Saturday. Talk last week was putting me in another division here at the job. I lost track of things but I think someone said I should be in the interactive unit. That would, of course, align with my 27 years professional experience in website building, application development, and what is now called social media. My first postings of stories and poems appeared long before there was a word for “blog”, and in truth I don’t think of that early stuff as fitting that genre anyway. I don’t care what you call it. I begrudgingly accepted the term “blog” after putting to rest my angst over how it sounds like a mix of “blah” and “log”, like someone would describe a mediocre bowel movement. 

Sorabji.com was my first site under a domain name, but I brought to it stuff from a number of other places, like the old Panix and Mindvox pages, their URLs cursed with the kiss of the ~. I als had a page at paranoia.com, an early “free speech” outpost  that semi-exclusively gave accounts to people who’d been censored in one way or other, or whose content was what we now call NSFW and thus not welcome on other hosting platforms. I was there for having been blocked by the likes of NetNanny and other pathetic attempts at censoring the web. 

Membership at paranoia.com was not free but it was cheap. I think it was $50/year. In time its uniqueness faded and I do n’t know if the owner just gave up or sold out, but the domain got purchased by Disney.

Sorabji.com today sends you to a random  link at wsbj.com/sorabji, where I combined all my sites, or most of them at least, into one. The Daily Receipts essays, the Word of the Day, the .MOBI (my favorite and most beloved site ever), and others. Separate remain The Big Pictures, The Place of General Happiness, The Etude Magazine site, and other projects. 

Thing about taking on a role in the web or social media space is that people might actually get to know me a little better. No one here knows much of anything about me, as I intended it, but as I’ve also come to regret. I don’t make friends here. But then with just a few exceptions there hasn’t been much of anyone here with whom I felt a connection. 

Could this job really be my lasting future? I still think of my time here as a kind of performance art. But I am burned out. After nearly a year I’ve taken not even a full week vacation. They basically don’t let you do that in your first year. 

This job has changed my relationship with time. The difference in my disposition while I am here, on a strict schedule and regimen, could not be more different from when I am unmoored, off any clock. On the latter days I forget to eat, I sleep too much, I masturbate several times, and generall make a big fat waste of it. I had made some interesting videos, and I guess I’ll keep pursuing that. 

I can’t decide if I miss my old life or just want something else. Unmoored is a gentle way to describe my previous life. I had some dark times. Very dark. I rarely think those thoughts now but, as a depressed person, they inevitably are at least entertained. It’s part of the fabric of my consciousness, the flashpoints in my electrical circuitry.