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 think I once owned some old Joyce book that has some fun drawings in the margins. This copy of Jane Eyre has been annotated by sophomore Sophie Hinderberger. Much like the previous annotations in my copy of War of the Worlds, in which the previous literary asked herself "Why?" Why is our protagonist bare foot?! She made a note of this. I hope she found her answer. To me, it appears he is barefooted because he had just awoken.
Anyways, no, the notes in this copy of Jane Eyre are not amusing. Although the "Unlike family, Jane questions her state" is kind of gold. Jane the social revolutionist questioning her state."
Anyways, it is quite obvious the "red room" represents menstruation (i.e. becoming a woman). Which is why all the amusements Jane once had, cease to amuse. Not sure what the ghost and dead Uncle symbolize. But I bet that is why the rest of the family is being so kind to her now after the event. She's "a woman." Now a nice man will want to marry her and she can make something of herself as a good wife and mother.
I enjoy writing in the park. I get to 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, avoids interacting with men. Rightfully so.
I wonder what Ohio will do to my creativity.
Slowing down "content creation" (lol) to focus on site design.
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. It relieves the pressure of remembering how much I've revealed to one person and not the other. 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.
Trying to look like the most bored person in the park is very relaxing. It nice to be bored.
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 foregin students - MENA. We sat on the floor. One resident brought out a large silver tray, filled with beans. The eight to ten of us fit snuggly 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 seperate. 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 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 tongiht.
No plan, is better than no plan.
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.
