Skip to main content


Decisions....are something I'm very bad at.

As I said the other day, I wanted to try to pick out some things from my to do list and decide (my word was "commit") I was going to do them and then hold myself accountable by reporting back to my sponsor or stuff. Pretty simple.

Well, I did one of them--called back Panera to see if they still wanted to interview me (haven't heard back.... >.<)--but otherwise lazed off the others. Working on my resume, looking up jobs on craigslist. Avoided might be a better word, though the verb of choice is likely somewhere in between.

I don't like feeling incompetent, and I don't like feeling useless, but what am I supposed to do?

I suppose this is a great time to work on turning things over--praying, calling my network now and then, if only to keep myself outside of my head.

One thing that buggers things is that not matter how hard I seem to try to commit myself, nothing seems able to reign in my mind's ever vexing distractibility. I'm sure there's a remark I could make about some irony in there--something about how I can't remain focused enough to get focused--but I guess I'm a little too distracted to really formulate it into something clever. (And more than a bit weary....)

Part of the trouble is I'm not even sure what I'm missing or what I need or even what I want. (Nor even what I'm fighting elsewise.)

Like, I'd like to be (somewhat) normal, yeah? But I know that's probably never going to happen. It would probably be too deep a betrayal of my inherent weirdness. But even that aside--whatever eccentricities may or may not define me--I do wish I were at least functional.

In some ways maybe I am. Maybe I am and more so than I give myself credit. Maybe I've grown more along these lines than I realize, and what I'm really struggling with is just impatience.

But if that's the case, how long do I have to wait? How can I feel good about and encouraged by and motivated in taking these alleged steps towards growing up if I can't even see they're there?

Right now I feel so very unimpressive. I feel like I'm composed of various grandiloquent flourishes with no real core--no integrity--underneath to justify any of it. Not so much disingenuous as simply lacking.

I think I'm scared that no matter how hard I want to commit to doing something, how badly I want to make a decision, that I don't have enough substance in me to put behind these decisions to make them happen. And it probably isn't true, but that's how it feels, and this is one of those times when it becomes so very hard to remember that feelings are not facts.


Other things that might interest you...

QP: Changes to come, I hope.

My grandmother passed away about 2 weeks ago. I hope to write about her more soon, but for this moment, I want to speak briefly about where I'm at overall: Her passing has led me to reevaluate aspects of my life because I'm realizing that the status quo amounts to just wasting my life away. (This is another "quick post," which means it's a short update that I likely didn't edit and revise quite as much as the more "thoughtful" pieces I aim for. I say this because I'm self-conscious and worry that you, my reader, will judge me!) I'm up in Boston and have today and tomorrow off, and I want to spend at least a portion of each day figuring out (some of) my life. I say this fully aware how often I've variously done so before: asserted a need for change, described how I was going to do it, made an attempt, then fallen off in the follow-through. I'm honestly not sure what to do about that, though. It frustrates me now just as much as eve

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 fl

Sarracenia 'Ennui.'

I mentioned in a recent post  that even hybrids of the same species can demonstrate disparate variety. Which is the case with the other cultivar I discovered. Yes; there's another. I could go into how this variety among hybrids should surprise no one, but I'm not here to teach you genetics (poorly). No, I want to talk about my other big cultivar-related excitement: Sarracenia 'Ennui,' or so it's being called for now. I guess it's semiofficial now that I've "announced" it in a blog post. Welp. (My main hesitation in calling it this is that the name may already been claimed. But I think it's an  awesome  name for a plant and peculiarly kind of perfect for this one: It's got this muted glamour that feels not only somehow French but also weirdly existential...?) I found this beauty at Meadowview Biological Research Station . The other half of the main plant can still be found there, by the way, and that nursery has a gorgeous array of o