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I'm hoping if I schedule this for late at night no one will read it. Because obviously I still have to blog it.

The place I'm in emotionally and stuff is a lot better than it has been recently. I'm not as angry or sad, just disgruntled and restless. Of course, I'm not entirely sure what I'm feeling and certainly not why. I do know some sticking points my mood catches on and can't always shake itself free of.

For one, a lack of friends. Like, there are the people I work with and the people I do Rocky with and the people I chat with online now and then, and, yeah, I suppose they count as some kinda friends. But I'm not sure how many of them or to what extent I can consider them friends. I don't think I can count more than a couple people--and I mean a couple--I actually hang out with, regularly or otherwise. Of course, numbers are the silver bullet to any sense of a social life, but I think there's a point in there.

For two, neglecting my writing. I could swear only a few weeks ago I felt like a writer and all grown up and productive and excited. What the hell happened to that? I still could get back to that, somehow I'm sure, but I don't and I haven't. I'm left wondering why. And that kinda sucks.

For three, relational ambiguity. I've been seeing a guy for 6months and I'm still not sure if a) we are something, b) we should be something (else?), or c) I even want us to be anything. I keep going back to something someone suggested after I told him about the situation--"Maybe you guys are just really good friends...." I think I might like that, actually; just being good friends and hanging out instead of bring sex and dating into the mix. (That would probably help point 1 of my ennui--someone else to call a friend.)

For four, my general lack of success in life. I know I only have myself to blame for not following my dreams or ambitions or values as much as I could have been, but still. It sucks feeling like I've accomplished little or nothing in 24 years. It's not true, of course, but that's how it feels.

I dislike complaining like this. Part of me used to secretly revel in it and in making these kindsa posts. And while some part of me may still find some satisfaction in angsting, it just feels pathetic. Which doesn't help with the overall problem. (For five.)

A lot of this feeds off not following through...on stuff. Like with my writing or my workouts or lack of success/progress. I don't know where the urge to do these things goes. I don't think it's laziness. Apparently my ups and downs are really obvious to other people--at the least, they're very regular. That's prolly not good. I do think I'm getting better at pushing through the downs and getting stuff done while embracing the ups and appreciating what I can accomplish, but there're times it's still isn't so simple or good feeling, and that really sucks.


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…