Skip to main content


I should have gotten coffee before starting this post. My brain is dead. And i'm staring at a pair of thumbtacks sitting on my monitor's stand pointing at eachother with a piece of cat fluff behind them, and for some reason I can't get those buggers out of my head. Even long enough to come up with a decent title.
It's been a weird week. Someday I'll get annoyed with myself for how often I say that. It's like some excuse to avoid having to actually describe my week, even when I know I invariably will.

In and out and in and out and in and out--it's just like sex.
I started noticing this week's off-ness when the same people would ask how I was doing, and I'd answer with the same stuff as I had last week. And we're not talking, like, I'd just gotten a habit of saying "the usual" in the past week; no, we're talking more I'm still facing the same problems I was last week without having moved forward on any of them, really. That was both a frustrating and enlightening realization.

I've continued dodging those third step moments. Something's up in my head. I don't know what but it's bugging me--but, of course, hardly enough to warrant a change in behavior. Heaven forbid.

Someone said at a meeting the other day how the hardest part of the third step is remembering you've made a decision. I see that as meaning it's hard to remember to follow through, to continue following through, on the decision. And that's a lot of where I've been.

Someone else said at a different meeting that the problem with self-will is it feels good at first but when it catches up with you it's already too late. I certainly hope it's not too late, but I can definitely relate to it feeling good at first. It feels good to go nap off an afternoon instead of filling out forbearance forms for Sallie-Mae or worrying about resumes & job applications. It feels good to jerk off instead of tackling the living mess that is my room. It's just so easy to let time melt by blogging away instead of making my bed or putting up that towel rack for mom, even though I know that should have less priority than either of those things.

Part of my problem is I'm so good at giving myself over to self will without much thought--perhaps even avoiding thought.

Life is hard, and complicated. It worries me--living. Taking care of myself. Figuring out how things are done. I want it all to be so perfect. I want it all to mean so much. I want people to notice me and say "hey, that kid's pretty damn cool". But all of that's beyond me, and so even the simpler stuff starts to look so difficult. And the moment even a little bit of worry seeps in, my self-will steps up to 'take care of it'.
grainy, for effect.
And then shit doesn't get done. And a week later I have the same problems and little to show for it except "it's been a weird week...".


Other things that might interest you...

This moment: A tattoo.

So I read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, and it was perhaps the most beautiful thing I'd ever read. One passage in particular, very early in the book, hit me hard with my first experience of the sublime, and stayed with me—and led at last to my first tattoo.
In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.  (Emphasis added; full paragraph included below. From the full text of the novel as made available by the University of Adelaide.)

The paragraph this is from, the 4th paragraph of the novel, is the 1st passage with the stream of consciousness the book is famous for; although self-limited here, the flow is no less gorgeous. In the passage, Clarissa is walking on a street to get those famous flowers herse…

Losing Doolittle.

I recently got to spend a few days at the lake house my family used to visit through most of my childhood; we no longer own it, and it turns out I missed it more deeply than I realized.

Anthony and I both got the week before NYC Pride off this year, so I contrived to get us a little time there. The cousins who own Greenshore gave Anthony and me permission to relax there for several days rather than just the 1 or 2 I had expected. Good god, I'm grateful for that.

I missed this place. Standing on the balcony, the porch, or the dock and looking out over the lake, I was reminded of the beauty and tranquility this lake represents for me. The meaning and memories, too.

This was always a place of solace and stability for me. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but we always came back to this place. It had been in our family for generations before I was even born—if we'd been able to keep it, it would have been a solid 4 generations including mine. This was where I figured out I w…

Sarracenia 'Palmerpink.'

So I posted the other day about my rekindled carnivorous plant obsession—I mean, hobby. I mentioned, in passing, that I had "discovered" a possible cultivar, so here's the lowdown on what that means and what I meant.

The term "cultivar" is short for "cultivated variety," and signifies that a particular plant is so desirable and interesting that people want exact copies of it rather than simply seed from it. Some famous American pitcher plant (Sarracenia) cultivars include the legendary Adrian Slack, the massive Leah Wilkerson, and the classic Judith Hindle.

Part of how these come about is that, unlike horses x donkeys = mules and certain other hybrids, Sarracenia hybrids aren't sterile and can be crossed and recrossed without limit. Further, random chance can create crazy combinations of genes such that even hybrids between the same species—heck, even the same parents—can demonstrate quite the variety. More on that elsewhere.

Depending on how easy…