Personal Journal

Uncontrollable

Here’s the problem.
There’s just nothing positive to say.
Oh sure, I got a great leather belt on the cheap for my TV outfits, but I try to keep that shit out of my journal unless it’s really deep in my mind and needs out.
There are no words that are challenging me to come out right now. Tomorrow is day 47 of this function, job, whatever you want to call it.
Good fucking god, people, on me alone, your government has wasted more than $7,000 dollars. I mean, how much did you pay in taxes last year? Think about that.
I cuss so much now, it makes me disappointed in myself.

I’m up too late, there’ll be hell to pay tomorrow at the lab with how late I’m up (awake in 4 hours to get ready).
See, I start writing about it. It’s the wave. Because I’m so horny lately, I’ll use a sexual analogy. It’s like the wave of a developing orgasm. There are those moments where you are early on and you feel that vibration of pleasure in infinitesimally small shocks, and it’s kind of exciting. You keep going, and those shocks start to connect together into longer hums. Pretty soon, you’ve actually got a current building, a vibration on some low level, like sound (which is changing my analogy) and now you want to elevate the pitch, raise the wave. So you keep making love and you work the note upward or maybe down, you convulse a little bit as the building energy seeps out of the instrument and vibrates elsewhere in the body. And then you know the wave is going right where you want it, and at some instinctive level, your brain extrapolates and predicts, and you feel the pleasure coming, and there’s no place else for everything to go, and you’re seized.
So that’s what trying to write for me right now is like, except it’s very very negative. Instead of pleasure, the current is trying to let out a ton of negative energy, frustration, despair, anger, boredom, disappointment, fatigue like from painful deliveries of children.
And I stop, I can’t make myself go forward through it.
I feel it in my shoulders.
The weight of being unable to express myself.
It’s ignominious.
It’s tomorrow the monolith that mocks me.
Sisyphus.
Did Sisyphus have hope?
I mean, did he have awareness of hope as a concept, or was he a machine?
And if he knew hope, could he muster it?
I can’t.
I can’t muster hope (that this project is going to start going right, that progress will be made, that we can start to see the light at the end of the tunnel).
To not be able to muster hope is to be deprived of something that the spirit needs like the body needs air.
I’m tired now, I’m going to bed.


It is never too late to be what you might have been. -- George Eliot
Courage to start and willingness to keep everlasting at it are the requisites for success. -- Alonzo Newton Benn