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[ unamerican.com ]
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I'd rather have a life than a living.
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online
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I've been doing some thinking about online journaling. Over the past week, I've surfed a lot and seen some really fantastic pages. The entries themselves aren't always stellar, but the journalers who really want to write have great entries. At [ Curieux Matou ], Kellie made a good point: I don't update enough. Know why? I didn't think anybody would read it! Now, with an audience, I have that motivation I needed. Woo hoo! Thanks, K!
I had a few responses, re: my entry yesterday. My sister jpr: "whoa." But appreciative. And others who I think may have missed the point. First and foremost, I do not think less of my family. I love them. There isn't room or time to criticize them for the way they have chosen to live their lives. Yet to compare me to them is unacceptable. We all have different paths, and though success may be judged on the outside, it says nothing at all about the person. My mother has had a hell of a road, but she would never have been as spiritual or committed to herself had she not stumbled along the way. She would have been someone else that may not appreciate as she does, inside, the value of everyday things. My quote yesterday remains today for this very reason: I'd rather have a life than a living.
Switching topics cause this one pisses me off.
My sister wants a dream log. I keep a dream log by my bed in a purple, velvet-covered journal. I've had the log for almost two years, but have only about ten dreams logged. I dream a lot.
I'll tell you about the dream I had last night (I wonder if Kellie read other people's dreams?)
I'm on the top of a hill. Friends are in the cabin of a boat. Well, they're down below, on the little bunk beds. I'm holding a camera, waiting at the crest of the hill for a big black car with someone famous inside. I haven't seen the car yet, but I know this is what I'm waiting for (I feel like it's Sting). In the meantime, however, cause it's taking an awfully long time for this damned car to get here, I go into the boat. I eat. I talk. I argue a lot. Somewhere along the line, I kiss someone (I believe this portion of the dream is related to the orgy scene of "Rockstar," the movie Jon and I went out to see last night).
In the meantime, I keep running out to see if the car is coming, and I'm yelling at the person who is supposed to be keeping watch (who, if you haven't followed along, is me). Finally, the car comes and I'm frantic. I lost the camera! Then I wake up and am lying on the sheet, but under the other two blankets. And the pillow I usually sleep with is under the sheet, so I know that I somehow got it under me. And it wasn't just crumpled up under me, it was nice, flat, neat, as if the bed had just been made, and I forgot to fold it back.
Not much for analysis, huh?
May I take a break to speak about my job? I'm an editorial assistant. So far, that means I proofread about once a week (get yelled at just about every single time), and answer the phones the rest of the time. In between the five or six calls we get daily, I work on my web page and journal, though I must admit that right now, I'm not feeling all that focused. (Can you tell? I apologize. Chances are, I'll delete the entire thing and put something a little more meaningful later on when I don't feel so flustered. My sister and friend are IM'ing me at the same time... :P ).
Anyway, back to my job. I was on the verge of just finding something else, but was convinced that this period is just very slow. Once January comes around, I'll get busy. My problem with this, however, is that I currently am always being put in my place when I proofread a job. My reasoning is that I have yet to fall into a pattern. I get jobs so sporadically. The frustration is getting to me. I'd rather not have to point out to my beloved co-workers that lack of work equals lack of practice equals work less than perfection. It makes me feel like a young high school student who just wants to slam something down, say "fuck this" and storm away, feeling 100% justified and righteous.
Bless high school.
beam me up, scotty
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the online journal of c.m. roberts: