what happens to you after you write? not having given birth i know i'm speculating, but it's the closes thing that i can think of. you have something that is part of you, of you, literally coming out of you. the process of getting the words from you to the page is at times a struggle and other times they simply slip from you. and then they are something separate, an other. they are not yours anymore, not really. people read them and understand them in a different way than you may. when i come back to something i've written, especially something i've written for other people to read, i'm struck by this otherness of my writing. it feels so strange to read it and know that it came from me...

there is something about putting up your own food that i find very appealing...

i think i'd like to emigrate...

this evening we went to listen to a journalist/author who's been writing about the security megacomplex that's grown up since the events of 2001. by the end of the Q&A session, where the inevitable question of how to fix/change/do something was touched upon, my only thought was that government - perhaps even the country-  is too big to really be changed. and there's nothing any of us can do about it. it's one thing to argue that you should stay in your neighborhood or community and work for the good there rather than picking up and leaving when times get hard. there the scale is such that if you stay you have a good chance of seeing something come to fruition. but when you change that scale from a few hundred people to hundreds of millions of people, the chances of your work coming to something seem so small...

i've been feeling so weighted down by the sense of time's passage. my thought was that i was tired of being in the same place for more than a year or two. that i want a new job and new people and new surroundings - new different other-than-this. the repetition of week after week with no achievement or accomplishment, no undertaking complete, just another set of days crossed off the calendar and put behind me. i've never wanted to live like that. it seems so wasteful and empty. but perhaps what i am wanting is not be constantly moving on to the next thing, the new place. perhaps it really is to settle down and be in a place - to make it mine and myself it's. i'm tired of describing my life with the phrase "i don't know"...

peep

so i'm throwing people around again; course that means that i'm getting thrown around too. it's pretty good. perfection of character sought through physical manifestations.

i'm also trying to nourish my scribbling itch...how does one nourish an itch? i think i'd like to send in a something for the next omnibus...i have a month exactly to get something from the backwards regions of thoughts to concrete form... i wonder if i'll make it.

:D i smell like smoke.... good times... too bad i forgot the camera when i ran out of the house at 6.30 this morning.

"what is science without philosophy?"

i've wondered the same thing many times...

just watched Steam Boy by Katsuhiro Otomo. very good, thought provoking - with little resolution in what seems to be the Japanese fashion.

i remember sitting out on the balcony in college watching everyone inside talking and hanging out. i felt very much like Peter Pan listening to bedtime stories outside children's windows, wanting to share what they had, but knowing at some level that his choice of life prevented that from being possible. it wasn't that he regretted choosing as he did, but he could see the beauty of what the others had and felt sadness and loss at not being able to share it too.



that's how wandering around facebook makes me feel now...

wow over a year...

life...