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I've always wanted to work in some postal outlet's "dead letter office". I recall the fascination of reading this one book, the title long since forgotten, and the sections of the book involving the two men working in a dead letter office. They would find money, secrets, and all manner of things, in the undeliverable mail of the world's population. It's a fascination of us all, methinks, despite attendant risks, to delve into the normally undelvable. I don't want to keep any of what I find, I just want to find it. I just want to know what's out there.
I really dislike people who don't take the hint of monosyllabic responses. Normally this would indiciate to anyone paying attention that, a) their audience doesn't want to hear about it, b) their audience doesn't want to hear about it "right now", or c) their audience really doesn't give a fuck, and is becoming quickly frustrated at being repeatedly and continually forced to listen to endless ramblings that will - should the speaker not stop soon - cause the audience to utter a very voiciferous and emphatic "Would you please shut the fuck up?" Don't people pay attention to others anymore?
I don't understand people who take fun-in-the-sun package tours; the sort of people who never leave the "compound", yet think themselves local culture experts. What's the point of spending all that money to go somewhere, if you aren't going to look around? When I travel, I consider it not only my duty to experience the locale, I also crave it. I want to eat the food, see old buildings, and share secrets known only to those who live there. I want to go somewhere with some depth. If you aren't going to look around, you might as well stay home.
Too many people spend far too much time looking for A Fulfilling Career, that will meet all of their financial, creative, and personal needs. It'd be nice, but that sort of thing happens very rarely. I don't need it, anyhow. I want a job. I don't need my workworld to fulfill me, I need "me" to fulfill me; I need me to fulfill my life. Of course I don't want a job I hate (particularly because one spends so much time at it); but one I can tolerate, that pays the bills, and allows for personal time, would be sufficient.
I've got very few marketable skills, when you come right down to it; but I do have is some skill with HTML. People keep wondering why it is I won't get a job making websites. I'll do it if I must, but would prefer not to, because I like making them, and want to keep it that way. I need inspiration, and I like the inspiration that gets me creating a website. If I was forced to do it, I'd end up loathing it, and losing the inspiration; and I don't want to end up hating something I like doing.
The local library, a union shop, has a promotion open, and two women with equal seniority qualified for it. In a union shop seniority is basically all that matters. The boss has decided he's going to determine who he promotes, by the toss of a coin. If I were either of these women, I'd quit. I won't have my fitness for work determined by that sort of ambiguity, nor would I allow my value to be degraded by it. That coin-toss would reduce your efforts at work to a meaningless waste of effort. In a professinal world, it's hardly professional.
The buzzer for my apartment is located at the top and closest to the door on the panel downstairs. This means every time a non-resident, or non-resident friend, needs to enter, they buzz me. Why the building owner doesn't allow his workers to live here, is beyond me; it would make things a hell of a lot more convenient for everyone. Anyhow, yesterday the buzzer sounded, and lo, it was the police. Again. Apparently somemone finally called them about the person down the hall with the dog that barks for days on end without... ending. Those people were't home. Damn.
My flat's a wreck, and I've got new furniture arriving today. I meant, of course, to get it all sorted out yesterday; a 'meant' that didn't get very far. The migraine I woke with didn't help; nor did the phone call. It's really not that much fun to be shocked out of a dead sleep, by some bill collector, at too damn early o'clock. Just because you're up and functioning, Mrs. You-Owe-Us-Money-Pay-Now-Or-Die, doesn't mean you have the right to call me up before 10 a.m.. Got me, sparky? There are some rules of ettiquette one just does not break, mmkay?
Any animal (even humans), will remove themselves from your proximity after you've swat at them enough times; but not the lowly, humble, average insect. Oh no! They keep coming, and coming, no matter what you do, or how many times you do it. Rolled up newspapers that miss their mark, sharp flying hands that do the same, gaseous clouds of repellant, are not enough to daunt our miniscule friend. Not even curses work. So, as I once again swat away this "gawd only knows where it came from" fly, I am convinced once more that all insects are raving massochists.
Funny how little things that meant so much to you, seem to mean so little to the people you shared them with. As ex-lovers call new girlfriends the same pet names, and share the same magical music, and write odes and poems and lyrics, to extol the virtues of their new loves. What little you had from then, from the then of being happy, becomes more meaningless. Perhaps you should just let go, but it would be nice to keep something good; particularly when there is little specialness in your world, and you want to keep all you can get.
Yesterday's mouse adventures took an unexpected turn. After several hours wondering what I could do to remove it, I finally realised it wasn't leaving, so I started moving things to find it. Hearing loud squeaks got me thinking the poor "mouse" was trapped under something; so I moved more stuff to let it out. Moved the last box, and lo, there was my "mouse"; a wee little bat. The poor bastard was terrified. I herded it into a box and put it in a shed out back where it can get free if it wants. Those are noisy little bastards.
So, what to say? As much as some people are good to me, and as much as I am accepted by others, it's still a real kick in the teeth that it was being hidden from you that a very old friend was coming halfway around the world to see two friends of his, but wasn't going to see you. See, the 'not seeing me' I can handle I suppose, though it hurts, but the 'not telling me' bit, is what really hurts. Despite the good things, this one not good thing, overshadows a hell of a lot right now.
There's lots of ways I don't like being treated, not the least of them is being patronised. I loathe it. The other, the other big no-no, is ordering me around. Do Not Ever Tell Me What To Do. Don't command me; I'm not a raw cadet, and you're not my drill master. The only time imperative commands are appropriate is if I'm unwittingly about to do something that will cause damage to myself, something around me, or another person. Angry outbursts and self-defense aside, don't ever order me about; especially when your order concerns something that is mine. Say please.
When someone wishes privacy, it's often nothing to do with them hiding something, but with matters of respect and individualism. Within a couple there should be honesty and openness, but there should also be things of seperateness. Neither of those two people is the same, nor should they be; they require their "alone time" and the things that make them the person they are. They require breathing space. Going through your partner's belongings without their knowledge or consent, then, is a big no-no. Even within couples there is such a thing as "violation"; and spying is but one example thereof.
Of the things that are most important for me to hear from others, are the following: pride, respect, inspiration, affection, warmth, comfortable, honourable, desirabe. Having spent too much time alone means that (even at my age still) I have a dangerous fairytale approach to life. They say that people like me, as they get older, more and more unconsciously dream of being saved by another because they feel unable to provide for ourselves, te life we want. We desire two things which no one can produce for us but our own selves; the impossible - a miracle and a saviour.
I had a "moment" earlier, when I realised that people are now young enough not to know about - or understand - the Framptom Comes Alive phenomena. This, I thought, was one of those albums that everyone just sort of... owned. If it didn't just magically appear in your collection, you always had bought it from the cheap bin in the local record shop. You might have inherited it from an older sibling who'd either moved on to their punk or disco phase. And there it would proudly sit, next to Leif Garrett and Sean Cassidy, and copies of KISS.
There's only one thing I ever really get hurt or depressed over, and I've mentioned it so much that I get tired of hearing it myself. I sometimes wonder why I bother bringing it up, since I know - or at least believe - that it's not changing, and isn't likely to do so for quite some time. And, really, it's no different from the very same things that other people get depressed or melancholy about. In fact, it's the very same thing most do; I'm alone, and I'm lonely - and it's hard to witness joys that you can't share in.
In order to get fed, you must feed. No one can work in a vacuum. If you want attention, you must pay attention. If you want people to put faith in what you say and trust you, you must keep your word. If you want people to think well of you, you must behave well. If you want someone to be part of your life, you must include them. If you want someone to believe you care about them, you must show them, not just say so. If you want someone to believe, you must be believable. You must try.
My head is going to explode. All I've been doing for the past few days, is reading, reading, and yet more reading. The humanities course I chose to take, is far more word-intensive than I thought it'd be; and fears of failure already loom large before my eyes. It's like this wall has gone up, that's preventing anything from seeping in to the places where it's supposed to - not entirely unlike how I simply fail to retain emotions, or the residual effects of whatever kindnesses people show me. This sponge that is me, is not absorbing; neither thought nor deed.
After realising how much work the humanities course was going to be, I decided not to take another of its ilk next term. I'm ill prepared for such a workload. I've arranged to replace it with a music course. While I don't expect anything next term to be easier, I'm relatively certain the reading load will be lighter, and I'll be better able to handle the types of information sources I'll be using - things delivered in a format that my brain, long unused to formal education, will be better able to absorb and retain. I'd very much like to pass.
I have just realised the connection between, and the problem with, doing one's university degree via correspondance, and always being dustbowl broke. When it comes time to do one's assignments and send them in to the tutor, one has not got the money to purchase printer paper, envelopes, or stamps. Oops. It's a damned good thing I can submit some of my work via email. The mathematics, on the other hand, is not going to be quite that simple. I did remember to stock up on graph paper before the wallet gnomes made off with my meagre supply of cash.
Yesterday I left a message where only a few people could see it. It was a message that screamed about how badly I'd been feeling. It was about my feelings of disassociation with people and human emotion, my guilt that I can't give back what I'm given, and the very things I want and need being the very things I shouldn't really be asking people for. In many ways I didn't expect a response. Why should I? Only one person did. One, out of so many. I didn't want much; but a nod of "I heard you" would've been nice.
I don't watch awards shows. Period. I don't care who the industry thinks deserves something, because what the industry thinks bears miniscule resemblance to what the people think. Funny, but that bears striking similarity to the last American federal election, doesn't it? I find awards shows to be an immense waste of time and money. They are nothing more than multi-hour long commercials for whatever wins best "something". No offense to Steely Dan, but when they won "best album" at the Grammys, my only thought was, "They made an album this year?" Let's not discuss the awards show snore factor...
Last night I deliberately watched "Independence Day" last night. I won't say it was terrible, because that's overstating the obvious, but it certainly could be used in film schools to illustrate almost every cheap plot furtheration device in existance. I wonder if it hurt the actors when they made such obvious and abrupt transitions from "funny bit" to "touching bit" to "serious bit"? The only good things about it were Will Smith and Judd Hirsch; but I'm inclined to be forgiving in both cases. "Cry God for England, Harry, and St. George!" (closing music: theme to "Close Encounters" to fade)
Sometimes I imagine myself the heroine of these little scenarios wherein I seek verbal vengeance against people who have offended or hurt me in some fashion. In a few short weeks I might get the chance to do just that, with two separate people. I'm a notorious chickenshit, so I'm not sure how I'll do when it comes down to the crunch; but we'll see. I'm not talking about simply being a bitch for the sake thereof, I'm talking about putting people in their places in ways I should have done long since. I'm talking about standing up for myself.
I have a fine hate on for ignorance today. It's being directed at people who say things like, "What use is physics to a farmer?" You know, it's attitudes like that which help contribute to an ignorant society with no capacity to expand their knowledge, or themselves as people; and which help contribute to making you an ignorant person, because you deny both the need to acquire knowledge, and the value of the knowledge itself. To derive it to a basic, you cannot predict the use something may be to you. I've two words for people like you: idiotic fool.
I have this memory; he is holding a baby in his arms, trying to breath life into its little blue body. He doesn't succeed; and I think that hit him harder than he will ever admit, or understand. I remember this baby's funeral; the small casket, the hushed tones, and the wee body in white. Sometimes, considering the fraidy-cat type my grandmother is, I wonder why I was taken to that funeral. I was five years old, the man was my uncle, and he was trying to give mouth-to-mouth to a neighbour's baby that had stopped breathing in its sleep.
There are different kinds of broke. To most folks broke means "can't afford the luxuries". To many people, myself included, broke means "can't afford the necessities". That doesn't sound extreme enough to many; and they continue thinking that if you just pinch a penny here and there, you'll be able to afford whatever thing it is you're after. Sometimes there really are no pennies to pinch. Sometimes there's so few, that broke means "can't afford a bag of rice or box of salt"; and for those of us in that last group, it's very ashaming to have to admit it.
What am I supposed to do with a bridesmaid's dress? My friend Diane found mine today, tucked away in a closet of her basement. So, once I get it back, what do I do with it? No matter what kind of dress the bride in question chooses, it always looks like a bridesmaid's dress. There really isn't much you can do with most of them, to make them look presentable as a cocktail dress or opera gown. I think I'll just use it for playing dress-up, or maybe for gorcery shopping. How do you think it'll look with my Docs?
I've always thought of a refuge as a place not only of safely, but also one of comfort; particuarly when you speak of a place of personal refuge, like the comfort of the company of good friends and companions. This isn't something I feel I have - I think I've kept myself too close to home, too guaraded, too defensed. I miss that zone, that comfort zone; and I'd like to have it back, though I'm not entirely sure how I'm going to get back there. I going to have to start asking for help, instead of crying for being saved.
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