Thank God Its Thursday
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I'll be off the next two days, my weekend as it were. My eyes are tired, my brain blank and my fingers hurt. I'm dreading Friday. Silly me, I'll be working for myself with people I like. Maybe even old Warren Buffet has days when he's tired of of manipulating all those billions of dollars.
I was a demon cataloger the last several days. Mad to get as many books listed online as I could. All the typing and watching the phosophor dots rearrange themselves takes its toll. Has anybody coined a term for using the computer too much?
But here I sit at my home computer. Why? Live Journal has become a compulsion. It hasn't done me any mischief. It has left me peeved with myself. Peeved with my entries of late.
I can't guess all the reasons there are for keeping a journal. A few rare folks have kept a journal most of their lives and taking it online is an effortless almost inevitable evolution. Some keep in touch with friends, others are lonely and want to talk with someone if only themselves. Vain groups glory in their self-imagined mastery of world events or their coinage of orphic koans.
My LJ was a small part of my greedy online search for, pity I can think of a good euphemism, romantic (modifier added to blunt the noun) love. Did that and dropped the journal. Not long after Charles and I bought the house I started typing in the journal again. Don't have any idea why. My own guess is that I'd become addicted to writing about myself when I was working up my website. Might've been something else, I just don't know.
My original journal had been seen only by folks who'd came thisward (no, it isn't a word) by my personal ads. With the revival I found myself exchanging comments with other folks on LJ and reading their own journals. A blessing for someone averse to mingling with the great clutter of mankind.
I'd've likely have denied it could be possible but writing in the journal taught me lots about myself. Maybe it just gave birth to new notions no more on the mark than the old. I'm not going to drive myself crazy by worrying about it.
I said I've been peeved with my entries. I wished I'd saved what I wrote to someone explaining which journal entries I like the best. In a nutshell they were the entries that seemed the most clearly written by me. Too vague. They are the entries whose nuances make them the most distinctive what I hope you'll forgive me in their richardness.
Of late they've seemed pretty generic to me. Pissing away the pleasure and value of the journal.
I've been trying to figure out why the journal has been a compulsion. During the glum stretches when things weren't going well with Charles the journal was a refuge. I could make light of whatever nasty thing was happening or carom down some autobiographical or sexual tangent. Or rarely badly say that I was miserable: but only as a last resort. When the notes I'd write to myself weren't enough.
Many the times I've written journal entries that embarrassed me. Recently I've taken actually using the lj-cut tag to cover them. Feeling foolish is a ginch (did anybody ever really use that word?) treat compared to feeling bland.
Yet another meta-journal entry. Whenever I think I've made my last up pops another. Like sex. I think the last time I felt I'd exhausted talking about sexuality I went on it at great length. I kind of liked that entry. Mostly because some of what I said was good for clarifying some thing for me.
Which is another thing I like about LJ. Stating an idea to the world as it were seems to pep up the inner dialectic in a way keeping it to yourself doesn't.
. . .
Today's accomplishment was getting enough in the bank to pay the mortgage, pay for Charles' license plate games and buy food. I was getting really exhausted worrying so much about money. For a few weeks I can pretend the house is ours and not the bank's.
Of course I know folks on LJ who have to live with their parents, even one who has gone so long without food she's become ill. I may bitch about my middling middle class problems but there are easily four billion people I wouldn't trade places with.
I've restlessly changed CDs several times while typing this. Finally I put on the Pet Shop Boys again after swearing I wouldn't. Home and Dry and E-Mail are songs I'm addicted to when my beloved is away.