My day

[taratemima]

Stayed up too late with my writer's group speculating about sentient crustean beings, war, probate, and guns. While it is a kick in the butt for a lot of projects, I am still stuck on figuring out how to flesh out the interaction between Tim and Johnny in part three. I wasn't happy with the estate planning in Miriam's office scene. I guess that is one of the disadvantages of not really having a Johnny muse. Like, he came with the other two, but he was sort of in the background, keeping to himself. Sometimes I get him to chat, but he shares my aversion to small talk ("So, how about them Red Sox?" "Don't follow baseball." "I don't either, I am just devoted to lost causes." "Oh."). I get more information from Danny and Tim being bitches to me ("Why am I always getting kidnapped in fics?" "Forget that. Why am I always on the edge of psychosis in fics?") than from him. He just nods when he agrees and shrugs when someone tries to bait him.

He is pushing me to listen to more Tom Waits, though. All I need is to coax him to talk about the whole process of being a human servant.

Called my grandmother to see about my Dada's birth certificate. Must get library card. Tomorrow is a toga party. Actually you can go as your favorite senator. Honestly, the only one I can think of is Bella Abzug, and I
don't have any colorful hats to wear. I also don't make a convincing Barney Frank or any of the Kennedys. I got to do some research on the linguistic genocide and linguistics for fanfiction ideas.

Fridays often make me restless. However, I don't want to use my paid time off just whenever. I have this weird idea of taking a whole week off to catch up with people, invite people to watch movies, go out dancing, and stuff. Maybe in October.

I had a moment of small triumph, when I repaired a cassette tape whose fuzzy part that reads the magnetic tape was loose. Sorry, I don't know the technical term. Anyway, I positioned it over the tape and it sounds much better. I still have to clean some scratches from some CDs, soon.

I still need to do the voice demo. It nags at me, but I've been in a state where I just want to sleep, not sing.

Funny how certain tapes remind me of walking up and down Centre St in JP, bored on a Saturday, sometimes rushing home to bed. A Kiss in a Dreamhouse, Remission and the third Peter Gabriel album seem to be big ones.

The perfect careers seem to be creative writing and some other tracks I have no visual and artistic training for: interior decorator, architect, commercial artist, stuff like that. It does, however, make me want to go to art school or take some multimedia courses. But see, my drawing ability is frozen. I can make expressions, but realistic bodies and shapes, I am crap at. I tend to doodle eyes, swirls and pyramids. My therapist suggests that I take a drawing course just to see if I can.

I think I'll do a screenplay based on Don't Bite the Sun. Sorry, LJ Hive Mind, I've been neglecting OoTP in order to read that and Drinking Sapphire Wine. Some weird reason, I can just see Milla Jovanvich as the narrator/main protagonist. Maybe Natalie Portman as one of the characters in female form. I can also see it as an anime, to keep up with the frequent changes of appearance by the Jang. Perhaps some design somewhere between Tel Aviv and Los Angeles. I don't know.

My younger sister always wants to read what I wrote for the novel so far. As soon as I finished year two, I will give it to her.

I am suffering from the feeling of cosmic unimportance, and more personally, unimportance to people I love. It is absurd on its face, and somehow, part of the hurt is realizing I do care but I haven't always shown it. Time, energy, sometimes self-pity are the reasons. Sometimes I hold dark, bitter grudges, glowering in my room and sometimes yelling at people for the smallest things. I know I don't yell around friends, and most of the time when I am angry, I cry. So, I cut myself off, afraid of my anger and wishing to spite them by my silence.

Therefore, it is possible they thought I don't care and just cut off any feeling for me.

Absurd. Foolish. I wish I had more faith that things will turn out for the better if I keep at my plans and keep my eyes on the future. I wish I had more faith that there are people and there is a presence that cares about me.

I wrote a poem about this.

I'll be the exile
if no one else wants the job.

I will wander from town to town,
learn new customs,
warm myself in Northern winter
and seek shade in Southern winter.

Everyone else
wants a home,
wants people who respect them,
wish for some promised land
or at least a promised block.

I'll be the friendless,
the orphan,
the wanderer
who whistles for her supper.

Some name for the feeling,
for the role I find myself in.

Or at least I will travel no further
than my room and my office,
pass by all of you
and be faceless
but observant.

Everyone has a eye set
for some golden age,
vague shimmerings of
extinguished fires,
or some great leap forward
bounding toward them
to take them away.

They have a bedrock.
Faith in God and faith in humanity
or at least faith in self and friends.

I wish I had it,
but I only have
the steadiness of road
and the certainity of my feet.

I only know I will wake before everyone else
and sleep when everyone else
is in their homes,
watching television.

I only know tomorrow,
I wake up alone.

Does anyone have a better idea?

Why these bouts of sadness even if the only time I didn't get enough sleep was yesterday? Is eight hours not enough? Do I need ten? Oh god, is it either give up my nights so I can function in a job that is not suited for me or have my days be torture while I use my nights for some desperate grab at joy and productivity?