Skip to main content

Not quite cured, but not as sick.

It's been, what?, a week since I've last posted? Really? That blows. Here I was hoping the whole Cali thing might herald in a new era of my blogging....maybe it still can.

I worked so much of the last week or so that I was beginning to ache even on my day off. Like, I musta worked at least 35 hours of shipment, man. That stuff is hard work. Especially when you work it like I do--fast and hard.

On the one hand, it's nice to be appreciated/needed, I suppose. But on the other, while I know plenty of people work that many hours or more every week, it really took its toll on me. Like, on Monday, my arms were spaghettifying while I was trying to haul about those boxes of shipment. Not good timing on the part of my limbs; no sir, not at all.

(I guess I could point out that many of those people working 40hr weeks probably have lovely office jobs and those more blue collar brethren are probably more used to this kinda work than I am.)

An interesting note: I don't believe I'm sharing all this to get pity or sympathy or consolation, per se. Hell, half the time I'm pretty sure no one even reads this--certainly not this far into these posts!

I think what I'm really looking for, if anything, is simply to share. Maybe, also, more specifically to share something that I found in some way striking.

I can hardly dismiss, though, my past attention seeking tendencies. Sometimes I guess I would do that out of "terminal uniqueness", while other times merely to get noticed and acknowledged.

It's kinda weird though how silently so much of that slipped away. Like, I'll notice as I'm talking to someone or doing something the exact moment where some pathetic impulse to be noticed would once have forced its way into the discussion. And as subtly as I noticed it, that moment passes and dissipates.

Certainly, some of it still exists--hopefully mostly just the more pragmatic, normal parts. When I think I've done something well, I still want someone to notice and would like them to notice how well I did. When something sucks I still want to tell people about it and hear them say "Oh, well that sucks.".

But the urgency to make them aware and the insistence with which I crave their validation isn't so present anymore. Like, the infantile undertones of "Look at me! I'm special!" and "Oh, woe is me!" with the implied, all-too-expectant "right? right??". It's just not there like it used to be.

Of course, I wish I could say I simply didn't care what people think, but at least I feel less pathetic and childish.

What remains, mostly, is absently telling things to people and it prolly sounding kinda like I'm still fishing for approval/attention/validation. That could probably use some work, but I guess it's an idle enough habit all the same.

Sigh, this post probably turned out kinda weird. And awkward. That's what I'd like least about it--the awkwardness. Weirdness is tolerable; awkwardness, embarrassing.

But I really don't have the focus or time or whatever to try and fix it. I could, probably, but I don't really care at this moment. Sorry :-)


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…