"Sleep comes like a drug, in Gods country.." U2

Florida hath seemingly forgotten me.

Despite the scars I left upon hearts there..

Well, scars heal.

Memories fade

As they were designed to.

Or we all would be mad, if that wasn't the case

Scars heal

Tired but have been up for hours....

I thought I was being burgled at four am - dragged myself out of bed, checked every room, all doors and windows, nothing. I have been burgled twice since moving to London just over a year ago, so forgive my paranoia. There was no-one there, so I toddled back to bed.

Still can't sleep.

I have a mountain of work to do for university. I know they need to be done if I am to remotely enjoy Christmas, I know some of the subject matter is actually quite interesting, and I definitely know that I shouldn't have just spent the last two hours wandering round Everything...

Does anyone else spend the whole day here and excuse it as 'research'?

Ten thousand words by January 21st. The clock is ticking down, let's go! Will she do it? I'll let you know

Right, 'What is your understanding of Bahktin's concept of the grotesque body and how, in your opinion, does it manifest itself in contemporary culture'?


I've been obsessed with mirrors all my life...my own reflection, the reflections of other people...mirrors and windows...how my face changes in them...where the light goes on its journey...how you can create darkening corridors into the fabric of space and time by placing them in front of each other...how you could never see to the end of the corridor because you yourself were in the way of the path of the light...you'd have to walk down the corridor, into the curved doorways extending to infinity, and who knew if you'd ever find your way back into the same world you left

...how a mirror pretends not to change you but does, how a mirror pretends to show you yourself when really it only shows you the empty heart of itself, a silver screen that gives you back flatness in exchange for your roundness, gives you an image instead of a life...so we begin to feel we are images on a screen...not spacious, emotional beings in a vast space of energy...the mirror tells you a lie...the mirror shows you the surface and tells you "This is you" and because we are living without wisdom there are so few people who will tell us "The mirror only shows you your skin and you aren't just skin"...

so we are supposed to pay attention to our skin, our image, our flatness, we are supposed to become "millionaires and movie stars" so that maybe our skin becomes so beautiful that everyone will want to look at it...instead of mirrors to show their own skin to them they'll be given screens to show someone else's skin, the images of someone else's life...not even their own flatness any more, so that maybe they could believe that they don't even exist any more, even that their own skin that the mirror shows them isn't pretty enough...no one will ever want to see it, touch it, love it...do you see yourself in the mirror and think I won't want to touch you?...but you're my mirror...you're my real mirror...

...we aren't a veneer, we aren't a surface, we aren't a screen, we can't be shown to ourselves on a mirror...we're spacious, open, full of energy and feeling, we are profound, we are old, we are alive with more life than you can see in the colour of our skin, we breathe and eat and fuck and laugh and we live by the feelings that well up in our hearts and our guts...

we're surrounded by electricity - you can feel it when you touch someone - we cannot be represented or understood or reduced...would you love me, would I love you, if all there was was the image on the monitor, the skin on the screen, the face lost forever on the cold ghostly surface of the mirror?

We love each other because of the depth, the space we can feel behind the other's eyes, the way you can feel that someone's heart hurts from the way they press their hand to their face...the way I'll know when you walk into the room...the way everything you do, your words and your voice, everything, gives the same feeling of you...we aren't a veneer, we aren't just skin...we aren't the shiny beautiful brown surface of an office table, varnished to look like mahogany but underneath just reconstituted wood, pale, sunless, dead...we ARE mahogany...we are alive...we are the same substance and identity through and through...

I can dance, or sing, or write you a poem, or run with you at night, or kiss you, or drink with you, and it's all me, because something animates me and breathes through me that is deep and spacious and loving and is to my skin what the sea is to the waves...it gives me shape...I give me shape...you give me shape...you're my mirror...in you I see myself as I am: "luminous undying and translucent"

Ross (as the Holiday Armadillo): Merry Christmas. Oh, and Happy Hanukkah!
Ben: Are you for Hanukkah, too? Because I’m part Jewish!
Ross: Huh? You are? Me too!
Monica: Because armadillos also wandered in the desert?

Every time I think I’m not , I see her and I realize I am, I Think… I think I love her, I’m not sure, I wake up thinking about her, and I go to sleep dreaming about her. Last night I had a bit to drink and almost told her, but I should do it because I want to, and not because I like the taste of Rum.

Just read about John Walker on TIME’s website… It just proves that anyone can wind up anywhere. Well.. As long as they are named after Whiskey.

My mom called me last night, she want’s to meet for dinner tomorrow, why not, it’d be cool. I haven’t went with her in a while. (We have family dinner every Friday offcourse with Kiddush and wine)

Alcohol seems to be involved in every aspect of my life...

Ross (as the Armadillo): Okay, Ben, Santa has to go. Say goodbye!
Ben: No, why does he have to go?
Chander (as Santa): Um, because if Santa and the Holiday Armadillo are even in the same room for too long, the universe will implode! Merry Christmas!

god, i fucking hate nights like this. try to go to sleep and all i can think about is my ex girlfriend fiancee girlfriend? we were never clear on that. we had the rings, but we planned to be married straight away out of high school. we weren't, and at the rate we were going, it seems like we never would. maybe if we had, we might have stayed together. maybe not.

so many maybes. so many wishs. if wishs were fishes.... so many questions. it occurs to me now that i was starting to turn into my dad - not abusive or anything, just... not there. all either of us ever did was work, trying to save up the money to move out on our own. maybe if we had things would've been better. maybe they'd've been worse, maybe we would've gotten a one year lease and she still would've dumped me, and then we'd be stuck together. or maybe she'd have finally been able to tell me what was wrong, instead of just giving off vibes of 'something is fucked up'. maybe if i hadn't insisted on polyamory she wouldn't have slept with that fucker graeme. maybe not. maybe if i had decided to put up with my allergies that night and go hang out with them it might not have happened. maybe not, knowing me i would've told them to have fun, especially if i was drunk (like them). maybe if i wasn't so blind to other people (i've been wondering if i have asperger's syndrome, lately) i would've been able to tell how much she liked him, given that he's all she ever talked about. hindsight is 20/20. maybe maybe maybe... i don't even remember all the maybes.

maybe this should've gone to my livejournal, but then mindy would see that, and get pissed off at me again. just what i need, the one person who still cares about me getting more mad at me.

maybe i'll die in my sleep. if i ever get to sleep.

Ah, yet another weekend spent geocaching with the boyfriend. This weekend was particularly successful as we have met 2 really great people. There was a geocaching event on Saturday evening in St. Augustine, FL. It was set up for fellow geocachers to come and meet and exchange stories. We thought we were the only ones going to show up. Finally, after about 20 minutes of waiting, I see someone walking around with a GPS. Thinking to myself "Wow I hope I don't sound stupid!", I asked them "Geocachers??" Thankfully they were! This is when we met Paul and Amaratha.

Now, I do have to admit, my boyfriend and I are a...well, a unique couple. We find it hard to find other couples that are on the same plane we are, but we had no idea what we were getting into with Paul and Amaratha. They quickly invited us to their home for some margaritas, and we accepted. On the way there, I asked my boyfriend, Fred, "Are they as off as we are?!?" He said he was thinking the exact same thing.

We had much in common with them right off the bat. Being as into geocaching as we are, we exchanged several stories and laughed together about them. We listened to reggae and blues, smoked some cigars, and got to know each other. Even their dogs liked me! And Paul says the female doesn't like anyone!

They are almost exactly 10 years older then we are. Paul is in the medical field, catering to people who are not able to leave their house. Amaratha works in an actual doctor's office. We discussed everything from cooking, to religion, to animals, to sex. 7 hours, 8 drinks between the two of us later, we left. It was about 2:30am. They invited us back whenever we wanted to come back to St. Augustine and welcomed us to stay at their place. Paul had even said to us, "Mi Casa es su casa".

It was great to meet some people who were as kind, AND as weird as we are. We brought them over a gift basket from the local winery the next day in thanks for all they did. It was a successful weekend, and what looks to be like the beginning of a great friendship.

This is the fourth day I'm not smoking.

And that really sucks, since Noblesse absolutely rules. It's been almost a year since I'm out of Kele 4, and I still haven't gotten my life straight, found a job, bought a Fender, or done any of the things that I planned to do. Besides taking a break and doing the Israel National Track, I have been rotting away at home, studying Linux and any forgotten language that comes across. Scheme included.

I have a genuine feeling, the first one in a long time that change is about to take place. I'm as full with ambition as I was on January 10th, the day the army set me free after deciding I'm a narcissist. I even made a clean-cut, and just stopped smoking after consuming half a pack of the most hideous tobacco man ever created on a daily basis.

I am soon to begin writing a Visual Basic project, some Driving Instructor's financial thing, and start giving private lessons in UNIX to degenerate CS students. Looking at people 10 years older than I am taking crap from me and getting paid for it should boost my ego somewhat.

This is a statement of intentions. I'l check back in a month or so.

I say it over and over again. I want to, it’s how I feel. That word.

I have just bathed, and am walking around the house looking for a towel. I’ve been saying that word for a while. I’m getting used to it, good.

Today was not much of a day – quiet at work, but I have to be there in case my baby app server throws a tantrum. It did on Sunday, but the provider upstream has already admitted on Monday morning that the outage was due to them rebooting whilst installing the service pack on their server to fix the problem that caused the outage earlier in the week. Serves them right for using Microsoft.

Soon I'll start another site or feature, and proably not finish it before my contract runs out. They'd love to renew, and so would I, but I know I will move on.

I cannot blame it all on her,
To blame her all would be a lie
But many a night I’ve lain awake,
and wished that I could watch her die.

And all will be boring and repetitive until next weekend, which will be much the same again, only I’ve spent much of the month’s money now.

The car has been serviced and is running perfectly. It bloody should be, for what it cost.

We change, but after a while, we have been learning so long that we are forgetting at the same rate as we are learning, and we’ll never get any better. This is all there is. And it starts to bleach white as a bone, all the juice leached out of life.

I've been analyzing my thought processes. For example, I used to look at strangers and quickly evaluate them based on their appearance. This wasn't just me looking at them and thinking that someone was just ugly or pretty, but more along the lines of analyzing different things that tend to tell a lot about a person. Watches and shoes are amazing indicators of life-circumstances. Presence of jewelry or the lack thereof tells more about personality than wealth. But really, when you get down to it, this is a very shallow way to look at a person.

Lately, when I look at strangers I have found myself thinking that regardless of their appearance, someone somewhere in the world loves this person. Whether it is a mother, father, son, daughter, spouse or lover, someone loves this person. I love many people. I want people to look on my loved ones with kindness. I have found that thinking this way has softened my rigid outlook on people that I have never met. It makes me look on strangers with soft eyes and a kind heart.

I wonder if this change is just maturation, or if other things have sparked this change. I love everyone.

A co-worker at my office here, who reports on the cop's beat, is getting harrassing phone calls. We are pretty sure the "phantom phone caller" is a man being investigated for arson in the county, whom she wrote a story about for Saturday's paper. The scary individual called here today, enraged, wondering how we could print such lies. Another reason I never want to work the cop's beat. That sort of incident, and when you visit the jail on morning rounds, prisoners in the holding cell up front like to leer at you- try to shake you up. It's just not my cup of tea.

My father called this morning- a man I rarely see- but who recently is "getting closer to God" and wants our relationship to better. So do I, so I and my boyfriend will be visiting him and his latest family in Birmingham this weekend. Four step-siblings. All of them fun to be around, especially for the nostalgia they offer. Perhaps I sound like I'm getting old, but I miss the beauty of youth.

Last night I had a dream I was in Orlando with a group of party friends, and we were enjoying the fine hotel lobby, swimming pool and decks like we did on one of our real vacations- one made "finer" by use of illegal substances. Gina asked me if I'd like some shards, and cut a fat line on the table for me. I declined at first- the constant temptation one I still face sometimes these days- but longed for the resurgence, the feeling of everything being ideal and unblemished, and bent down for the perfecto line offered. I was happy to wake and find the event untrue. They say temptation will destroy our lives, the neverending hunger .

I must cover a city meeting tonight, so in the office I wait. But it's rather nice, actually, when everyone has gone. A silent office is a good office.

More thoughts on insanity:

If you've been reading any of my daylogs over the past few months, you might recall my mentioning my landlord's son, Chris. Point in fact, he's certifiably insane. Bonkers. Out to lunch. Crazy. Mad as a Hatter. The list goes on.

In a very surreal way, I can identify with him- and feel very, very sad for him. I've been there and I've done that, bought the t-shirt, own the franchise. I spent a year in a facility, back when I was 9, and that experience taught me how to recognize reality. Good for me, eh? I still see the world at odd angles sometimes, but I'm aware enough of most peoples' perceptions on this world that I know how to interact with them without seeming nuts.

Chris isn't so lucky. And his family doesn't help any, either. They leave him alone in the house all day. He throws things around (furniture, dishes and whatnot), screams a lot, paces incessantly, rarely sleeps and is generally a pain in everyone's ass. I've been trying to reach out to him, to let him know that his behavior isn't helping anyone least of all himself. But he's just not getting it.

They throw him in the hospital for a bit and while he's there, he seems to alter completely. He becomes rational, apologetic, sincere, lucid, intelligent, kind... almost normal. But as soon as he comes home, within a few days, he's back to going insane.

Today he woke up another tenant in the house to tell him that he (the tenant) is Satan and that Chris will kill him in his (the tenant's) sleep. This tenant sleeps with a tanto (a short Japanese knife that is wickedly sharp and deadly if in well-trained hands) for security purposes. He's quite well trained in a few styles of martial arts. Threats make him jumpy and waking him up with one is not the way to start a happy day.

I've taken to changing the locks on my cabin. I'm not worried for my own safety, I can very capably defend myself in just about any situation, but I'm worried that what few worldly possessions I have might get smashed to bits by Chris. My cabin has two entrances- a conventional door with a porch and two barn doors. I've padlocked the barn doors shut and the regular door has a new lock and keys. I lock it whenever I step out of my home, even if only to go out and get some smokes.

Today I went into the house to talk with the other tenant, who was telling me about his absurd wake-up call. Before I'd left my cabin, I sort of "booby-trapped" the barn doors (which is the access point most often used by Chris when he decides I need a visit from him) so that I could tell if someone tries to open them while I wasn't there. When I got back to my (locked) cabin, sure enough, my ploy had worked- the throwing dart I'd gently balanced on the barn doors' handle had fallen silently onto the folded towel on my floor. Chris had tried to invade my little home.

I pay rent here. I live here. I work here. I sleep here. This IS my home. I don't mind people being in here when I'm with them, but I don't like knowing that people can just up-and-invade my home whenever I'm not around. I respect the privacy of other people and in turn expect that in kind, for others to respect my privacy- lunatics or not.

In the last hour I haven't heard any more screaming from Chris within the house. I would like to think that's because, when I realized that he'd tried to intrude in my home, I went in there and told him not to try it again. His response had been that there are some very bad things in this country. I told him that he was quickly becoming one of them, that he was coming unglued and that it wasn't "cool", it wasn't "healthy", that it wasn't going to do anyone any good, that it wasn't smart or anything positive- purely negative. I told him that if he's so concerned about bad things in this world, he'd better start taking a hard cold look at himself and that anything outside of himself was Somebody Else's Problem.

There is debris in the car port, where his mother usually parks her vehicle. When she gets home, she will likely discover the broken glass and other minutae that is scattered there on the concrete. I hope she's smart enough to realize what's been going on while she's been ignoring her son.

I never know what's going to hold my interest. I pick up projects with the full intention of following through and my utmost emotional comittment only to drop them a few days later when the novelty wears off. Other things that I'm doing only as a distraction grow to hold all of my attention and effort. There's no rhyme or reason to it. I never know how dedicated I will be to something until I try to commit myself to it. Such a random strength of will doesn't reflect well on myself.

Last night, my shifty motivation kicked in unexpectedly. A few days ago, a girl whom I'm rather infatuated with found out that we're both big fans of the band Garbage. We talked for a little bit, and it was eventually revealed that she hadn't heard any of their B-sides. Overjoyed at the prospect of being able to do something for her, I insisted on burning a disk of them for her. After some polite argument over the necessity of that action, she hesitantly agreed.

Homework prevented me from spending any time on her CD until last night. I scavenged through all of my b-sides and remixes, finding the highest quality songs. I arranged and rearranged the list, adding and deleting with grim efficiency. Each mood was set in its proper place, a perfect balance. I tested the segues between songs to make sure there was no disjointedness. After about an hour of clicking and listening, I finally had a satisfactory mix. All that was left was to burn the disk.

That's when my motivation craftily began to assert itself. As I watched the little colored bar on my burning software inch towards one hundred percent, I started making little concessions to myself:

Gah, I don't want to give her the disk with that stupid CompUSA logo on it. I might as well make a cover for the disk. I've got plenty of time to do the rest of my homework.

A few more minutes pass by...

Well, since I'm making a cover for the disk, I might as well make an insert for the jewel case. It's not like the graphics will take that long to make.


You know, she might like to have the lyrics to these songs, I'll whip up a couple of pages for the insert. A quick copy-and-paste job, nothing more.


I ended up working from 5:00 PM until 2:00 AM, hunting across the 'net for the perfect picture of Shirley Manson and the boys, making full use of my paltry Photoshop skills, stylizing the text, and aligning everything until it was absolutely perfect. Several dozen test prints and two cans of Mountain Dew later, I'd finished.

At some point during the night I realized that I'd gotten a cold. By morning my nose felt like it was melting and my eyes were little hellish balls of itch. That's what happens when you don't take Sudafed. Figuring that sleep wasn't really worth it, I finished the rest of my homework, got dressed, and drove to school with the CD firmly clutched in my hand the whole way.

It took me 'till about third period to figure out that I looked like a drowned rat suffering from crack withdrawal. I had completely forgotten to attend to such basic hygine needs as taking a shower, brushing my teeth, combing my hair, or cleaning my contacts. The fact that I was leaking mucus didn't help. Between periods I splashed cold water on my face and unsuccessfully tried to divulge myself of snot (there seemed to be an infinite supply).

This definately wasn't the way I wanted to present myself to someone I was interested in. But, I had promised her that I'd have the CD by today. A lose-lose situation, basically. The final ten minutes of period four, I decided that the best course would be to just give it to her and promptly get away. I could hide for the rest of the day, and then talk with her about the CD tomorrow when I would be less repulsive.

At lunch, she was sitting at the usual table with her friends. After pacing back and forth for a few minutes, I finally gathered the courage to just walk up and hand her the disc. She turned and eyed me rather startedly, tossing back a few bangs of her abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous hair. I stammered a couple of unintelligible words and then ran off as quickly as I could while still pretending to walk. The last I saw, she was staring after me with a rather perplexed expression on her face.

A little later during the day, an emissary approached me in the de-militarized zone (aka. the library) and informed that my crush adored the CD, thought I had gone through far too much work, and wanted to do something in return for me. She's always been gracious like that. I told the messenger such a repayment was entirely unnecessary, and that it hadn't been any trouble at all. After sleepwalking through the last few periods, I slinked out of school, drove back home, and promptly collapsed into bed.

God, I'm such a fucking dweeb.

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