I am having so much fun with my tumblr blog. And look at this FABULOUS photo I found to post. Click on it to go to my fun and silly and bizarre tumblr blog.
Archive for the ‘Journalisms’ Category
I have been working on a Tumblr. blog for a while now and now I’m sharing it with you. It’s just mostly random images that amuse or impress me. Warning: there’s a lot of BLUE material on tumblr and so I take no responsibility for what you should come across should you click on any of the images I’ve reblogged to my tumblr blog. The images are mostly just images without my interference or blather. Enjoy, or don’t, that’s completely up to you. I have made a link over there on the right that takes you there. I know, it’s too large. I know. I’m not a techno-wunderkind. I’m just pissy old swishy me, trying to make my way in this weary world.
From Knock Knock. Me want. But then my apartment is stocked with empty journals waiting to be filled. The story of my life yet to be writ.
This is the sound of one bitch bitching. Tap, tippy tap tappy tippy tippy tip. He needs a slap as he starts to let ‘er rip. Didn’t go to work today — just couldn’t face it. Defeated again by what to other mortals would be mere and minor setbacks he slides down into the eye of the inky black vortex of self-doubt, self-loathing and self aggrandizement. In writing — for anyone to see. And he’ll never grab any rope that is thrown him. Because, after all, this is just going to continue to happen so why not enjoy the ride. Attempt escape takes so much goddamned energy.
Here is the lovely orange Rhodia notepad I selected for my biofeedback assignments. I’m supposed to keep a journal of all my anxiety incidents so I can look back on it and learn. My medical practioner said to just get a cheap spiral notebook but, oh, no, not Mr. Gayer than Gay — I had to have something fancy and uppity and show-offy. One more reason to spend money unwisely. It’s a beautiful notebook — so of course I got more than one. It took me two weeks to start the book — re-tracing the intricacies of my first anxiety attack at the age of twenty-five. Pages of nonsense and all it does is make me feel more of the loser, less able to cope. Oh, I’ll keep at it, because that’s all my life has become nearly twenty-five years after that first attack. Keeping at it. No purpose. No love. No deep meaning. Just keeping at it, one foot in front of the other. Head full of wild and exciting dreams. Drawers full of little slips of paper scribbled with brilliant and amusing ideas. And not one ounce of oomph or get-up-and-go. How do people do it? How do people translate want into action? Something is missing in my genetic code.
Facebook. Really, why did I bother? I have found some few people from my past and we’ve “friended” one another and now I realize I have absolutely nothing positive to share with them. I am, at fifty, just another blurry face in a crowd scene. Barely seen, rarely noticed. Hardly worth mentioning. I am nothing but unfulfilled promise. And this cannot change after all these years. I got another notice of someone “friending” me today and I had to look her up in the yearbook and I thought — Jesus, woman, I so barely even remember the sound of your voice from over 30 years ago — why the hell are you reconnecting with me now? What is the freaking point? So, I’ve decided in the next day or so (maybe even today if I can muster the effort) to delete my facebook account. Hasn’t the world enough blather already? He asked, continue to blather on his blog.
Yesterday I decided finally to try and make a lovely Betzy video and use my new computer to edit it into a bit of whimsical fluff that would amuse my tens of readers. Yes, thought I, this will be salve for my soul and provide amusement to others. Perhaps that is my destiny, yes, oh, yea verily, yes! I thought. Oh, that is what I thought. So wrong are an ageing swish’s thoughts so often, so very and too, too often. I slathered on the makeup and started to get into character. When I was almost finished preparing I looked in the mirror and said to myself, I just cannot do this. I just haven’t got what it takes to make this amusing or fresh or even worth spending the time it would take to do it. Foolishly, I ignored myself and got down to work. I planned my shots carefully and even found inspiration. I even checked to make sure I had captured everything I intended to capture. Satisfied with my effort after several hours of preparation and filming, I de-dragged my weary body and wiped off the makeup. Then I sat down to my lovely new computer to transfer the video and edit it.
Is it any surprise that once again, technology confounds me? At first I thought all was well and that the iMovie software uploaded all my clips. However, when checking things over I found that it only transferred clips I had recorded a few weeks ago in preparation for this very project. NOTHING I filmed yesterday was recognized. I spent two hours retrying, researching, troubleshooting. Nothing in the goddamned manuals for the camera would help and nothing in iMovie indicated I was doing anything wrong. Finally I managed to copy all the clips from the memory chip in the camera to the hard drive of the computer. However, the Macbook and the iMovie program indicate that these files are not compatible. How these files cannot be compatible yet the other ones can be is beyond me. I checked. They are the same damn format. The only difference in creating these clips as opposed to the previous clips is that the previous ones I recorded using the record button on the camera and the Betzy clips I recorded using the remote control. Now, how this would cause them to be in a different format I do not know. What I do know is that I wasted an entire day of my life trying to achieve something and all I have now is a bunch of raw clips I can watch on my computer or on my camera but I cannot edit.
I cannot face the world today. I’m not so upbeat about tomorrow. I canceled therapy this evening. I canceled biofeedback tomorrow. My back hurts from all my useless exercising. Oh, excuse me, not useless? Oh, yeah, I’ll live longer but I will never be the fine figure of a man I dream of being. And now I’m turning fifty. And I’m paying off all my debts. Which will likely take at least two more years — and that’s if I’m lucky and the economy doesn’t fail completely and I, like millions of other Americans, am not belly-up in the gutter of greed.
Maybe it’s just that the full moon is tomorrow. Maybe there will be yet another in an endless series of mood swings. And maybe, just maybe one day I will shut the fuck up and DO something with my life. But don’t hold your breath.
Because if when a swish is twenty-five years old and he spurns the most beautiful man he has ever seen or touched when that man walks into a bar and says, “I love you,” then a swish has squandered his only opportunity.
I just love notebooks, sketchbooks, journals, writing instruments. One might say I am queer for them (what a dear and loving expression!). I just picked up some of these. When they come out with hot pink ones, the Flaming Curmudgeon with surely soil his scanties with glee.
Don’t call me “Shirley”!
I’ve added a new link to my blog roll for this wonderful blog that is always searching for Moleskin alternatives. If you have any interest in little journals and notebooks, check them out. I’ve found some wonderful stuff over there — I have more journals and diaries sitting empty than I will never live long enough to fill! But still, I dream.