Riffing
Another day I don't have much to write.
I say that, but I'm about to start fuckin' rambling again.
My wife and I went to the international market, because she's fairly international. We walked around looking at the giant Carp layed out in the deli on the bloody ice. We saw the expired Onigiri listed 50% off and I almost felt brave enough to buy the one with the spicy crab meat in it. We sauntered the market, looking at all the snacks and buying up the good cup noodles.
The artwork on these popcorn bags was really cool.
I don't think she really cares where we're at, I think she just wants me around her. It was nice, walking slow for a change. Not pretending that I'm in a hurry to get anwhere. It's not really that I'm pretending, it's just that I really walk fast everywhere we go. I've been hardwired to walk "with a purpose" for a good chunk of my life. I move quickly, I develop a momentum, and people generally get out of my way. I'm not trying to be rude, I'm not trying to act tough, it just drives me crazy when people wander aimlessly. Everything I do has to have a purpose. I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing, but I think it makes me a little bit of an asshole. Keeping my mind and body busy keeps the momentum, keeps me on track with whatever thought I had. I feel like my brain is always buzzing, always busy, like a hive of wasps. If I'm not directing it, if I'm not burning off enough energy, it gets out of control. I get anxious, I get angry, I get sad. The hive will start to cannibalize itself.
My wife fucking hates it
But I'm on a tangent. I was talking about the market. We walked around, we bought some snacks, and we went home.
So I'm sitting at my desk, not expecting much. I answered a few emails, I got some work done. I managed to get another bid invite for a commercial gig; an invite that wasn't just spam from a bot or some mailing list from PlanHub. The day is winding down, I don't feel like there's going to be any crazy call to action for the rest of the evening. So I write. I take pictures of things at my desk, take pictures of things I'm interested in. I write whatever stray thought comes to mind as I tend to other things. A real 'stream of consciousness' here.
I figure I can share some of my interests. Things that I enjoy, things that I wish I did more of, things that just catch my attention. I do like to read. I'm sure I'm not alone when I say that I should probably read more, make it a habit to do. But when I do read, I get pretty immersed. That immersion is addictive, and I can dive in for hours at a time. It's just another thing that I feel like I have to build momentum to do. It's a terrible tendency. I've started books, gotten halfway through and forgot about it, starting over again and again. Though I'm not an extremely avid reader, I do have a few books that stay on my rotation. I'm not sure if it's normal to do, but I re-read books almost the same way people re-watch movies.
Books at my desk:
Notes from Underground - Fyodor Dostoevsky
I come back to this book time and time again. At every point in my life that I've read this, I've gleaned new insight to my own suffering, my own ability to be absolutely relentless with myself in my introspection. To write of myself as a miserable wretch, to be dangerously self-aware of my own shortcomings. To see myself and my own hubris - to see every individual, every group of people, every political party, every mass hysteria in the zeitgeist - peaking in, watching, listening, judging from the cracks in the floor I live under. Over-looked and under-appreciated. My catalogue of books I've read is limited, but reading this book cut me down like wheat to the harvest. A book that presented to me as a mirror, a physical copy of my self-loathing made manifest.
A beautiful piece of literature.
A Philosophy of Pain - Arne Johan Vetlesen
This book actually started very dry, and gave me the impression that it was going to be a grand, dull, scientific thesis on human anatomy. I was genuinely shocked when I powered through the first few chapters and found a very interesting take on the difference between internal experience vs external experience. The greater the pain, the more personal the experience. The greater the pain, the more inward into ourselves we dive. Pain makes us selfish, it forces us to shut out the world. The book draws parrallels between psychic (mental & emotional) pain and physical pain. The book also draws on collective pain, pain that we can share in comradery with others, how pain can be an absolutely isolating or a unifying experience. I don't do the book justice with my summary, it's actually been a while since I've read it. I acquired it when I was in the military, I was on a philosophy kick due to some YouTube videos I was watching. The book stood out to me for how deceptively simple the cover and title was. I rented it from the Fort Hood library and never returned it. Don't worry, they got their money back eventually. The military keeps receipts, and they'll staple them to your face on the way out.
H.P. Lovecraft
I bought the big one. Genuinely just an amazing author. Not much for me to say that hasn't already been said. He knew how to paint a picture, he knew how to weave words, to invoke a feeling of disgusting interest in things unseen and un-knowable. My 2 favorite stories are "Beyond the Wall of Sleep" and "The Thing at the Doorstep".
"Beyond the Wall of Sleep" was such a personal experience as I was reading it. As if Lovecraft was able to reach into the darkest part of my childhood imagination and put to words the surreal, ethereal way my dreams felt. I had such a hard time determining dreams from reality in the earliest memories of my life. I would dream of songs, people, places, entire worlds and the spaces between them as a child. The most disappointing thing about adult life is I don't feel like I dream anymore. If I do, they are only fleeting memories as I rouse from my slumber - or they are so mundane they're not worth remembering. I can always come back to this story and feel almost nostalgic for the occasional night-terror I had as a child. Feeling lost in a dream, feeling like I was drifting through the void.
"The Thing at the Doorstep" is a story that I would love to write more about, but I feel like any description would possibly spoil the mystery. Just take it as a solid recommendation if you're feeling up to a cozy scary story to read.
His Promised Land - John P. Parker
His Promised Land is a book that I bought during a trip to Ripley, OH. A small town on the Ohio River that was hailed as the first stop in the underground railroad. I took my family there on a history trip, a place of Ohio folklore. We viewed the murals, ate at the worst local diner I've ever been to, and visited the museum. We were given the tour of the John Rankin house, the house where people escaping slavery were finally met with some semblence of safety. At the base of the hill this house sat on was the home of John P. Parker, a man who was born into slavery in the south and eventually bought his own freedom. In turn, he stayed on the Ohio river, risking the freedom he fought so hard to gain, to help others escape and continue north. He became a business owner, an inventor, and a local legend. The book is a collection of his memoirs. Though I can't begin to relate to what the man went through, I can definitely glean insight into the lessons he learned and the unbreakable resolve of a man who has had his ambition stolen from him. One of my favorite quotes from the book is in the first page:
"It was not the physical part of slavery that made it cruel and degrading, it was the taking away from a human being the initiative, of thinking, of doing his own ways"
The Cockpit
Got a new notebook, keeps things a lot more organized. I prefer each page to be it's own block of a day rather than having the traditional planner trying to cram 31 tiny blocks onto each small page.
THE BEST CUP NOODLES DON'T EVEN ARGUE WITH ME
