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inthedevastatedcityguess I'm writing a blog entry just to keep practising writing blog entries. it's raining and I'm sad and I'm sick of my job and my extended family and my brain always feeling kind of like it got melted on the stove a little lately.
put up pink fairy lights in the bedroom around our big brass headboard though. I love the sweet pink glow. I love the brass headboard, which Corey picked out when they were -- I don't remember exactly, but ten or twelve, when they got an adult sized bed -- the queen bed that, other than the ageing mattress, still serves us well. it's exactly the sort of headboard I would have daydreamed about when I was nine or ten, and exactly what I'd choose now. looking at it always makes me feel a burst of fondness for them, and an extra protective burst of fondness for the sweet, vivid, lonely little kid they were years before I would ever know them. I wish we could have been friends as children. I think we would have really liked each other.
.
I think I don't like my blogging voice. I think it doesn't sound like me -- it feels somehow both sloppy and stiff, odd phrasings, a voice that doesn't sound like my inner observational voice sounds. I don't know what to do about this. keep writing, I guess. keep pulling at the muscle till it's fluid again. I think there's something about writing not-Livejournal entries again that has my subconscious phrasing and structuring the way that alien other me did fifteen and twenty years ago, and I feel a lot of affection for that motherfucker, but also a deep and alienating dysphoria about them. no one is purely themselves, everyone is shaped by their environment into what the environment and knowledge they have wants them to be until they figure out how to shape themselves, but I often feel like I got to be less me growing up than a lot of people did. so much of what I was shaped to believe and want and do runs so contrary to everything innate in me -- not just the me who has learned and chosen some very different ways of being as an adult, but the, just, the rhythms and curiosity and the ways that I felt emotions, the things that started to radicalise me before I had anywhere to take that radicalisation. I spent so much of my childhood anxious and afraid that my curiosity and the things that sparked delight and wonder in me might get me in trouble, might be wrong, even. I don't know. more things I don't fully have language for.
anyway I do, again, feel like everything I write now has an accent from a me who more or less died fifteen years ago. don't know how to shake it. keep typing, I guess.
put up pink fairy lights in the bedroom around our big brass headboard though. I love the sweet pink glow. I love the brass headboard, which Corey picked out when they were -- I don't remember exactly, but ten or twelve, when they got an adult sized bed -- the queen bed that, other than the ageing mattress, still serves us well. it's exactly the sort of headboard I would have daydreamed about when I was nine or ten, and exactly what I'd choose now. looking at it always makes me feel a burst of fondness for them, and an extra protective burst of fondness for the sweet, vivid, lonely little kid they were years before I would ever know them. I wish we could have been friends as children. I think we would have really liked each other.
.
I think I don't like my blogging voice. I think it doesn't sound like me -- it feels somehow both sloppy and stiff, odd phrasings, a voice that doesn't sound like my inner observational voice sounds. I don't know what to do about this. keep writing, I guess. keep pulling at the muscle till it's fluid again. I think there's something about writing not-Livejournal entries again that has my subconscious phrasing and structuring the way that alien other me did fifteen and twenty years ago, and I feel a lot of affection for that motherfucker, but also a deep and alienating dysphoria about them. no one is purely themselves, everyone is shaped by their environment into what the environment and knowledge they have wants them to be until they figure out how to shape themselves, but I often feel like I got to be less me growing up than a lot of people did. so much of what I was shaped to believe and want and do runs so contrary to everything innate in me -- not just the me who has learned and chosen some very different ways of being as an adult, but the, just, the rhythms and curiosity and the ways that I felt emotions, the things that started to radicalise me before I had anywhere to take that radicalisation. I spent so much of my childhood anxious and afraid that my curiosity and the things that sparked delight and wonder in me might get me in trouble, might be wrong, even. I don't know. more things I don't fully have language for.
anyway I do, again, feel like everything I write now has an accent from a me who more or less died fifteen years ago. don't know how to shake it. keep typing, I guess.
