Walked 10 miles and contemplated local politics. How will I get involved?.
The clouds looked like heaven above. The dark heavy bottoms gave the appearance that I was under.""
I'm smoking again, but only American Spirits.
I thought to myself, purely in jest, that we would develop some sort of Marx/Engels dynamic. I assigned myself the role of Engels. He would make a better Marx since I believe he knows more than me.
Last night, over a plate of pirogi's, we discussed what is to be done. I mentioned my interest in working with my local community to protect the people. He did that thing, widened eyes, raised eyebrows, and a little nod. This idea piqued his interest. We discussed some ideas I shared. He advised me on how to start, where to start. Am I delusional or is my jested thought becoming a reality, but in reality I am Marx.
I am in the position to dedicate my time to build community. I will begin by establishing, or re-establishing myself, into the Townie community at the old watering hole. I will correspond with him intermediately to share ideas and critiques.
If only he understood the importance of his role in my life, especially if something comes of this. I try and fail to tell him now. My appreciation and admiration are shrouded in those desires of love. Of course love will grow. How could it not? But I cannot commit to an individual. I am committed to the people. The time will come when I will express and he will understand and accept. For now, I hold it to myself to let it grow.
He really sees something in me. In my authenticity, I have adequately conveyed my thought and ideas. Enough for to think that I can do this.Took site down.
He makes me confront the anxiety. The one thing I hate the most. The one I want to overcome. Stuff your hand down my throat and pull it out. Its rotten and diseased. Torn from the host. Glossy wounds drowning in puss.
You take that out of me. Cradled in your palms. Confronted with that thing. But I call for it, don't take that out of me. Put it back. Let me have to love and nurture. So I may come to in my time of need. There is nothing to turn to. Inside you the parasite takes over to do you bidding. All control is relinquished. But for you I will give it up. You take my protector and reveal its true form. I can no longer keep it inside myself. It is no longer part of me, but it still keeps me from you. I will continue to observe every twitch and pulse to understand how to overcome it, and find you.
Notes on sex from The Female Eunuch are up. Balancing the study of love with the study of sex pulls me out of my shame. The shame I feel as I study love and see where I went wrong. I have not been as lost with sex. I've had up and downs in my experience of pleasure seeking. Even in a down time, such as the present - where I've had to repress my sex drive cause everyone is weird about it here. I should be having more sex, but I have to repress my desires for one, and I am extremely hesitant to peruse others because of said "weirdness" or total inability to make good love.
I am excited to move home as Ohio seems to have more sexually competent men (but also home to the most sexually incompetent man I was dumb enough to keep seeing). Seems unlikely that a more fulfilling sex life would be found in a conservative area as opposed to this lib ass city I live in now. I was surprised to find the guy reading esoteric bullshit at the bar was quite competent. His apartment was filled with books and CDs. Laying in bed, I could stretch out an arm and grab a book to read. I did this as I waited for him to awake, but he works third shift. I waited three hours before we said our goodbyes. I haven't thought about him since. I didn't force my number upon him, so we have no contact. I will walk past his place of employment often so he knows I am back. I exude sexual dissatisfaction, desperate with a twinge of frustration. As much as I want a sexual encounter before I leave, I will not expect it. That makes me kinda grumpy ngl. I'll pout over it tonight to my girlfriends at the bar.
I picked up a copy of the third edition of the Oxford English Dictionary (1933). I felt like an idiot for taking it from Book Thing, since I am moving out on Sunday. Luckily its 3.5" width make its the perfect height to serve as a nightstand to my futon. Much better than the toxic metal cage thing (intended for office use, yuck) that I had before. I never even need to buy it, I just need to wait until I found a 3.5" book for free.
It feels like something of an accomplishment to know the structure of my file system. Changing from one directory to another, five steps away, by heart.
Thoughts without a thread. Metaphors on the mind. Make it impossible to write. It's late, I took my meds, I shouldn't be thinking at all.. This feeling is truly indescribable, not because it's unique or complex, but because my vocabulary is lacking. I shouldn't write when I cannot articulate.
If any good is to come of love and romance, it is the inspiration to study love and romance. If I truly "love love" then it is only right for me to truly know love. Challenge my views - bring them to light. A new light. Spotlights on misconceptions. Honest exposition and analysis as morphed my views into something concrete. Justifiable and not based on "vibes" or merely my feelings. Common love.....men keep telling me "good morning" and I've lost my train of thought. Perhaps for the best as I tend to ramble. All this spouting can be summed up in my notes of The Female Eunuch. I was laid bare reading the section on obsession. I feel profound embarrassment for the woman I was for so long, only beginning to remediate these issues within the past months.
I wish my growth occurred earlier. If I had only knew the remedy for love anxiety was radical feminism, perhaps that moment of last night - present and aware - would have been more frequent. Instead spending those moments trembling with fear and want. Attempts to silently control the outcome, to manipulate. I smiled to myself, for myself. What does it matter what I want? What does it matter the outcome? I can finally enjoy and later appreciate these moments. Even in separation, the joy persists. No longer is satisfaction dependent on the outcome. No longer do I replay the moment only to critique my words and actions, in hopes to better manipulate next time. I no longer feel defeat when the outcome was not as expected, expected as in what I want. I only remember what I had. That moment that made me smile to myself, for myself.
I shouldn't speak of what I want. Wanting only leaves me dissatisfied, and tells the other that I do not want this moment, I want more. But all I want is that moment and nothing more. But again, what I want has no meaning. I no longer want. I am free from want.
I arrived with the plan to study. I spent the last five hours fussing with the site layout. I did lots of math on the blank pages of The Female Eunuch. Writing page has been my victim. Still needs more tweaks, but I'm proud I got this much done. Overcoming extreme difficulties always makes me proud. Maybe that's why I seek them out.
I began reading The Theory of the Leisure Class. Veblen's caught my interest:
"...industrial employments is an outgrowth of what is classed as woman's work..."
I had a nice extended lunch. A "bread and cheese in the grass" type. I sat at the helm of the fountain, as I had nothing to place between my ass and the dog piss grass.
I purchased a horde of fruits, canned items, bread and cheese. I indulged in candied dates. Opera pours outside from the nearby institute. The fountain is weak and pitiful. My current paranoia is every thinks I am pitiful. This is all only due to my unemployment. I reason with myself and craft a defense. So that when ones deems me as such, I can protest. Yes I do still work while unemployed. Sure I spent seven hours styling my site by hand, but is that not dedication? I am so dedicated to this freak. I thoroughly enjoyed my lunch. As I have abandoned my notebooks in favor of my computer, I find myself full of thoughts, trapped. As I had done earlier, I scribbled notes in the margins of books. I seem to prefer this method, less items in my bag, easier to take notes when reading out and about. I hate rummaging through my bag, and this has been reduced.
I read the section covering sex in The Female Eunuch during my feast. (why did I think meals were only good when shared? to force disdain of eating, an excuse to eat less). At times, my eyes would see the words but not comprehend, so perhaps my thoughts were misguided. But it was kinda hot. (i struggle to speak on sex without euphemisms) It "turned me on." Greer demystifies female genitalia and sexual pleasure. I heard myself speaking when reading her words. This is one of those thoughts I've struggled to articulate. I have read a sound articulation of my own thoughts on sex.
Some margin notes and underlines:
I've strayed far from my lunchtime exposition. But I feel satisfied and have written enough, hopefully no more today. I will update the Greer notes on the notes page.
One semi-styled page is better than no styled pages.
Early Book Thing run today. I am moving back to Ohio next Sunday, so I had to be prudent in what to take. All my belongings fit nicely into three storage containers.
Yesterday was my half-birthday. 33.5 years old. Half-birthdays are significant in my family, where the birthday boy/girl chooses dinner. Even in distance, I celebrate with my family - eating the same meal here as they are there. I was forgotten this year. No worries as I do not want to worry my family with my cold beans from the can dinners. The situation at "home" has become increasingly hostile in the past week, which influenced my decision to move home earlier. I am loosing my mind, genuinely. The full mental break is looming. Moving home will buy me some time, to keep it away. Continue moving forward, even in backwards. I miss true meals. Cans of cold beans fill my stomach, but empties my soul.
I found that the library is closed on Sundays. It's cold and there are few places to retreat. Cafe hoping and drinking tea. Expensive, but better than being "home." I am wearing my "Hey, Arnold" outfit today - skirt over jeans and a sweater. A young woman complimented it. I shan't forget these moments, as they will keep my head above the water as it rises.
In lieu of a photo, here are the books I found:
I went back to Book Thing several more times, just to spend more time, of what is left. I was left with 21 books, and will leave with these 21 books.
I enjoy rummaging through the stacks of old school papers that mom cannot part with. My favorite subject in writing was horses. Often in relation to their freedom and wildness. I think I'd rather be a horse. I was self-motivated to write a book in third grade - The Rainbow Horse. Up until now, I've had no desire to reread it, but its nice to think about the little girl I once was. Strange and meek, a klepto from the start. My only dream was to own a horse.
Yesterday I picked up a heavily annotated copy of Jane Eyre from the thrift. I wanted to believe that previous annotations may add another layer of....something...to reading. I once owned some old Joyce book that had character drawings in the margins. This copy of Jane Eyre has been annotated by sophomore Sophie Hinderberger. Much like the annotations in my copy of War of the Worlds, in which the previous literary asked herself "Why?" Why is our protagonist bare foot?, the notes in this copy of Jane Eyre are questionable. Although the "Unlike family, Jane questions her state" is kind of gold. Jane the social revolutionist questioning her state."
I enjoy writing in the park. I see the cool lady with the whippet. She has a very unique dog, but wants no one to pay attention to her. Or maybe she just, rightfully so, avoids interacting with men. Rightfully so.
I wonder what Ohio will do to my creativity.
I got that Taking Tiger Mountain hair
I wrote something insightful last night in bed. I wrote it on my phone. I thought it was good enough to share last night. I think its good enough to share today. I should really edit before sharing. It is odd to be so revealing to no one in particular, when I have always been too revealing to someone in particular. Today would've been a nice day to spend in the park with him. Its warm and sunny, with a heavy breeze. I want to eat bread and cheese in the grass.
If I'm not getting what I want, then I must be getting what I need. Brilliant lyric. Maybe I should have a Rolling Stones summer. I did own a copy of Sticky Fingers with the real zipper...in like high school.
The only two Pink Floyd albums I enjoy are Piper at the Gates of Dawn and The Wall (nostalgic, and good). Debut and eleventh. I wonder if this theory works on other classic rock acts. Not Rolling stones, because their debut album sucks.
I am trying to kill time in the park.
very excited to be home, and have eaten dinner, by 8:00pm.
I did have 'nights' in Kent. One such night, I found myself, and whoever I was with that night..Sam? In the apartment of some foreign students from MENA. We sat on the floor. One resident brought out a large silver tray, filled with beans. The eight to ten of us fit snugly around it. A few loaves of cheap white bread, and we ate. It was the most satisfying meal. Sharing food from the same plate, with those around you, will never surpass a meal alone, or even a meal together, but separate. I want to share a plate
I picked up a can of baked beans and a loaf of white bread. He read to me a Greek...I think....play that mentioned 'baked beans.' It was a British translation. But this mention of baked beans - reminded me of my uncle. Recently passed, he made baked beans for every summer family reunion. I had never tasted them. I now feel that I wish I would have. I'll never have Uncle Jim's baked beans. I will never sit on the floor with a dozen others, sharing from the same plate.
So I am eating a can of baked beans and a loaf of white bread in front of my computer tonight.
No plan, is better than no plan. - Corey from the bar
i don't want to be cold today, so I am forcing myself to stay inside. I have the place to myself for an uncertain amount of time, so I will make use of it - overeating and stretching.
The 70oz glass I stole from the new tapas bar in town is perfect for chocolate milk.
something I made to occupy. When I sit on the floor, I feel like Schroder.
me and who?
Getting into CSS. I feel more accomplished - starting from scratch and letting it grow naturally.
Relaxing with some Dick Cavett interviews. Paul Simon is a gamer
Completed DoS Chapter 7 notes.
Maybe we shouldn't be handling large datasets. This has been my pro-AI take. "It can handle large dataset" But why do we need such large datasets to being with? Why are we exhausting humans to do shit with large datasets? Institutions believe AI can increase output, but the increased machine output puts pressure on the institutions who do not have the means (budget, manpower) to implement new technologies. It's happening in libraries. This need to put out more and more information, not for the love, but for the numbers. We should be more selective. In the early days, the Web had unique sites, made with care. I found that old GeoCities site with plenty of information on child care. We don't go searching for information any longer, because there is too much information. It is devoid of all joy. Exploring and problem-solving, fulfilling the knowledge you seek. That has been stripped from us, by the machines.
Began Chapter 7 in the Dialectic of Sex. Notes are here.
Reading Greer's The Female Eunuch. Continuing to study love and romance under a radical feminist lens. Hoping to write an essay or something once I have a good grasp on the topic.
Coming closer to frustration that will lead me to add CSS.
curious site I found while digging around GifCities.
This site is nothing more than the graphical iteration of my folders. [workshop this, could be good homepage line]
Today's outlook is assumed to be bad. It's no good to try and predict, but there's been a worrying amount of annoyances before noon.
My heart sounds like a synthesizer. It has a hole, which caused the ischemic stroke.
Finished DoS chapter 6 notes and added a pdf of the text. Both can be found here. [still editing]
Getting my heart scanned tomorrow to determine if it is underdeveloped.
I received his letter in the mail. I made no attempt to see when I was last in Ohio. His handwriting reminds me of my father's. The nostalgia I feel, my father and I wrote many letters during his incarceration. I wonder if he still has them.
I met with some friends. One of them being a close girlfriend. Her obsession with a man drives me insane. Her obsession with men in general drives me insane. I confided my plans to move home - her response: "don't let [guy who I recently stopped seeing] make you move back." I was taken aback, "Who is the reason I am moving back?"...no one. What in my ways would make someone think that the presences or absence of a man in my life would dictate my decisions? I am most unlike her. She makes me sick, but I must remember, her views of love are a product of her oppression. I want to bang my head against the wall.
I am certainly nearing a breaking point. I've been so good for so long (right?). I try to tell someone and they can only speak on "how well I am doing!" how I "got this!" and other such phrases. Do they think I lack confidence? Do they think I am insecure? I don't need reassurance. I know I am doing fine. "Did you hear back from that job yet?!" I can't lie and say "yes" (even if I did they would celebrate, reentering the oppressive workforce is nothing to celebrate)
So I must tell them "no" And then comes all the empty words to comfort me. To the average person I seem quite pitiful. Luckily I have found maybe 2 or 3 people here who don't pity me. Who don't care about "me", but instead my thoughts, ideas, and stories. I need to start keeping my mouth shut
I think I am going insane.
Maybe it's just this one fucking friend driving me mad lol
The Communist Manifesto got me so disillusioned. I want to continue to learn, but this doesn't seem like the right environment. Neither is Ohio, since I have no privacy there too. I need to be able to focus, but the lack of control over tidiness spikes the anxiety. I've been disinfecting surfaces often.
There is much I have no control over, things I once had control over. When I can eat, sleep, shower, do laundry. I cannot do these as I please. Always within the confines of another. I have to wear dirty clothes, I was asked not to do laundry more than once a week. Washing my bed sheet with my clothes gives me anxiety, but I can only do one load. So I wash the clothes and cover my bed with multiple sheets.
I tossed many beauty products and tools. After listening to my friend "recommend" (more like a sales pitch, she sounded like a shill) a sunscreen even after I told her which one I like to use. I will continue to use the one I like. And then they almost get offended if you do not give in and tell them "I will have to try it out" (code for "fuck off and stop trying to sell me something""). People are so attached to their products. I live in hopes of the day that I will not have to discuss lip balm with another woman. God help me.
So I tossed all my makeup brushes, several lipsticks, a few hair accessories, perfume samples, and a few skincare products. It is nice to have less.
Added art pages: collage film. Still getting everything up.
It is a stretch to consider the photos "art."
I had a drink with the man from former communist Syria last night. He has much to say. I just wanted to work on my notes. He said "I was only going to have one drink and then go practice guitar, but I have so much fun with you." All I heard was "I am going to blame you for my own decision to put off obligations." He told me about his research. He told me about Syrian children with their jaws blown off by their own government. He told me of the images that will never leave his mind. I thought of the recent night I spent looking at images of recently liberated concentration camps. The piles of emaciated dead bodies. Some who died pre-liberation, others post. Tens of thousands liberated only to die from disease or an inability to eat. Former camp guards sentenced to remove the bodies that fell apart when lifted. The various refeeding methods. I have never seen a dead body, except the embalmed remains of my grandmother, dressed and posed as if she were only sleeping. I did not see the body of my Aunt, who jumped from the overpass, but someone did.
My computer is covered in a layer of fuzzy yellow pollen. I should work on these notes, but I do not want to be inside today.
Late getting to the library. I was enjoying my time in the park, socializing. I pet a cute dog. Hoping to learn more about the nano text editor. The Linux book I grabbed has a horse on the cover :)
That Linux book didn't help. No nano, just EMACS and vim, which are a bit too complicated for me at this time.
a relatable quote from Faulkner's Mosquitoes
studying and writing from the park bench this morning. It's not so difficult now that I am getting the hang of using terminal interface. I want a computer sans GUI, sans mouse. Then studying and writing from the park bench would be even easier.
Taking notes on chapter 6 in The Dialectic of Sex (typing with one hand, holding the book the other on a park bench. unedited).
I am covered in seeds from the trees. I've recalled how to create, rename, and move directories. I probably look like some working freak in the park on my computer. Little do they know, I am only writing bullshit.
A tenant of my philosophy on this website: no update announcements. ideally visitors will become invest in one aspect of this site or another (journal, notes, writings) to actively check for updates. A thing I miss about the web growing up, checking specific website every day and adding more to the list. Now we rely on notifications to alert us. We are always being alerted. I will check for updates at my leisure. I will allow no sound nor image to prompt me to check.
Talk therapy helps me understand how pervasive and insidious anxiety is. It dictates how I interact with the world: shifted and awkward in every social situation, obsessive eating habits, fear of a person with any sort of authority over my future (everyone). These all bring forth intense anxiety. To cope, I have made these anxieties my identity "It is just who I am." My quirks, my eccentricities. It's not, "I 'am' anxious' it's "I 'feel' anxious." Anxiety need not be my identity. Separate the mind and body. Thoughts and feelings detached from identity.
First piece written with the nano text editor.
Writing from the public library. It is very relaxing. I wish I started writing here sooner. It is more private than my current living space (it is not home).
My writing was read by another, in-person. Feedback Critiqued in real time. I drew into myself, physically and mentally. I noticed my mind slipping into anxiety. Awareness and the attempts to fight it did not help. I gave up and let it take over. Reverting to silence. Unlike my younger years, I am not known to be silent. This old cope won't help me here. I wanted to defend my art, but couldn't speak. I only listened. In my silence I was encouraged to disagree. But why? Nothing I had said so far helped my case. So I went silent. I couldn't look at the screen, filled with my empty words, I couldn't look at him as I am expected to speak. I looked at my fingers lacing and unlacing.
But all the anxiety I could not control, brought with it all the unrelated anxieties, the suppressed and forgotten.
Next time I will better manage the anxiety. So I do not confront the suppressed anxieties. There is no need to talk about them, to anyone, especially to those whom they concern.
I guess I am still an idiot.
Yesterday, the end of a small good cycle within the larger bad cycle.
Grief endures. Relief, however fleeting, comes forth. This time as a bundle of free books.
Am happy with my finds. Most excited about Marx, Engels, and Greer. I produced audible excitement when I found The Cathedral & the Bazaar as it is on my reading list.
I was mistaken on the Proust. Misremembering "Remembrance of Things Past" as "The Past Recaptured." I may not read it since it is the final volume. I'd like to read "Swann's Way" first. André Gide, who I think I kinda hate, advised against its publication.
I engaged a man in a debate (he said it was a "discussion") on the depiction of rape in media. My new friend expressed her disdain for John Waters films. I agree with her, he did not. Not only did he disagree, he would not accept her opinion. So naturally, I had to intervene. I hate this man. My friend left with him. He has a custom Zyn case. i hate this man. Once they had left, I heard the opinions of those at the bar. They too hate this man. I wish my friend hated this man. I wish she left with me.
At one point the bar was occupied only by women, served by men. One bartender, and friend, remarked that this is my kind of bar. One of only women, served by men. An accurate observation.
The surmounting exhaustion will keep me from writing anything worthwhile tonight. But I have something for tomorrow.
That baggage left behind, opened, admiring its contents upon every return. Fabrics, discarded costumes. Draped in nearly forgotten pieces. I do not wear, it wears me. I become what I left behind.
