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Despite some painful associations with a time in my life long gone, I love the sparse electronic pop of Information Society. I had an older friend who adored them, and had a story about a time they came into a restaraunt owned by her best friend's family. I miss the hell out of that restaraunt, Ted's, which used to be downtown where they put up that huge creepy Frost Bank Tower. Ted's served whole baby squid fried up in olive oil on pita bread, and it was the best thing ever.
I don't like this time of year, the week between Christmas and the beginning of January. It's full of this sense of dread, decorations are ripped down and I wait uneasily for the midnight balls and fireworks. It makes me feel old, and tired to see more years slipping away. But then, I felt that way when I was ten so I should be grateful some things don't seem to change despite all efforts to the contrary.
I would fill out one of those quizzes, but I feel as if this year was so strange that I couldn't capture or represent it with a series of arbitrary questions. I'll probably do one of sorts anyway later when I'm bored. I was thinking about this morning and the only resolution I made this year was to write more, to try and write every day in my journal. I did that, even when I didn't want to do it and the times when I couldn't I blogged in my head and wrote them later. I'm obsessed with man's fragile attempts at immortality, from statues and books to stars and digital archives. There is no answer to the question of how long this will exist, or what form it might eventually take when technology sweeps us all forward another century. But this is my faint scratch in time, my own private attempt at an immortality.
I wrote a lot this year, and I did something I haven't done since I was a child. I started writing a book, and I mean to keep going through my apathy, my fickle heart, my aching arms and the uncertainty of each morning. I want to write this, and I want it more than I've wanted something in a very long time. I suppose it's another slap at immortality as well. But this one isn't so much for me as for Meier, who deserves a life of his own outside of my head. I've been fond of characters I wrote for and played in various games, and I've held great personal attachment to them. But I've never had one that went from a single cipher and a set of dice stats into someone I carried in my heart. I've not ever really known what it is like to create something and love it. So strange and accidental and wonderful is this moment that it makes me feel a kinship to artists and writers that I've not ever felt before.
Tomorrow we won't go to work, and I'll light candles around the apartment while I clean things and put away the cheerful remains of the holiday season. Tomorrow, I'll do some writing and try to keep that ever present fear in my head from spilling out. I'll drink champagne and try to remember that all beginnings are made from endings. I will remind myself how much we change, even the stars.
I don't like this time of year, the week between Christmas and the beginning of January. It's full of this sense of dread, decorations are ripped down and I wait uneasily for the midnight balls and fireworks. It makes me feel old, and tired to see more years slipping away. But then, I felt that way when I was ten so I should be grateful some things don't seem to change despite all efforts to the contrary.
I would fill out one of those quizzes, but I feel as if this year was so strange that I couldn't capture or represent it with a series of arbitrary questions. I'll probably do one of sorts anyway later when I'm bored. I was thinking about this morning and the only resolution I made this year was to write more, to try and write every day in my journal. I did that, even when I didn't want to do it and the times when I couldn't I blogged in my head and wrote them later. I'm obsessed with man's fragile attempts at immortality, from statues and books to stars and digital archives. There is no answer to the question of how long this will exist, or what form it might eventually take when technology sweeps us all forward another century. But this is my faint scratch in time, my own private attempt at an immortality.
I wrote a lot this year, and I did something I haven't done since I was a child. I started writing a book, and I mean to keep going through my apathy, my fickle heart, my aching arms and the uncertainty of each morning. I want to write this, and I want it more than I've wanted something in a very long time. I suppose it's another slap at immortality as well. But this one isn't so much for me as for Meier, who deserves a life of his own outside of my head. I've been fond of characters I wrote for and played in various games, and I've held great personal attachment to them. But I've never had one that went from a single cipher and a set of dice stats into someone I carried in my heart. I've not ever really known what it is like to create something and love it. So strange and accidental and wonderful is this moment that it makes me feel a kinship to artists and writers that I've not ever felt before.
Tomorrow we won't go to work, and I'll light candles around the apartment while I clean things and put away the cheerful remains of the holiday season. Tomorrow, I'll do some writing and try to keep that ever present fear in my head from spilling out. I'll drink champagne and try to remember that all beginnings are made from endings. I will remind myself how much we change, even the stars.