08 June 2011

domesticity (stream-of-consciousness xvi)

i was left home alone by myself for the first time in weeks, it seems like, with instructions to "take some time, write a little bit, listen to music, whatever you need to do; take some medicine, and go to bed." he'll be back late; it's nice to get a break from being a drag wife. much as i might like to go protect him from the creepy gay men at this particular bar. at least they pay well.

yup, that's my life.

i rather like this idea of having a partner. someone to do things with, someone to team up with. and damn do we make a good team. the 160 or so jello shots in the refrigerator next door will attest to that.

i'm thinking about breaking out the guitar. interesting how certain things maintain their shyness.

writing has always been my anchor, and it's important [for me] to remember that. it's amazing to see him recognize that, even though the times i've mentioned it to him have been few. for a while, it seemed that he filled the space i became used to filling with writing--at the end of the day there was another person there, to debrief with, to break things down. spoken reflection. and this is still something i value. there are words floating around in my head like "novelty" and "impermanence," "self" and "other." it's not that writing or speaking becomes more or less valuable; i don't need a written record of my thoughts or actions. ink fades and paper decomposes, just like my body will someday waste. i am dirt, just waiting to forget this notion of consciousness, of humanity.

blogging is stupid, really. i have a thought, and pow, it's shared. this illusion of permanence, when really it's just code, saved and accessed on a server i do not control. i give myself over to whatever gods govern the Internet, what will someday become the hive mind when we evolve into robots (i'm convinced).

this is what happens when i go without, for too long. words pour.

i've started writing on paper again, but as soon as i start, something happens to break the habit. three days, it always takes. sometimes longer, depending on the strength of the habit.

i read something earlier today, glanced at, really, a debate on slate about the use of two spaces after a period. i'm fighting with it. i type two spaces usually because when i was a child i was taught to use the space of two fingers when writing with fat pencils on dotted lines, blue on the outside and red in the middle, to show just how far your t should go, your l or your j beneath. one finger between words and two between sentences. it carried over. i never thought about the typographical reasons why something might be different. my handwriting isn't the same, either.

god forbid, those unrefined mashes of meticulous print, a's without caps on and y's without boats, all straight lines and circles drawn in ways that made the left-handers cramp--i considered myself lucky.

revision has its place. i am slow in learning this.