as of tomorrow and my scribbling habit
This, my last day of part-time work, living the life of getting off work at 1pm, I've spent the afternoon hours listening to the tall stack of old CDs I bought. As of tomorrow, I'll finish work at 4pm, which means less time to listen to CDs, and some of CDs will go 'unlistened' for a little while, at least until I figure out a way to steal time, which can't be too hard to do. But tonight, I just thought the day'd be more complete if I type here, dust off an old composition, post it, and watch these beautiful words appear on the screen in the neat little manner that my blogger account has gotten them to do. It'd be even more complete if I read a little before I go to bed (and scribble down a few more words before that), and yes, get up early so I can continue Connie's story tomorrow.
this written just now
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What to make of this Pocket PC and my blog and my getting my writing friends to blog and my complaints about the directionlessness I've been sensing about my blogging habits and feeling tired from just writing random thoughts? What to make of the old-fashioned handwritten diary which I have turned to for the sake of making it more 'publishable' so that others would read it after my death and to lessen the amount of rambling and extra words I would otherwise put if I were to type? The process of handwriting my diary allows me to reflect as I write.
But yes��� The idea is simply this. I will bring a computer with me and there will be typed diary entries. Sometimes I'd take one of these entries and turn it into a 'bloggable' or 'presentable' piece. This is exactly what I'm doing now. I'm stealing a pensive midday moment to scribble something, a piece of something that would be archived into the 'diary' section, and then if I want to, if I feel up to the whim, I pull it out and turn it into an ���entry���. As simple as that.
This is what blogging is about. I don't like to just post random thoughts. I'd like to edit each entry a little. None of it is publishable by any means, but it's still fun to have a literary presence. Online, even.
It's funny. Each time I pull out my diary and start writing, I end up writing about my writing. It's like a frame around a frame. A photographer taking a picture of himself taking a picture. A picture of a person holding a picture of a person holding a picture.
But what about now? What about this fear of just diving in and writing about what I see now and what I do now? I don't want to write about what I do now. There's nothing interesting about what I'm doing now. Doing nothing now, but typing, sitting here in the coffee shop and feeling thankful that my Iced Hazelnut Latte still tastes sweet even after the ice has melted. See nothing now but this party of Taiwanese people ahead of me, six of them, a middle-aged couple and their daughter (late teen or early twenties) came first, then joined by another middle-aged couple, then joined by a middle-aged man who just left. The latter looked like a real estate agent, or I assumed he was because he just came, asked them to sign some documents, and left. And now, as I���m writing about them, all six of them have gotten up and left.
Having lived. These two words enter my mind as I thought of this question just now: What's the point of me carrying this machine around and recording random things I see (like these six people I wrote about, people whom I don't even know)? The daughter did catch my attention at first. I thought she looked shapely. I liked her frizzly hair that wasn't overly colored or punkish. I liked how the white long-sleeve sweater fit her in a shapely way. But yes. Having lived. It's the same with people who carry cameras around and taking pictures here and there and posting them on Flickr. This is what they saw and this shows they've lived. Do I need to write all this to indicate I have lived? People who don't write, have they not lived? Why is it that I have to have this typing habit to sustain me? Uncertainty about my own existence? And what needs to happen, Mr. Adam, for your existence to be more solid? Do you even want your existence to be more solid, especially after how you said 'solid lines win solid love'? But there's this part of you that says: it is the dotted-line about me, this fleeting aspect of me that makes me attractive. When you talk like this, we have nothing to say.
drafted 070906
this written just now
New songs posted!
-----------------------------
What to make of this Pocket PC and my blog and my getting my writing friends to blog and my complaints about the directionlessness I've been sensing about my blogging habits and feeling tired from just writing random thoughts? What to make of the old-fashioned handwritten diary which I have turned to for the sake of making it more 'publishable' so that others would read it after my death and to lessen the amount of rambling and extra words I would otherwise put if I were to type? The process of handwriting my diary allows me to reflect as I write.
But yes��� The idea is simply this. I will bring a computer with me and there will be typed diary entries. Sometimes I'd take one of these entries and turn it into a 'bloggable' or 'presentable' piece. This is exactly what I'm doing now. I'm stealing a pensive midday moment to scribble something, a piece of something that would be archived into the 'diary' section, and then if I want to, if I feel up to the whim, I pull it out and turn it into an ���entry���. As simple as that.
This is what blogging is about. I don't like to just post random thoughts. I'd like to edit each entry a little. None of it is publishable by any means, but it's still fun to have a literary presence. Online, even.
It's funny. Each time I pull out my diary and start writing, I end up writing about my writing. It's like a frame around a frame. A photographer taking a picture of himself taking a picture. A picture of a person holding a picture of a person holding a picture.
But what about now? What about this fear of just diving in and writing about what I see now and what I do now? I don't want to write about what I do now. There's nothing interesting about what I'm doing now. Doing nothing now, but typing, sitting here in the coffee shop and feeling thankful that my Iced Hazelnut Latte still tastes sweet even after the ice has melted. See nothing now but this party of Taiwanese people ahead of me, six of them, a middle-aged couple and their daughter (late teen or early twenties) came first, then joined by another middle-aged couple, then joined by a middle-aged man who just left. The latter looked like a real estate agent, or I assumed he was because he just came, asked them to sign some documents, and left. And now, as I���m writing about them, all six of them have gotten up and left.
Having lived. These two words enter my mind as I thought of this question just now: What's the point of me carrying this machine around and recording random things I see (like these six people I wrote about, people whom I don't even know)? The daughter did catch my attention at first. I thought she looked shapely. I liked her frizzly hair that wasn't overly colored or punkish. I liked how the white long-sleeve sweater fit her in a shapely way. But yes. Having lived. It's the same with people who carry cameras around and taking pictures here and there and posting them on Flickr. This is what they saw and this shows they've lived. Do I need to write all this to indicate I have lived? People who don't write, have they not lived? Why is it that I have to have this typing habit to sustain me? Uncertainty about my own existence? And what needs to happen, Mr. Adam, for your existence to be more solid? Do you even want your existence to be more solid, especially after how you said 'solid lines win solid love'? But there's this part of you that says: it is the dotted-line about me, this fleeting aspect of me that makes me attractive. When you talk like this, we have nothing to say.
drafted 070906
posted by Adam C at
9:24 PM
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