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idle musings, late at night

November 1, 2014

I had all sorts of ideas of things to write about earlier today, but I was responsible, and did IckyActivity instead. When Spouse returned from the class he’d taught all day, I might’ve written then, except, of course, he needed “a little time with Hobbits”, that stretched into hours with Hobbits. Even in the bedroom with the door closed, I can still hear battles with orcs, and they are not conducive to creative thinking and reflecting.

He went to bed, finally, but somehow, I picked up a book. It’s depressing in ways I wasn’t anticipating, and is taking a very long time to get to what I thought the point was. Time is ticking away, and I kept reading instead of putting it down. I’m not sure why.

I feel very unsettled.

My old Life Templates no longer work. Realistically, I grew out of them years ago; they should’ve been updated or even replaced, but I never had the emotional energy to spare to (1) realize that, and (2) do the Life Overhaul that would’ve been required.

Now I’m in the midst of the Life Overhaul, and it’s . . . disconcerting.

Probably most things never made much sense, and my old Life Templates just obscured that, or lied to me. But now that the blinders are off, I can’t figure out how I can ever fit back into what other people are doing with their lives. It just . . . doesn’t work for me. But what do I do instead?

I love that I think I’m terrific. But it’d be grand if someone else (besides Spouse) thought so too; even better, if that someone(s) was/were people I could actually interact with in person, at least occasionally.

All the art I’ve made in my life, and almost no one has seen any of it. A few people have, and . . . they’re mostly ‘meh’ about it. It doesn’t excite anybody.

What do you do when you’re finally doing what you always wanted to do . . . and you’re still invisible, and most people still don’t like you, and no one but you cares about anything you care about? You’re like a ghost moving through a landscape no one else can see.


I sent off my “love letter (about myself)”, and I have no idea when to expect a response. Likely, it’ll be months, but I suppose it might could only be weeks.

I think I miscounted when I told them I’d submitted 27 poems, had gotten 18 rejections, and was waiting on 9 more. I think it’s actually 32 submitted. I have received 18 rejections, but except for the 5 I just sent a few weeks ago, I’ve given up on the rest (and am assuming they are rejections too).

Oh, now here’s what I didn’t want to write about, isn’t it? (And therefore distracted myself with the depressing book.)

I know I have a blog post to write about letters not getting responses, but figured that would have to wait until next week or so, when Life calms down a bit. I also have very little time remaining in November 1, and if I want to continue my streak of writing a post every day from October 17 – December 31, I’m going to have to hit ‘publish’ very shortly.


It’s so windy outside it sounds like I’m on a ship in a stormy sea. Temperatures were only in the 40s today; I wore my parka as I ran my errands.

I don’t (exactly) enjoy farewells (despite my extensive experience with them), but I’ve been trying to savor presumably ‘last moments’ in various places. And yet, I’m ready for things to change.

We’ve been downsizing our lives since March. So many little things to make decisions about! It’s exhausting. But it can be liberating too. I recycled an email correspondence with a friend from high school (whom, years later, I reconnected with again on Facebook, and found out she was a narrow-minded bigot). It’s freeing to realize I don’t have to physically hold on to every single thing that ever mattered to me. That no one can do that, and I certainly don’t want to try. That a bunch of stuff, I held on to because I felt guilty, not because I actually liked it, wanted it, or was using it happily.

Time to cull.

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