I have forgotten how to do half of it.
I have this new thing I’ve been trying, but I can’t figure out how to publish it on here, because all this website is is a glorified wordpress instance, and I can’t remember how the directories work, otherwise, god help me. If the subscription part of this isn’t working anyway, maybe I burn it all down and start over anyway. People are still reading the old stuff, which is delightful, (if fucking weird, in a way) and it would be sad to lose those fingerprints, but maybe its the last of a skin that needs shedding.
I’ve taken to carrying around a notebook with me. A dear friend suggested it, to use as an outboard memory of sorts, to store thoughts and experiences, to put down literal cut and pastes of things, if need be.
I haven’t written a fucking thing in it, of course, except to state that that’s what it’s for. I know my dear friend will read this and shake his head and probably roll his eyes at me. I know my wife will do the same.
It’s more than a habit — it’s a hallmark of all sorts of neurodivergent nonsense. (My editor has a red line under that word; apparently it hasn’t caught up with today’s vocabulary.) I feel like inscribing my journals/diaries/notebooks with their purpose simply curses them into becoming unused husks of unfulfilled purpose.
I’m not sure this will flow through Tumblr, Facebook, or email subscriptions anymore — I’m shouting into the void right now and that’s okay, because I just need to get moving. I’ve been slowly calcifying in body and mind since at least the pandemic if not before, and if I don’t do some kind of writing, art, something, I’m just going to end up a heap of unmoving sludge.
Even if it’s just posts like this to remind myself I’m alive.
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