2005-01-22

I was thrust off of the diary last time, my entry erased, my motivation coiled around a crude stick to beat me with. The computer laughed quietly at me, emitted a little snicker, I swore I could hear it. And I was unable to do anything, unable to curse again, why should I expect something different, why should I worry or even care that a few minutes of my effort was vanished like the electronic chalkboard scribblings that it was? And in a Religious sense, did my little dada musings at life mean anything to anyone, in a Philosophical sense, were my stories meaningful, did they convey any rigorous treatise on life or some small piece of it? And in a Pragmatic sense, was anyone still around in my diaryland orbit friendsphere that knew I was even writing? Was there an audience to hear this tree fall? And in an Artistic sense, was this trifling any good?
My parents annoy me. They spend their time in this communication of crabbiness. The female one especially is in her own little world of blame and hurtfulness, stress, anxiety, and twitching face traumas. She is getting old, and stupid, and beyond ignorant.
They both sit back and read the paper, or look at the war in Iraq, and say, well, we�ll see what happens. They both take in all the selfish meager pleasures they can when we go out on social occasions with the few friends and family that will have them. It is revealed to me that they are unable to do the conversation thing, to have a back and forth, dialogue, unless it is of something they are already conversant in, have pondered for some time. Like the weather, a few movies they�ve seen, and their pet ducks. These are the three topics that would come up if you could have a Google of conversations that we�ve had in the past week that I have been staying home.
And for all this, I see myself in them. Ah, I admit, I love them. They are what I have, my stock, the timber from which I am shaped, yada yada. And I am being cold and cruel to them to be writing about them like this, on reflection.
Ok I�m feeling a strange wordiness tonite, like I am ready to take you dear reader, on a fabulous journey into the mind and reveal strange complexities somehow familiar yet striking. But that is an overestimate of what will really happen, and I guess it is at least good to know that I am still optimistic about something, and feel capable of something.
I remember a good part from my accidentally deleted entry about snowmobiles. �They are cruising around us like turkey-vultures searching for� a depleted victim to strike on or some such thing. Just about everything is lost in translation.
So I was in a good mood, and mom came in with a little cloud over her head, and she communicated this bad mood onto me (think of word �communicable�, like a virus), and I caught it, and now I sit up in a dark room with a wonderful view of the Blizzard as dark settles on our rural Pennsylvania landscape trying to write something that isn�t inherently bad or angry. This is why I come to Pennsylvania, to remind myself why I went to New York City!