend who cares about some book. he didn't realize that that was what bothered me actually. he must know though. and i know my failing to return a book i didn't want t borrow would bother him, but i don't much care about that. why lend it to me when i didn't want it. i know better then to lend me things. too much work worrying about another person's stuff.
happiness? what is it..
thoughts that lead no where else but back to themselves. like these. perhaps reflected back to me in words, i'd find out htat they actually exist. do my ideas exist? how can i tell?
hold me close please. i have progressed no farther in all of this. i am simply poorer.
i miss peter. i miss his healing concern. i miss hanging outin small venues with him, the odd social awkwardness of wearing a suit with artists int eh room... wondering who i am that i am trated so nicely, so goddamned nicely.
stimulants don't help. short wanted distractions of postiive pleasure until used and then they vanish...no actualchange in my life
nothing
Travelling the convexities of remorse. Thoughts and feelings owned by some sort of life depleting essence that is the lack of hope. I am the contents of Pandora's box without hope emergent. Should I open further?
What sometimes happens in this most civilized of worlds is surprising. Our final deciding points are the courts representing th best we have figured out in the fairness game. Quite a remarkable choice really. Having professional decision makers reside over those decisions no one else can agree to. Enforced of course by force where needed.
Truly remarkable.
And I am tired of having lived in a space where this became necessary.
Can we pick and choose agreements and agreers that don't end here? I wonder a lot.
Small changes accumulating into a different picture, andyet one that is still very much the same as the past. How do we really go beyond hte old into something different, truly different? Easy solution, work with new people. Harder solution, work with the same people to draft up new bluepr ints of ways to be, ways to do.
Marred surfaces. Inner core sanctums. Weathering and experience carving na etching surfaces creating involutions within. And I look up at the stars as we always have, and wonder when, if, we will travel further then our backyard.
Ca I wait for the long darkness of death? How many sit on the curb, just watching? If I hold out even a mote of interest I trael fast and far. My evergy swweps everywhere, and I create new things. I have been forged this past year in betrayal and love. Steely hardened and disappointed eyes, no longer trusting and no longer wanting. A truer aceticism in my life now. "Open further," I say to the breezes on high, wishing them t sweep away the patent unwillingness of each of us to enjoy and have fun.
Emptying my responsibilites onto a platter to for all to see. Look closely. There is a potato, and besides it, carrots. Condiments crowd the surrounding table, and I lift my fork to another to share. Oooops. betrayal. so simple, and me accused of it. so simple and painful.
And I took up smoking last month in rebellion. Phasing through vices searching for a way out of aceticism whle retaining the values of simplicity and clarity.
Forged. Steeled. To forge. To steel. Oddd...
Loneliness... a natural state for each of us. I find myself wondering whtether we can ever truly conquer the feeling. Can we reach out beyond our own understanding while we are forever bounded by perspective discourse?
Perhaps loneliness isn't that at all. Have I chosen a life that is bounded instead by a colder comminicative barrier then mere understanding? Touching another requires that other to be available. Openings are created voluntarily. Once more I open up to let out what I cannot share in person with the boundary mongerers. I'm sure it is not a coincidence.. inside me there is healing to do.
Story tellers talking of current events and tales of other peoples' discoveries. I am a part of this tale only in so far as I touch the social fabric. I used to pursue this so that I could be inside the stories. I ask now though, aren't our personal stories also important? Who is to tell these? And who is to listen?
That is loneliness.
Sunrise. ICQ. Surfing. Waiting for the rest of you to awaken. A thought or two about the way thinks could be. Thinking of a remark Richard made, that I'm in a conspiracy against him. How awful. How could he be so paranoid? Does he always feel surrounded and cornered? Does he now?
I oppose cruelty and bad treatment. I don't need to conspire to oppose these things.
Today I am quitting smoking. Only been doing it for 2 months. Started on purpose -- exploring the seeming satisfaction curves it offers. They are fictional once you are hooked. Beautiful sales pitch though. After two months, whenever I feel stressed I associate calm with the damn things, and run away to smoke one. Beautiful indeed. So I'll stop now that I really remember what its like.
So many things hold out the promise of satisfaction, Oscar Wilde style. Foolish humans, us. We should know better. Time to tune back in to what actually makes me feel good, namely acseticism.
And good friends.
later...
Funny how easily my self-esteem crashes these days... a few angry words aimed at me, and at the world, and I feel like nothing. No tolerance for anymore of that. It doesn't matter what the circumstances are. My onion layers of protection were peeled away last year. Nothing is left when you get to the center except perhaps the memory of onion, and tears.
A few milder days alone helped. Without a goal though, i am lost in the wind. Sensation doesn't help. Doing stuff doesn't help. Being around people, lots ofthem, does though. The conforming niceness of groups feels good. I am almost get lost in feelings of inclusion. A healing occurs for awhile as I acquire a sense of self reflected back in the eyes of people who listen when I speak. Really listen. And as I listen too, something more often emerges... a sharing of space/time.
The hive os society feels empty with goals. Where is the queen bee? Wasn't I one once? Should I try again? Perhaps differently? Or should I, could I, be happy just whittling my life away on nothng much.. working, playing, working, playing, death.
God damn... I am morbid. Where are the bootstraps? Wouldn't it be nice to find a way to give a gentle tug, and voila, purpose.
Upwards? Sideways... somewhere else entirely? Or reposition what I have to fly... carrying heavy things wears me out too fast. Flying though... yes.
flight
orbit
FTL travel
lying on a beach with the sun beating down, waves and coconuts.
on a hot Canadian summer day.
An endless vortex is a really bad description of my life. It's closer to sitting on the speeding current of a fast and wide old river during a heavy rain. No spinning.
Make decisions quickly and then try to keep them. Watch everything else go by without having an influence. Learn to swim soon.
Perhaps a gentler day. I had dunner with Richard last night. While he sat talking to me about clients and business things, my mind wanderd away. Communication happens when two people agree on a goal, on speaking the same language, on sharing the exploration space using each other's understandings.
We did this about work. That's important, i know the to improvement of what we've built. I just sometimes get teh sense that rote isn't the best source of ideas.
I like th efeeling of generaating ideas in response to situations. It doesn't matter to me the source of hte ideas, whether they are origianl or borrowed, copied or created. I like the sense that my mind was involved in the creation in some manner. I think that goes missing when I talk with him. Things I say are treated as rote sources too. I wondered what i could do to break out of this enshrouding mold of interpretation.
Talk to others.
hazard of life, feeling like it is just so much work. Why do we twist and turn to improve and get ahead? ut of desparation? A feeling of ambition? Perhaps fear? At some point, when I am totally wonderfully happy, I feel that I just want to do something challenging. And this is why I push ahead today. I know that feeling -- by memory at least. The challenging, soul-growing opportunities that underly our sense of life... these pull me toward a greater future.
And yet today is not really such a day. Spirals of small todos... taken as if they are the end of the world. WHy can't I be flip about this stuff... its a wonderful survival behaviour. Or let my body go through the motions while my mind soars into teh clouds and beyond soaring. Floating into the galactic myriads.
Last day of July. I've been regarding August as a social black hole. My schedule doesn't include all the things it could... I haven't been adding them in, almost as if in my mind the gravity well of life is too strong for me.
I don't know, I don't remember how to want things. i don't know what to want. How do yuo make new goals and dreams from nothing, from the ruins of a life that already acheived everything tried.
I feel like a big loser in so many ways... after havingwon. But with a really bad memory that doesn't work for me, doens't accumulate the details in any usable fashion, how do you, how do I use those experiences to create new things? And what to create anyway in a worl too driven by progress to stop and enjoy?
Why do I go through periodic states of depression?
Stupid question.. i know why. In part, cause I'm just programmed by my life to be that way. in part cause its easier.
All my references to life are stripped away by convention-mongerers. My own words don't sing out loudly, and the desires and dreams i have/had are not relevant to my business partner.
Do I have the strength to do it all on my own? What are these seasoned opinions i own? Why didn't I open an office in the US when i wanted to, as an escape and a dream and the possibility of working with great people? Fear? Loneliness.
And once again in secret - unpublicised - I want to write my thoughts out generously. It's a long weekend here. But I didn't realize that until yesterday. So I didn't make any traditional long weekend plans. I wish I had. But I live day to day in my plans and thoughts of things to do and things to want.
I wish i had things to write about that were full of enthusiasm and greatness and help for others. And instead i need t meander through, well, depression. A state neatly covered up on that same day to day basis. Minimizing the obligations and meeting the rest.
Such stuff is momentum made of.
I picked up a book by a fellow influenced in teh same traditions, by the same teachers as me. And as many of my friends from grad school days. And he brilliantly states the same thing I've said in response to the same things. (Does that make it brilliant?)
"I absorbed [Karl] Popper's ideas about critical thinking and scientific method. I did it critically and I came to differ with him on an important point. Popper claimed that the same methods and criteria apply to both natural and social sciences. I was struck by a vital difference: In the social sciences, thinking forms part of the subject matter whereas the natural sciences deal with phenomena that occur independently of what anybody thinks. This makes natural phenoma amenable to Popper's model of scientific method, but not social phenomena." -- George Soros, The Crisis of Global Capitalism (I'm sure that any typos are mine and not Soros's.)
And this leads me to Wittgenstien.... wherein he discusses the difference between the world as objective and the internal "landscapes" of the mind, our cognitive landscapes (my terms), which suffer from the misfortune of metahporica dissimilarity. We use metaphors to describe the less known in relation to the more known. And we carry the baggae that metaphor brings with it, extra parts of the known, that do not have correspondants in the less known. And we place them there by accident. We've created the "landscape" metaphor of the mind and the computer metahpor, and the god or unnatural metaphor... Wittgenstien brilliantly states that the mind is not a nothing but not a something either. He is referring tot eh metaphor of substance, of stuff, of having properties like the properties that each thing, each something has. To say that the mind is not a a something, is just to say that the metaphor of things carries baggage. The mind is not a nothing either, i.e. its not that it doesn't exist. We have travelled to far down the road of metaphor, and have forgotten that the journey should have been a few steps.
Social phenomena, like the mind, are subject to similar mis-metaphors. And for similar reasons they fall to teh wayside. Reflexiveness, self-awareness, feedback systems -- we change in response to the output of looking and examining, and from interacting. So do stock markets, opinions, governments, and the price of fish.
Thank you George, for reminding me that I do not agree with Richard on this basic issue. Aware and Organic systems are not not to be force fed non-organic metaphor without a cost.
So I will stop looking for broken parts, remember how to heal. Big bandaids, lots of placebos, and sunshine. and hope. derived for me from the tasteless grape seeds of ideas.
Feeling a bit better after a long weekend hanging out with different people. Thinking about San Francisco - a plcae to visit, and maybe live in the future. Dreams are so important to have, and tough to achieve ones last longer. Perhaps I should dream o learning to type or spell well. :)
The online diarists of diary-l found me updating the site here again. I was hoping to lay low for awhile longer then last time. Curious that this didn't happen. Hell, I can barely remember how to add new entries after a year and a half.
I helped a friend move yesterday, and hung out with the group afterwards. It's nice to not have my own problems and concerns out in the open somewhere. Again, just a taste of anonymity... it feels good to just be whoever I am at the moment.
How do we choose the course of our lives? DO I go to a picnic I don't want to go to just because I said I would? I was going to. Richard suggested that I shouldn't if it wasn't soemthing I wanted to do, but only after I said that I didn't want participating to make me sad again. And it would.
The feeling of being completely taken for granted and being unappreciated leaves me so lonely. being a placeholder in others expectations, social convention governing mood, taste, and action. No.
Scattered to the wind thoughts that keep reminding me that there are no pronouns starting the sentences I utter. They've been missing for days and days. A sign that I've been hurt again.
I shouldn't let myself get hurt.
Scattered thoughts that make me think little pieces of desire are better then nothing. And they are. And I desire to stay at home without the stress of anger and fear that arise around Richard. He still scares me badly, even though he doesn't realize it. Even his voice, tones, harmonics of last year's anger, resonating through new echo chambers built by him last year. Instead of healing them.
Oh I wonder if letting go wouldn't simply be easier for everyone. After three days of solitude though, I do feel that my sense of life is percolating somewhere inside... just a little trickle of smoothness.
No details.
Could I take some time off and travel, see the world, build new things, and just plain learn to enjoy life? It seems I just might. After talking to a lot of people over the weekend, and then yesterday really laying it all out for Richard, we decided that I could! Kinda neat. i want the sense that I run my life back.
This strange decision seems to be the first move.
I just wonder still. After so much life already lived, what is left?
What can I do that anyone will care about, that I will care about? There should be a list of needed things. I could turn to it, and pick one thing. Or even two. i could spend time doing those thigns feeling important in the doing. People don't even want to add things to this list though. Each person wants to do their own things, and ony the job system keeps us better organized. But why?
Little things too.. like picking up scraps of paper off of the streets, or sharpening other peoples' pencils for them. Where has my sense of humour gone? Fun little games of creating odd things. Lost in the midst of meeting standards and following conventions. Lost to teh task masters who treble at the thought of variance.
But who are they? Am I just lazy or tired, burned out?
I am just crying inside still. Always. Why?
Transcending the wilderness to be civilized. Having stuff that is just there because I have it. Pressures of socail class and from the pursuit of unreal happiness. Chemicals and belief systems that alter the perseptions instead othe world.
And an invitation from my office arrives for a BBQ on our new deck. I built it for them, and everyone really likes it. Strange me.
here's to the feathery hope of dreams.
And my monitor broke. The new one is beautiful, adn I am back online.
Carly went to San Francisco. I'll follow her in a few weeks when she settles in.
I'm feeling a bit better though. Took a course in finding the music within me. The coaches were wonderful, adn thinking things through did focus me on a serious problem. Tears coarsed down my face when i was asked to think back to peak moments in my life. Each hurt. I realized that I don't think they'll ever happen again. i worked so hard for each. Recently, over the past 2 years, Richard claimed causal responsibility for each of them. He claimed that I plagarized my master's work from him -- I guess that makes him pretty naughty too. He claimed that my media sensation stuff was due to his efforts e-- 10 hours a week ofpromotion. I didn't spend that much time wirting the diary and talking to teh media in total. Its a surprising figure. Peter claimed all responsbility for creating FSC and for creating teh Holdings company's holdings. Etc... it goes back through my history that way. Maybe I don't thank people enough for their contributions! But I am left feeling like it is hopeless. I learned this last Saturday. Could I really acheive another peak moment in my life?! Really. I don't cry at the thought now, so perhaps I've let go of the horrible loss. (A little bit.)
Going througha year of abuse certainyl didn't make me a better person. It completely destroyed the self-esteem I've always been noted for .... for ahving too much of in many instances. :) I'll get my mojo back though... as I like Autin discover that it never went away. My hope was stolen and later returned to me, tarnished and bruised.
Hope, like soap bubbles, floats eaily on a curent, but disappears in an instant if pricked.
later...
Got an emal from my sister, my real honest t goodness sister. Today's our father's birthday as it turns out. Heh. It's fun chatting with her. She has 3 kids now, one very new. It is fun. She's turned out to be a nice person, melloed and laughing. I would never have guessed that. wonder what changed for her... found her mojo I guess.
So ... I guess I should spell out the weirdnesses in my life. Richard wants to have a relationship with me. We've been trying. Uphill after everything that happened...I haven't come to terms with this idea at all. He knows that. And he's simply not good for me, and realistically, although I am good for him in many ways, he needs to be good to himslef before anyone can really ouch him in any important way -- so I'm certainly not good for him. he likes people who advocate that he is wonderful for putting himself second. I think that leads to several sorts of hell. I cannot praise him or aprove at all of that. The examples of peopl without good personal lives or self-esteem are too many.
Weirdness indeed. i miss having a restraining order. it made me feel safe, and freed me to express what I cared about. Yes, I did file for a restraining order at teh height of fear last year. I got a mutual one which served wonderfully. It was like having stern and punishing parents. If you cannot establish ground rules, and things get exteremely out of hand, this is the next best thing. Well, at least it can be used so if both parties respect it. i sure did.
Lawsuits adn lawyers are not fun. I got a strong sense though that they were all that would stop the cascade of terror that came towards me last year.How do you prevent someone ho has lost all respect for you from becoming abusive? Is that their only recourse? It's not productive,a nd it sure doesn't feel good to anyone involved. Still I mss the order. Creating it oneself is much harder. And Richard thinks you don't haveto discuss how to do it to do it... his way. His way.
I like my way. I like other people's ways too. Listening to others has become difficult after being so hurt though.
Weird. TBC.
Subtitles of yesterday threading through my days now. I followed the actions of a bully the other day, watching carefully. Seeing the mood swings, reward andpunishment strategies, tailored to my every move. The sapping of my energy with an attempt to fill the bully with a sense of, what.., appreciation, love, belonging, ... I don't know.
I know though that my reactions didn't feed th system properly. The bully drained away too into a child without support. That's sad. I wonder though if there is a way to heal a bully. And then i wondered if I am one too. Could i do that to others?
Would I consider doing it on purpose to another? I guess I just did. When would i though? Retaliation, defense, revenge, self-protection? None of these are good enough. i don't want to be that way ever even if it would help in interactions.
That stuff has got to stem from childhood experiences where a imple lack of reward andpresense of punishment schema teach a child to beg for love. Love though doesn't ever emerge in this picture and it certainly can't be received after all receptors are tuned to avoid punishment. Its lack feels like love and warmth and affection. The lack of a bad thing though, isn't itself also a good thing.
On the whole bullies must be avoided where possible, and left t stew in their own loneliness. They are their own hell. i think bullies treat themselves this way internally so it appears proper and just to them t treat others no better... or just as well (from their perspective).
Now I have meetings to run off to. A video card to buy. A company to register -- Moxie. Cats to play with. A party to go to tomorrow. Golfing. A sales meeting with another Internet company. Some amazing web sites to grow for clients of FSC. And sleep again.
I'm playing golf today. That'll be a nice change. I wish I had time to practice my swing before going though. Since I'm renting clubs, I can't take over my living with putting and driving though. Anyway, it'd get a little messy what with my large glass windows. I wonder what I'll wear.
Hmmm... not introspective today. Maybe later.
later
Golfing is very fun.. gotta do this soon again. But I am most tired now and sleep with beautiful cats lies ahead of me now. Sleep.
Sunday morning, slept in after waking early. Beautiful day out, sunny blue.
Speaking with Niels yesterday reminded me of our having seen a play, Angela Niels and I, while I was in London a few months ago. We saw "Prisoners on 5th Avenue" (or something witha similar name) beautifully done by ... names... her's my memory guessing for me... Mary Martin and Ruchard Dreyfuss.
I was thinking on how they slowly switched roles.
And I realized I had forgotten i'd seen this until Niels mentioned the happenings in London yesterday, the big Notting Hill Carnival.
So you're watching me type this in.
Or not.
It's been a long 2 weeks. People in swirl of chaos, tumbling and jumbling. I wonder how they do it, surrounding me with interesting new challenges every day. How is the world so complex and tangled up. We're all just people. And we have committments and beliefs, and ways of dong things that we think might just work better then everyone else's ways. Well actually I don't really. I watch people, and learn from what they do. And talk to them about why they do things this way instead of that way. Why do you? Why do you brush your teeth every morning, or do you? Do you spend your mornings ritualistically preparing to embrace the public sphere?
Do you similarly ritualize your returns to your private, intimate spaces? Or do you just go home, and feed cats, curl up in bed iwth a book like me, and wind down?
Swirls of motion, ideas taking flight, viruses infecting new memes into the social contruct. A lazy cat told the pigeon that life would be simpler if she just came a little closer. "Ma maaa ma a," said tha cat. The pigeon looked undauntedly back. Through the glass, and edged along the balcony rail closer to the cat. "Perhaps not simpler," cooed the pigeon, "but certainly more exciting for you. "Swirl cat swirl, in your misty eddies. Backwash and twister certainly more interesting. Inside your glass condo cage."
I watched enchanted as another cat, Fleiss, took up the conversation philosophically. "maaa aa. Do come closer. It is warm safe and friendly in the condo. Nothing happens here. Physically. Pigeons can walk sideways without swirling off the rail. Pigeons, like cats, do not fall." And they all looked sideways at me, to watch me slip a little further. Landing is not a problem for people. We need to beware insted the wolves.
So I grow closer to knowing what it is that society is on about. Conventions and mores, etiquette, strife. Will we figure it out?
I'd hope so.
Frontal waves over lower thoughts. Organizing. I realized that is is time for the final confrontation, an orgy of refreshing accomplishment driven by me. For ohers, for the world, for me. A time to remove the basic colonizations of our society from my decisions. Let go of the concern, and worry and angst, that the hierarchal response patterned into me through genetics and patriarchial socialization must no longer accomplish its goal.
Goodbye to the listening kindness that alpha-males in the human pack garner with laser point precision. My soul can fly freer and stronger without the fear and need to be accepted by low voiced leaders.
Puff your chests out further and I will simply laugh coyly. i will let you know that I too am a pack leader. I too am wonderful in creating vision for anyone who wishes to wear the mantle of another, though volunarily. Coy, sweet, and smart.
While the world awaits subtle and alien alternations in the power veil by watching, I will weave threads and tie knots, and create secuirty blankets for our emergence.
But into what? Another coy smile.
Sunsetting. Trucks driving by. We live in the sky. Watching.
Ken ask, "How does your mind work?" I don't know what to say. I wish I had an answer to that. Zenned out simplicity with lightning fast decision making. something like that. A true trust that i will do exactly what I believe to be the best i can. Real time. Unlike those who practice and study, research or apply by rote. My mind is my valuable virtue.
I don't practice exercises as I did as a kid. 2+2 is still 4 but I could no longer rhyme off the times tables. Or the calculus solutions. Or even what Wittgenstein said to Quine. Or even which firewall installation we did for which client. I look things up when needed. But i don't remember the details of life unless someone reminds me regularly. Even who I could talk to when I feel like it. habits are wonderful for forcing closeup repeats.
Boring stuff.....
Smaller spaces of solitude surround stressing environmental batteries. i live in the solitude and chare it out when I can. Self-delusion aside. Let me just be. Trust each word and action as it becomes part of history. The living skin of reality surrounding historical impressions and growing ever outward to become and then surrond the unknown. Wake slowly to the singing of the universe.
And then file.
PKD -- I am his brown-eyed girl. Sadly wishing we had met. He is dead, my soulheart. His words drift through my concsiousness looking for me from back then. He knew me best.
Preparing to receive a hurricane remnant. I wonder if my beautiful building will be efected by winds and broken branches. My sleep was restless.
Hapier days ahead, and people perceive this in me. WOnderful!
Blue sky dreams. Numbers cascading in curved ever shortening crescendos without proof of infinity. Curling into my thoughts as tendrils in the darkness of dreams lighting the way to truth and certainty. Geometretic fractal models holding my hand as I slip further into sentience, the beauty of knowledge my cradle.
Too bad I still can't spell well.
Cats on the keyboard. Sun in teh sky. No more troubles or problems that i can see anywhere. Got all my work done, and can do what Iactually should be doing today, that is growing my business, instead running maintenace activities. That's a nice change.
New people hired to work starting this week and next. And two or three more coming in soon -- when we find them. Expanding onto another floor in my building. Need the space.
And no plans for me currently. Been catching up.
So i asked Angela what i should do this morning. She suggested writing. And I find with my mnd clear that my thoughts too are empty of metaphorical meandering. Perhaps they are being editted before I becom aware of them.
Yes they are.
Curious. Many things. Not usual for me. But then I am holding ont the beginning of a new life, where I am happy really. Nothing more complicated. Web-electric.
Guess I really should just get to wrk early since this isn't happening.
Can I tell?
I spent a happy week. Busy though. My business partner was off ona conference for the week. Things seemed calmer that way. His energy driving through the environment was missing.
We're also expanding our office space again. next week I'll be wiring more parts of teh FSC Building to work in a connected and wired fashion for everyone. That and l's visit will be more than fun.
Me? I heard from Carey this past week. She's doing wonderfully, working now full time in Singapore as a web designer. Good stuff too.
And I've been talking to both Angela and Niels in London. So much happening there. And I'm now the co-President of TIDA. My life is evolving in so many directions.
Funny. How little people change as they change.
My weekly travelogue. Heh.
No more intimate thoughts then that as i am off to a meeting -- TIDA is arranging to run events agin this year. The events committee is almost ready to rock and roll.
So many little details and bigger ones on the horizon. Beautiful.
I saw the most stupendous movie yesterday, kurt Vonnegot's Breakfast of Chmapions, I laughed so hard throughout the it... the only person in the audience to do so though. Very strange. Why is it that i see life in a way that most don't?
2 years ago -- how I've changed
The Uniform Code of Military Justice
Went to listen to Orson Scott Card on Tuesday. He discussed lots of things including the movie coming out sometime in the next two years for Ender's Game, Harry Potter's old fashioned style of writing, and being the smart kid.
Those of us who thought we were the smartest and created parts of our self-identity around that image, what happens. A 35 year old can't be the smartest kid, so what happens.
Those that hit a wall made of of smarter kids quickly fall to disaster, and many recover later with more realistic goals and dreams. Some don't survive this fall from grace, and wallow for ever.
Some see the wall approaching and switch specialties, aiming for those places in our mass psychosis which are deamed slightly fluffy by teh younger smartest kids. Fluffier and fluffier until they are cornered byt eh wall, or...
They never let go and learn other tricks to keep their status. I'm thinking ofintelligence and knowledge bullies. Certainly the literatry world is made up of illusion creators, illusions of course being the web of obscurity that the intelligence weaves. Elitism through obscurity.
The technical world has its weavers too. I know a few of these. Bully tactics revolve around knowing more and knowing surprising and knowing everything -- the illusion.
OSC said that he felt sorriest for those kids who never hit the wall head on... So do I.
In other news, my friend l is visiting me this weekend... really this time. And Angela's heart will heal finally. Soap operas never end.
Wending through life.
Closed in thoughts surrounded by others' panic and fear. Trickle in where to i wish to be. Once more another vagueness and i know more is out there. where.
Actions are for doing things. Words are for thinking things through and persuading others. And creating records.
Whispers of what happened in words and deeds. and i feel lost somewhere without a reason for life and without a depression cloud. reasons. lost. amid a maze called life there are things we can reach out to for a sense of hope and long lasting love. i can't touch these now. or see them. i know thy are there somewhere.
and words trickle forth holding the place still for a moment, anchors. tickling the wind. wishing i know for where and when and what i don't know.
What are my goals? haha this makes me laugh too much. could i recycle my old ones, aim higher farther stronger longer with iterative living? are there new ones or just the same old. simple or complicated, the same.
and the sky is blue tday and i am. clouds white grey contrast the buildings also white grey. skyline of tourists walking to the theatre down the road. where.
solutions create voids for me, not new opportunities right now as i wait to feel happier and happier, more still. as slowly i do.
shall i fake goals. push towards something arbitrary because it is good to push. adding question marks to my futre as they are absent now.
Evening at home with a cold. Long day, little sleep the night before. Decisions to make, made. Rain outside.
Angela says I'm less warm when I'm in control of things. Heh. Probably true. Just trying to be efficient. But warmth is efficient. It's wonderful really for everyone. That control is protection of my thoughts.. so I can remember them from point a to point b.
need an even better way to handle remembering. besides remembering. Slowly those I know are finding me here again. I'm not telling people. just writing for me these days. althugh i always did that. but its private here in a way that i missed soon after i began writing 5 years ago. media and fans took a long sweep away from privacy, and friends even more so. intimidated, flattered, fond. fucked.
little tidbits of the echos of criticism, and i blink away, not tears, so much as letters. small black fragments of worded phrase caught in my eyes. another blink.
slow sweeps of the text editor. and i the only soul in the world without a desire for gui apps. world sword word lord
farther along then the opening of a door, how can i listen more closely to the heartbeating of life. follow the footsteps up and along through the gap. and i'm left with an extra toothbrush.
Essays exploring the is of life.
And I look backwards and forwards wondering who people really are. Do we strive to be like everyone else? Fitting in is important, and yet there is novelty with each creation of a mind. Expression of this novelty combined with a trained skill or a talent becomes sought out and valued. Who of us has the strength of will to develop the skill, and remain novel, or is it become novel?
I know I used to, and I have that core insdie of me. Still.
The paintings.
I looked around the room, decorated not so much with art as life force. The stories told of my life within the colours and textures, lines and sweeps of the artist's brushes. My life spoken out in flowery blue greens. Water colour and acrylics holding the story still for me to gaze into.
The first painting showed, shows, tomorrow. Close up detailed work of ink etched onto a fibrous and textured offwhite surface. Sepias slipping carefully outside of the lines, which are darker, bolder then I realize. A train's engine smoking blackly, old-fashioned and grainy with ink dots pulls slowly and ponderously up a hillside. Trees indicating scenery which I don't notice. There is no one inside the train that I can see. Strength.
Beside the train, in another painting, colours begin. Still watery, and pale, they are vibrant beside the first painting. The details are fuzzier, softer, vague. The flowers in the foreground hold my attention. They are smiling. Encrypted emotion packets growing from the hillside. But we are at the top. I can hear the birds in the pines, holding theirs beaks in the wind, melodiously enchanting the crickets into harmony. Peace. Look farther.
The third painting is of myself in ten years. Beautiful greying hair cascading past my shoulders, and a leather dress elegantly strewn with careful japanese gardens in a tiny hand. She half smiles at me. How do I get there, become her? Serenity.
Storm clouds grey black bluing against the hillside instead of above surrendering rain drops to the open beaks. Strategy.
Bold colours standing out from teh canvas of the fifth painting, the last, hold my attentin again. The future of everything and everyone captured in micro paint dots. information and beauty combined into the array of still life. implied motion takes my eyes to the top right corner where i see a signature in small careful handwirting, mine, still mine. And in cascading arcs away, abstracted colour bands blur into each other as if a corona of sunlight and moonlight mix to create the world I will see. Happiness.
and I look back to the present where a hot shower awaits with pleasure.
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f.i.n.a.l.e |
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All non-daughter writings of Carolyn's Diary are not copyright © Carolyn L Burke, 1995, 1996, 1997, 1998, and may not be copied with permission except for non-commercial gain. See what your lawyers can't make of that.
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