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Tonight's a night for run-on sentences
Wednesday. 6.22.11 12:08 am
It's sort of infuriating. I think of lots of little things I want to take note of, things that make me laugh or feel introspective or, I dunno, connected to real life. But I never have a way to record these passing thoughts, and by the time I get back here it's too late and they're gone forever or at least until next time I'm away from pen and paper and it really just stinks. I sit in a guard stand for six hours a day, and when I'm not reading (when nobody wants to swim) I'm watching people.

Obviously.

And that gives me lots of time to think, you know? It's what I enjoy doing, even when my inability to act on ideas or inspirations gives me a terrible itch. (And when I do go to act on these, if the moment has passed, it is much like working up for a big sneeze and completely missing the climax. Or the same for...climaxes, I guess) So I sit there and think, and ponder at how cool it would be if portals were real, because then I could have a double-ended candle that floats in a portal (balanced against its own gravity) and slowly melts down to a puddle of clear wax with flames emerging from the center, bounded only by surface tension and convection's air currents. Or wonder if the lady asking a French man for his passport is crazy, or if she really has a life straight from a bad thriller movie.

I used to be more open, I think. Certainly here, but that's not the point.

On Father's Day, Mom and I were going to visit Dad's grave. My brother was on the lake with friends. I don't know if that was an excuse not to go, or what, but that's where he was. It would just be Mom and me. And we had sort of waited til the last minute, and I was about to be late to work.

I didn't want to go. If I'm going to visit my dad's grave, it's going to be on my terms, by my self, and on my own time. Not on some holiday, alone with my mom, and rushing so I don't come in late. Maybe that's shallow. Cold. I can't blame you for thinking that. I think that. But there it is.

I don't really know emotions anymore, these days. I'm having a hard time digging them up. I get frustrated easily enough, but angry? Sad? Not really. Affection? I'd like that. But for the moment I just have to get by on pretending, in the hope that it...becomes real, I guess? I don't know. I don't remember.

I've been thinking about getting another account, or moving to a different site, so I could say stuff like this and not feel self-conscious. I haven't written anything...conversational for a long time for that reason. But I won't. I don't mind, really.

I'm spent for tonight, I think. g'night.

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Death is the Road to Awe
Saturday. 6.11.11 2:44 pm
I love this song so much, and the movie it comes from is beautiful.

click

I have nothing else to say at the moment. No real way to crystallize this feeling.

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Kokopelli
Wednesday. 6.1.11 1:12 pm
Man everybody is posting password protected entries lately. It's a privacy epidemic! I was going to do one too, actually, but I don't really want to. I hardly want to post anything at all. I'm mostly doing this...to contribute, I guess. To the FREE READING MATERIAL, HERE AT NUTANG.COM.

Where dreams come true.

I saw Full Metal Alchemist. It was interesting. Avatar spoiled me by being so awesome, though. And the ending was MOST unsatisfying. Grrraahh.

I'm reading a graphic novel called Sandman. It is exceedingly interesting and imaginative. It's about Dream, one of the seven Endless in the DC universe.

What else? Nothing of note, I guess. Started guarding again. New manager and staff...

Anyway. Er...that's all, I guess.

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Wedding at the end of the world
Saturday. 5.21.11 10:20 pm
Get up at 8:45
Two french toasts (eat light)
Drive to the park at 9:30
Play ultimate frisbee from 10:30 to 12
Drive home at 12:10
Shower, dress, etc (don't stop to eat)
Wedding at 1:30
Fill up on finger food and cake around 2:45

I'm not quite sure what happened after that. I went home and took several naps, then ended up sleeping clean through the rapture and woke up after 9. Whoops!

Now I'm hungry.

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