Man, earlier today I glanced at last night’s ramblings here, looking for a phrase I came up, and was alarmed at just how many typos got through. I was, all told, in something of a rush, or so it seemed. What the hell my damn hurry was I do not now know but I felt fevered to get words out. Editing really is a hassle on this little screen, but of course the spirit of things here is that it’s sent up on the run.
Ah, who cares.
I am waiting for a friend to stop and have a couple of drinks at this bar on Broadway. He, like virtually everyone in my life going back to kindergarten, will be late, and it would not surprise me if he stands me up altogether. Am I the only person in my world who is not routinely late to every meeting? And am I the only person in my world who has never stood someone up completely, leaving them waiting on me for hours and making them feel like an asshole for it? I can think of few things in life that make me feel like more of an asshole than being fully stood up by somebody.
I have been writing a bit lately, this time to yet another secret corner of my web site. It is not hidden, but it follows that 3-links-from-the-top rule that I learned in corporate. I am not at all sure why I bother or why I make the effort, but it feels so good to write on a regular basis that the seeming futility doesn’t matter to me.
I thought about getting a prison pen pal. It is too risky and I would never do it, but it sounded interesting because the correspondence would, I assume, be hand-written. Hand-written correspondence is hard to come by these days. No prisoners for me, I don’t think, but there must be other sources.
I thought of this because I have filled so many pages with hand-written screeds, but I remember now how vacant that feels when the likelihood increases that no one will ever read those words, myself included. Sometimes that sense of vacantness encroaches, other times it does not.
When I dated J. she read my notebooks. I could tell she read every page, too, even though we never discussed it in any detail. She reead it as background, I think. Information gathering, trying to understand a person through sources beyond the relative pittance that is available through our vocal communication. We could communicate but it was hit or miss, so she was interested in my written notes-to-self as a way to fill the spaces left by our other forms of communicating.
In other words it was a bit of morbid curiosity.
Anyway… Dot dot dot. Still waiting for my friend to show up. He is conductor of a few orchestras, and is expecting to dissolve his groups because of the economic collapse. Arts funding has virtually disappeared, and a grant he expected from the city is likely to never happen.