Still holding on to the hope of something good. Three times this month a bird has shit on me/my
belongings. Today a bird got in my room through the AC window unit gap. It shat on my bed and my 1915 copy
of "Of Human Bondage" that I have displayed on the bedside. Is this supposed to bring good luck on
something?
I got a barista job...fine...pay is shit. But I also have a giant heart monitor adhered to my cleavage for
the next two weeks. I'm tired of being sick and lonely. My heartaches for the city, but I know I was just
as discontent there. If only here was as inspiring. What is the use of knowledge if it is not shared. I
miss good conversations over glasses of wine. All I have now are my books and a couple beers a few nights
a week. I am hopefully this job will garner new connections.
I have been riding my bike to the park to workout. Although I am unaware of my true appearance, it must
be improving (as reason would have it) I want to study Spinoza. I want to study. I want to be
inspired.
This place is weird or, so to say, there are some weird people here. But who am I to judge? I am
observant, so I am one to judge.
The river is the joy, but the once secluded areas feel less so now. My confidence in finding
a "spot" is dwindling. I very well thought I found the "spot". So much so that I nearly smoked an entire
joint. But then I saw it...people. These aren't city people, they don't mind their own business. I still
try to mind mine.
On a rocky outcrop, I sit and see. Down the river a bit, two people. A few days before, sitting at a
different rocky outcrop, I hear voices down the way. A quick glance behind and I saw three boys wading
through the nasty river water. Good for them. It was my time to go.
Today, on this rocky outcrop, I hear voices, I assume some fellow river enjoyed. Perhaps they were...to a
much greater extent than I. Two older adults, traversing the undeveloped side of the river. Wet, muddy,
whacking the Kudzu from their path, toting many bags. Please don't see me, please don't acknowledge me. But
they did, and I ignored. Their boldness worried me, they would have no qualms about crossing the river to
speak to me. Thank god they continued on. A scan of my surroundings. Behind me - the small cliff I had to
hop from to get to this rocky outcrop. One way in, one way out. One way in, no way out. I was startled by
an old man (hardly a gentleman given his actions), blocking that one way out. I relayed this story to my
mother, she said I was being paranoid, until I further described this man. Old, with a well-worn white
v-neck undershirt that he got in a three pack from Dollar General, suspenders, greasy. "Hello!" he says,
"hi..." I respond. Knowing very well he would be unable to make the hop down to me, but still startled. I
turn my head, in an attempt to keep an eye on him with my ever failing peripherals. He left after some
time. I took one last look at those river traverses. If I was to be homeless here, I would live by the
river.
I have nothing better to write about than the weirdos I see around.
Let's divert. Typically I get two Miller Lites at the bar and leave. Feeling a bit...inspired tonight, I decided, after the two, to get a third. All would be well. I am a reg, so the bartender knows what I like. Lately I
have been ordering two beers at a time, so I may not need to leave my STUFF and wait to order another. I
supposed in the mind of the bartender tonight, my usual is two Miller Lites, even after the two. Her service is impeccable,
so I could not criticize, tell her "no only one." So here I sit, three drinks in, the fourth going down, the fifth waiting, in a bar where I am not too well liked... I think. But what I think means a lot for a person of my
sort.
All to say, this is a drunk post. I wrote a letter to a friend. Working on a page for my bird photography. Listening to the Katamari Damacy soundtrack, very motivating. I miss the computer boys in Baltimore. He hasn't
written me back, understandable.
I was so motivated to write that I bought a pack of smokes, but forgot a lighter. The loneliness is no different than it was before, except now I know what it feels like to not be lonely. The city gave me that.
I am a sad drunk.
The tatami mats where I lie make my room smell like a barn. I commit to the horsegirl bit,
If you think you can sneak a peek, here is what you see.
Hopeful I may get a part-time job, Also fearing that if I get said part-time employment, that my mind will
tell me I NEED to write something substantial.
*whispers*This place is so weird.
I was chastised by my mother for my laissez faire approach to email
correspondence. Let do, let pass I say.
Things I "looked into" tonight:
-computer macros
-laissez faire
-parlor trick idea: memorize the first paragraph of "A Tale of Two
Cities"
-"is Rousseau French?" (no)
I wanna start a book club, so might as well here. Here's the current
reading list if you'd like to join (subject to change at any
moment):
The Plague - Camus
Motorman - Ohle
The Mode of Information (non-fic) - Mark Poster (Think I will take notes)
In an old spot at the river. Only now the trees have extended such
that a passing train cannot be seen.
I like the idea of
over-structuring the site. A place to store my personal data. My own
data center. Highly structured and both human and machine readable. A
true digital representation of a person. Findable, Accessible,
Interoperable, Reusable. We never really die in death. We live on
digitally.
Rarely I get curious and see what social media sites are up to these
days. It's always strange to see my dad's dead ex-girlfriend appear as
"someone I may know." I "knew" her, when she was alive. I suppose I can
still "know" her if she still has a social media presence. And even
though I "knew" her in real life I am sure there is info on that profile
that I didn't "know"
With precision, I could represent myself, as I
see myself, digitally. Then you can build an AI gf of me. I will live
on. (and probably be THAT AI that takes over the world)
I had my
first experience with a chatbot that has my name. The medicaid chatbot
and I share a name.
I made an about section. My motivation to
write write has been evasive, so I can add little thoughts about myself
here.
Some personal data I want to record: collections (books, CDs,
plants), outfits, favorites (musicians, artists, authors, books, movies,
etc.), likes and dislikes, projects (?), physical attributes (might be
weird)
I am putting things off, but at least I wrote.
reading: The
Plague - Camus listening: Igneous - Perc & Randomer (I love my Zune+Koss
set up)
Haven't had my own room in seven months. I've enjoyed
reconnecting with all my STUFF. Its
been stored away for 10 months. Aside from the mountains of books and
CDs, I have very few THINGS. (I started to restore the original 1890's
trim in this room, but I changed my mind after getting that much done.
Someday.)
It is beginning to look like you in the mirror. I must've been in a
rut. You never realize until you do. When I am not writing, I am
thinking about writing, but I am never write when I think about
writing.
Several times, after laying my head to rest, I would grab
my phone and type out a few paragraphs. This was a few nights ago and I
still like what I wrote. I've been speaking about my writing often
lately. I should push a personal boundary. All I have are first drafts,
if even that. I am coming around to editing. I'll share something cool
soon.
I got things to say, but don't know how. "I have no know-how, and I must speak"
(linking my dumb references to their sources). And I found this source
here
The only...content service (idk what to call it) I use, YouTube Premium,
is kicking me off the family plan because we are all not under the same
roof. I don't visit YouTube often, but I did like the music service. I
will have to rebuild my digital music collection. A friend gave me an
old Zune. It is perfect.
Teaching myself nano text editor. Learned how to edit the preferences
doc and enable spellchecker. Get ready for less typos.
Drafting a sort of statement about the meaning of all this (website). I
got a good concept.
"This concoction filled us with such sweetness that joy followed us and brought it home with us. Never had I drunk with such delight. A piece of scaly skin from one of the lepers' wounds had stuck in my throat. Rather than spitting it out, I tried very hard to swallow it and I succeeded. It seemed to me that I had just received communion. Never will I be able to express the delights that flooded over me."