It has been one of those weekends: rain most of the time, and when not raining, windy, chilly and overcast. Something about these weekends makes me slip into a comfortable melancholy. I got out the deck of funk flashcards and drilled myself: What am I doing? What have I done? Even worse, what haven’t I done? Where am I going? Am I enough? Am I happy? What is happiness? How come everyone else is happy but me?
Sounds pathetic, but while it is, it isn’t meant to be. The words in my head sound matter-of-fact. Seems like a waste of time, and it is that, too. Instead, I should write more. The ideas come, but I don’t grab them and shove them in here, or at least onto paper. Instead, I allow myself to work on other things, to get distracted by the technical aspect of maintaining a blog and then never writing in it, of collecting notebooks, none of which get filled. I did some fun things, tho, and I was surrounded all weekend by people I love, and who love me. Smoo was in rare form Friday and Saturday, D an I worked on her room today, mom is chipper and full of March madness (or at least neuroses), and Josh is a dear. They are what make the funk comfortable. And, to be honest, the funk itself was comfortable in a way, but in that way that I am not supposed to nurture. Ah, well.
It is raining outside, and the sound of it on the softened, rotting plywood sounds like it used to when Jeff and I would sleep out back in our tent. It was waterproof enough… that is until you touched the side — just to make sure it wasn’t leaking, mind — and the pressure of your fingers offered just enough [unknown physics word] to cause a droplet to seep through and down your arm. The lesson there? Enjoy the rain. Get as close to it as you need to, but don’t disturb the thin sheet that keeps you from soaking.
A lot of people think that coders and serious computer geeks are anti-social animals. While I would agree that the majority of them (us?) do not gravitate toward nightclubs or huge parties, we are social beings, even when we work. This occurred to me lately, as I’ve been trying to wrap my head around a lot of new stuff at the cubicle. My current position is the first at which I have been mostly cohort-free, and the inability to ask for input, or another set of eyeballs, from someone doing the same work that I do has become a bit daunting. I am afraid that I am just as useless to Dennis and Stephanie. I will have to find some UGs to join in my spare time. *sigh*
I have been asked by many people whether becoming involved in the angst of others doesn’t exacerbate my depression. I have, for most of my life, answered, “for the most part, no!” I never had, however, a good reason to give to explain this personal phenomenon, until recently.
I have discovered that, if someone you care about is worried but you are not privy to the particulars of their worries, you worry for them, and while doing so, fill in the gap in your knowledge with the worst possible scenarios. On the other hand, if you are called in for advice on what causes them grief, you have been made part of the search for solutions, and there is no wondering, no catastrophizing. You are worrying with them, and working with them to solve the problem (even if working with them means just being there), and there is a camaraderie in that.
I still haven’t solved the mystery surrounding my love of all things morbid, though. I will keep you in the know.
You think you have just the thing to finish off your WWF (Words With Friends, people, Words With Friends—sheesh!) opponent, only to find out that, this time, the *lack* of an “S” is what prevents you from kicking some vocabularic arse:
kudos: This one you knew was not the plural of “kudo”, the obscure fact a relic of some late-night Trivial Pursuit game, half-drunken pub quiz or dear friend who taught your kid Attic Greek one summer…
alms — Really? I mean, I guess… I can’t imagine giving an alm, but there is almoner and almonry…
…we kindly go to it. The daughter and I are headed to L.A. today to visit the Museum of Death. It used to live in San Diego, but has since moved about a bit, and has found (hopefully) a final resting place. I wanted to close a few tabs before we leave.
However, there were several differences between the original game concept and that initially published in 1949, In particular, Pratt’s original design calls for ten characters, one of whom was to be designated the victim by random drawing prior to the start of the game. These ten included the eliminated Mr. Brown, Mr. Gold, Miss Grey, and Mrs. Silver, with Nurse White, and Colonel Yellow. The game allowed for play of up to eight remaining characters, providing for nine suspects in total. Originally there were eleven rooms, including the eliminated “gun room” and cellar. In addition there were nine weapons including the unused axe, bomb, syringe, poison, shillelagh (walking stick/cudgel), and fireplace poker. Some of these unused weapons and characters would appear in later spinoff versions of the game.
I like the old weapons better! It would be interesting to find out exactly when and why each was replaced…
I agree with Atwood here. I think that, much in the way any diet that requires you to pay attention to what you eat, any writing form that requires you to consider the words you use will make you a better writer.
Christmas is coming, and this atheist, should she have been good enough, would love to be brought, by whatever imaginary being is feeling kind, this monocle necklace, these tabi, these sticks or a story arc that would bring together romantisexually either Reid and Morgan or Sherlock and Watson.
Having Google on your phone is like having a drunk know-it-all in your pocket. There’s no time for mystery or wonder. You’re just like, “how do they make glass?” “Blarghelarglebahhrahhh!!!” And you know. But the time between not knowing and knowing is so brief that knowing feels exactly like not knowing, so life is meaningless.
Equally, though more practially, thought-provoking are the results of Louis C.K.‘s experiment in bypassing the corporate middle-man. Another foray into media self-publishing proves again that the consumer, given a chance, is honest and will pay for a product. The media conglomerates would have artists believe that we are all out to steal their art and their earnings, but more and more of them are understanding that the real thieves are the entertainment houses themselves. Occupy entertainment?
This week, Peter Segal set up perfect example of the human desire to fill in holes. In this case, however, the sleuthing drive was put to creative use.
On the 13th of December — the night of the Chicago Community Trust’s 96th anniversary event — Mr. Segal was serendipitously in a position to take a picture of Yo-Yo Ma on a bathroom floor with a wombat. Because he is a kind, generous and somewhat mischievous soul, he shared his captioned photo with thousands of Twitter followers.
I envy this creative bent. I am able to muster a similar sense of playful guessing for Yo-Yo-Wombat-type holes in my understanding: Sure, fill those with nonsense! It’s fun! But when the information gaps are personal, or have a bearing on my life or the lives of family members and friends, my instant reaction is to fill them with worst possible scenarios. Why shouldn’t/can’t I instead fill them with marsupial daemons and beautiful cello languages that only wombats understand? Is it the fear that, should I be optimistic, the real facts will be a let-down? Well, perhaps they might be if I were too pollyanna in creating my own take… It is never wise to fill a hole with rainbow glitter and unicorn rides. Instead, a surrealist approach might be better suited to my depressive sensibilities: Fill in the frightening unknown with rainbow chicken-snails and unicorn farts, and the idea will be amusing until the facts arrive, and will then be easily traded for reality, since they were hardly possible to begin with… except in Laurie Pink’s drawniverse.
Resolution: Next time the boss has his door closed, I am going to assume he is practicing parkour with the rest of the management team. Yes. Much better. Now, does anyone want to join me in creating a version of Clue where “It was Yo-Yo Ma in the Lavatory with the Wombat” could be a possible outcome?
I have started more notebooks than I can remember. I still find them mixed in with the books, ten or so pages filled and the rest blank, doomed to a life — my lifetime — of serving as transoms thru which, if you stand on a chair, an animated gif’s worth of my life can be seen. At some point, I’ll have to give some thought to why I must start with a fresh notebook, and put even more introspective effort toward why I abandon them so quickly… Someday I should tear out and file away only the filled pages from each, but there is a sanctity to bound writing, even if it is my 14-year-old own.
Still, there is something alluring about a blank book. Something that makes me grab a pen and think — obsessively — about what to write. I covered this predilection here, in what shall now be referred to as the JustKristin Back Issues. I did, over the course of 10 years, do a lot better with that blog than I ever had with any notebook, perhaps because, while it had initially been empty, it was never really not complete, having no pages to sit unused.
Despite a general desire to do so, over the past three or four years, I have all bu stopped writing. This makes me sad. I’ve decided, however, that this dry spell was not caused by a lack of inspiration or ability, but by the misplaced belief that I needn’t bother. I have, therefore, emptied this “notebook”, in the hope that its newly-pristine state would goad me into wanting to fill it with words. Something about the way my mind works will not let a hole sit empty, but forces me to fill it (tho often with the worst possible stuff). Hopefully what I put in here will not be too bad. Here we go.