November 20th, 2002


(no subject)

I was 10 minutes later getting to the T than usual. Much more crowded, and the parking lot at Wellington was almost full. And, at one of the later stations (Sullivan?), I actually saw a T employee on the platform telling people to move in more ("There's room over there, move back") so that more people could fit on the train. It's definitely a good idea, but I had never seen it before. I wonder if they only recently started doing that or if I just don't normally travel at the times they are there. Or maybe it was just a one-time thing, one T employee wanting to make sure things went a little more smoothly.

The concert last night was a lot of fun. Symphony X opened for Blind Guardian, a German band. Heavy metal pretty much completely dropped off my radar sometime in high school, so it was really nice to hear some good headbanging metal again. For the first time in a long time, I missed the hair I had in high school, when I had bangs down to my chin. We stayed for Symphony X and the first 3 or 4 songs of Blind Guardian. Since the concert was in Worcester (pronounced "worster" by the lead singer of the German band), though, I didn't end up making it home until almost midnight. A very fun evening, though. Many thanks for dragging me along.

I slept pretty well, but, of course, I woke up some time around 6:30 or so. If I want to make sure to get enough sleep, I really need to make it to bed early. So, I think I'm skipping game night tonight, and I'm going to try to get to bed by 10. Maybe a nice bath around 9, then reading until I fall asleep. Mmmmmm. That sounds nice.

Found out about more snags in the work process just before leaving work yesterday. Basically, people weren't doing things correctly or consistently, and someone finally decided that they should put someone in charge of some of those issues and work to get them resolved. It may end up meaning that we'll have to mark some of the same pages for a third time, but we'll see. And still no word on the fixing of the technical hole in the process.

Self-revelation OTD, yesterday

Something needs to challenge me in order to be interesting and valuable to me, at least in the long term. Easy, short-term escapes are nice, like sitting and reading a novel. Eventually, though, I need to get off my ass and find something that challenges me, like a good programming project.

This may have been obvious to other people, but it just occurred to me in this form yesterday, especially as it applies to areas of my life beyond reading and programming.

WOTD, 15 November 2002


"Speaking of segues," I say,
and she laughs. It's a phrase
I picked up from The Simpsons,
parodies of disc jockeys
trying to make a smooth transition
between unrelated topics.

Is it becoming a thing?
You know, one of those things,
those phrases, those patterns of speech
that you only use around one person, where,
if you forget yourself
and say it around someone else,
it isn't understood, not in the
same way it would have been.

Are we starting to have things?
I've always operated with things,
but I wonder if she'll just get
tired of hearing the same things
from me.

I can't seem to write poetry that isn't personally meaningful to me. Or, at least that's the kind that always seems to want ot come out. I reread some of my poetry from my journal of my trip to France when I was 15, some of which I posted here a while ago but am too lazy to go find the link to. I think I really like my first poem. At the concert last night, I was thinking that I could probably turn it into a heavy metal song. Of course, there's the whole not-being-able-to-sing-or-play-an-instrument thing. Some of the others in there, though, just seem too forced, too fake. I know I was writing poetry to just write poetry, not necessarily waiting for inspiration to strike me.

And maybe that's part of my problem with the word of the day poetry stuff. Poetry only seems to flow well if I get inspired by something personal, and a random word isn't necessarily always going to inspire something like that in me. Although, I have to say, I have been pleased with some of my efforts. I suppose just going throgh the backlog and finding something that strikes a chord will work, like it did today.

I don't think I have the dedication to be a real, accomplished poet. Or a writer of fiction. Or a writer of any kind, unless I have the right motivation (like my excitement for the Jotto stuff). That doesn't mean I won't keep trying. For some reason, being a poet or a writer is an appealing thing to me. Right now, though, I'll have to content myself with being an editor, which is really where I fit best, I think.


I took the elevator down to the cafeteria to get a snack. I got in and help the door with my hand for a guy getting in with a mail cart. I was struck with the memory of holding an old elevator open using a playing card.

It was something like twelve years ago. My mom was moving out of the house into an apartment. I think my parents may still have been lying to us (and themselves?) at this point, telling us that it was just a tmeporary thing. My brother, sister, and I were helping my mom move in. We wanted to hold the elevator so that we could more easily load things in. My brother investigated and saw that the way it knew whether the door was blocked was with an electronic eye. So, if you just stuck your arm at some random spot, the door would ignore you and try to close anyway. So he pulled out a playing card (my brother was very into magic, especially card tricks, so I think he always carried a deck with him. Suddenly struck with the memory of him showing me how to do one of the tricks and then getting mad at me for doing the trick for other people, since I would give it away by not being good enough at the trick) and arced it so that it stayed in place over the electronic eye. I remember using that trick at least one other time with those elevators.

The only other solid memory I have of that apartment is the night we started the Gulf War, whenever that was in January of 1991. My brother, sister, and I were all visiting my mom. I think it was a school night, but I can't remember. I think it marked the first time that I was really aware of significant world events like that, history in the making.

I don't think this is usual for me, this flood of memories. Or maybe it is, and the unusual thing is wanting to write about all of them. I've thought I really should write about my brother some time. The one time I set out to write a poem about his death, it turned into a poem about my father. I wouldn't know what to write, though. Well, more to the point, I'm worried that whatever I would write would have to be a good tribute, and I would put huge amounts of pressure on myself to do something that was perfect, that captured his essence perfectly, and I don't because I know I wouldn't be able to make it perfect.