Category: about

[Apologies to someone (you’ll know who you are). Parts of this entry were bastardized from an email I sent to you on this subject last Friday.]

I’ve always wanted everyone to know everything personal about me. Then again, I also want them to accept those personal things, and when that doesn’t happen I can sometimes react badly. But in terms of my friends and stuff, my reaction is always to tell them too much, and let them stop paying attention if they don’t want to know, or tell me to shut the hell up. (I generally assume people will tell me if they’re not interested in hearing about my boring or depressing life, but it occurs to me that if they didn’t bother, would I really ever know I was sharing too much?)

That’s one of the nicer things about blogs. You just put the information out there, and it’s up to other folks to decide what they want to read or don’t want to read.
Continue reading “ups and downs”

I normally scoff at this kind of thing, but Laura posted the answers to these questions, and while reading them I started thinking about how blogs end up painting this picture of you. Whether you want them to or not, really. And how that picture is something I want to encourage (or rather, have some control over, in so much as that is possible). So, for better or worse, click more to read my hundred-or-so questions:
Continue reading “96 trivial answers to 96 trivial questions”

Life is a flash in the pan. I live opportunity to opportunity. I am inherently physically and mentally gluttonous.

I find thoughts of flesh and skin titillate my brain, and I return to them between the other mundane required thoughts throughout the day. On my way to the bathroom I’ll entertain notions of co-workers naked, or weekend fantasies that loom closer-than-life. I’ll be in a daze. As I sit back down at my desk these thoughts fade into background — as they should — but creep into the corners of my activities, nagging me to pull them out and entertain them at the forefront of my conscious thoughts.

Good books are like this, waiting in the wings of the stage of my imagination, jumping uncooperatively into conversations when I least expect them. Ideas that seem at times intelligent, compelling me to make them real, to sacrifice other thoughts while they roam the corridors of my consciousness.

Today’s fuzzy instinct might be tomorrow’s eureka… but for the gluttony. The sloth in my imagination. The imagination that claws the walls this drudgery, this mental confinement–my boring day, my placating job, my lack of creative outlet…

This is to say: I just sit and think about shit. All day. Daydreaming. Thinking nothing, and everything. Mostly thinking just the thoughts that come easy, slipping to the surface like bubbles in soap.

Yesterday it came to my attention that someone I don’t know very well has read my blog. Someone I wrote about in a not very flattering way, actually. (And no, it’s not George Bush.)

It was a very interestingly timed revelation, considering my last post.

Even before this information came to my attention, I was planning a followup post to the one I made yesterday. I suppose it was going to be a post about audience.

I have never really addressed the question of who this blog is written for. (or if I have, it wasn’t definitive, and/or I can’t remember it). I suppose, when I write, I imagine an audience of random strangers, while at the same time acknowledging that some of my friends read it, and no doubt more of them will in the future.

Here is the crux of what I had planned to write: Someday, my mom will read this.

I do not write this blog for my mom. But I know, someday, perhaps sooner, perhaps later, my mom will come upon this blog. I have known this since perhaps the beginning, although it is more certain now that I host it on livingtech.net (and not blogspot, where this blog had its humble beginnings). Anyway, Hi mom!.

Now, those of you who know me well (and or know my mom) should know that my mom reading this would not really affect what I write all that much. Maybe a little bit less about sex with Laura, and threesomes, but well… she can handle it. She’s a MOM, after all.

But all this begs a question: “If you know your mom will eventually read it, why don’t you just tell her about it? I mean, she’d probably love to read it!” And it’s true, my mom would love to know that she can read my journal, online, updated almost every day. She would, no doubt, be my biggest fan.

But I want to prolong that day as long as possible.

Mom, I hope that doesn’t upset you.

There have even been times when I felt guilty about NOT telling my mom about my blog. Not often, but more than once. Especially when I feel particularly close to the blog, and that blogging is a big part of my life. My mom should know about these things!

But she doesn’t. And good thing, because I want to talk about subjects like french kissing a friend of ours on new year’s eve while her husband was downstairs and Laura was standing behind me, eagerly looking on! That’s good stuff!

But there’s always that voice in the back of my head, repeating, someday my mom will read this. Someday.

OK, so I got through that. Obviously, this is a personal blog. I write about things that are exciting to me — things that strike my fancy — and usually those things are aspects of my life.

Finding out that O read my blog, or at least the relevant entry was not particularly disturbing, or frustrating. (There, I’ve said/linked it, and particularly thorough readers, or readers with photographic memories, will now know who I’m talking about.) It was maybe a bit startling, but, well, this thing is on the internet. Google is one of my most frequent visitors. And now O knows that a) I think he’s not a particularly nice guy, and b) I liked his CD so much that I raved about it on the internet. Big deal. I don’t dislike O, and I’ve never really felt that he disliked me. I had kind of assumed, actually, that he acts that way toward everyone. An assumption that was perhaps not apparent from my initial post.

The point, one of them, is that this stuff is all the truth as I see it. My blog, for the moment at least, is entirely non-fiction, (poetic license aside) and I am not ashamed of anything — more because of lack of shame on my part than lack of things to be shameful for. I’ve always said, “no regrets”, and I have none. Nuff said.