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Dylan Ratigan sounds off
Oct. 24th, 2011 09:26 amOkay, the (barely) underlying music is cheesy and manipulative.
It's still a great rant.
It's still a great rant.
Oct. 24th, 2011
Holiday hours job for Rob
Oct. 24th, 2011 06:43 pmRob interviewed with Target today and was offered a job that will give him up to 40 hours a week into January. He interviews with Best Buy tomorrow; if they offer him something, he'd prefer to work with them because it's closer to his experience and hopefully might give him a titch better wage.
But at least we'll have something. For a little while.
But at least we'll have something. For a little while.
The fear of disappearing
Oct. 24th, 2011 09:58 pmMaybe it's giving up a writing career and then giving up karate and not knowing what, exactly, will replace it.
Maybe it's that, after thirty plus years of daily faithfulness, I no longer write in my paper journal.
Maybe it's the unseen daily struggle, the stuff that Elinor Dashwood does not think seemly to hash in this online journal. It takes up what feels like maybe seventy, eighty percent of my brain space, and yet so much of it I do not feel at liberty to disclose (it involves other people's stories rather than my own, and why would I want to vent about such dreary, depressing stuff anyway, and oh, Peg, aren't you just sick of the self-absorption of it all?) And so this journal has been quiet.
I keep thinking of "To Room Nineteen" by Doris Lessing. I'm definitely feeling haunted by it. Don't misunderstand me: I'm not saying that I'm feeling suicidal or anything; I'm definitely not. But the similarity of that protagonist's situation to my own situation niggles at me, like a tiny yet fierce sliver under the skin. The children have grown and are moving into independence, and now...what? She sits in a room, silent, with nothing to say, trying to find her way back to herself.
What happens if she can't?
There have been so few comments on my posts lately.Is it because I'm disappearing, because I truly have nothing left worth saying?
I need a new purpose. I don't know what it is yet. There has to be some point to my life from this point on other than falling into silence.
It would help if I didn't have to deal with all this other crap in my life, that weighs me down, burdens and exhausts me emotionally.
But I suppose wishing for that is pointless.
Maybe it's that, after thirty plus years of daily faithfulness, I no longer write in my paper journal.
Maybe it's the unseen daily struggle, the stuff that Elinor Dashwood does not think seemly to hash in this online journal. It takes up what feels like maybe seventy, eighty percent of my brain space, and yet so much of it I do not feel at liberty to disclose (it involves other people's stories rather than my own, and why would I want to vent about such dreary, depressing stuff anyway, and oh, Peg, aren't you just sick of the self-absorption of it all?) And so this journal has been quiet.
I keep thinking of "To Room Nineteen" by Doris Lessing. I'm definitely feeling haunted by it. Don't misunderstand me: I'm not saying that I'm feeling suicidal or anything; I'm definitely not. But the similarity of that protagonist's situation to my own situation niggles at me, like a tiny yet fierce sliver under the skin. The children have grown and are moving into independence, and now...what? She sits in a room, silent, with nothing to say, trying to find her way back to herself.
What happens if she can't?
There have been so few comments on my posts lately.
I need a new purpose. I don't know what it is yet. There has to be some point to my life from this point on other than falling into silence.
It would help if I didn't have to deal with all this other crap in my life, that weighs me down, burdens and exhausts me emotionally.
But I suppose wishing for that is pointless.