Month: April 2022

I can’t sleep. It’s 12:22am. I intend to go into the office tomorrow before 9am, which I do once a week to get out of the house.

I spoke to my neighbor KP for an hour this evening. Too much to write here at this hour.

My 11 week old son is beautiful. He is so precious. He is my greatest joy, along with Christina. Gardening and yard work is likely second. I wish writing were I higher priority.

My next laptop will be the compact 14” MacBook Pro. I was going to purchase last September, but with the move and baby, I decided to hold out for another year. The goal with a new laptop is something that I can write with more readily. I could probably just buy a MacBook Air, but I have like 80,000 photos, and I’d like more processing power to organize them.

I will go to Puerto Rico January 2023 with Jamie and his brother Nick and another family. $3,700 for 10 days on a mansion on the beach, with surf break and pool.

My mother is visiting next Tuesday, and my cousin G is visiting on Friday for a week. My mother last visited in February after the baby was born, and my cousin hasn’t visited me since sophomore year of college. He completed his phd recently and landed a private R&D job and bought a condo and recently broke up with his gf so he’s go some money to invest in himself.

Work is okay. I enjoy it, but I haven’t figured out how to be the best yet. This is a struggle. I doubt myself. It’s terrible. I feel like an imposter. The upside is this generates strong energy to conquer and overcome. I need time. What is the formula? I must become better than I am, at whatever cost.

“It is not that we have a short time to live but that we waste a lot of it. We are forced at last by death’s final constraint to realize that it has passed away before we knew it was passing. So it is: we are not given a short life but we make it short. Life is long if you know how to use it.”

Seneca

There is not a single day that I don’t think about writing. Each and every day, I contemplate the pleasure of writing my thoughts down, telling the paper how I live, who I live with, how I get on, the mundane trivia that occupies my daily existence. This catharsis eludes be because of fear, mostly. Fear that I cannot speak openly or honestly about what I truly think, and what I feel. Thoughts and feelings are not commitments. I am not committed to any passing thought, no matter how recurring. There is always the possibility that once a thought or feeling is put down, it will rest forever, never again to be recalled or relived. This is why I write, so that I may set down things once and for all, and turn a page, and change, and if I cannot lay my thoughts down to rest the first time, than after many tries. This is how to live.

I have a 10 week old. I have a domestic partner. We are getting on. I work from home, I garden (though farming more closely resembles the scale I’ve achieved), I drink beer, I think about writing, I buy things on Amazon, necessary things, of course. Things that supplement or aid my efforts to create a more comfortable or resonant lifestyle for myself.

Happiness is not important.

What is important for me is meaning. As I become more detached and desensitized to the mundane grind, I will arrive at a point where my life reveals itself as meaningless, and I will gather up my life force and concentrate it towards the achievement of some monumental goal to stake my meaning in once again. I can never predict when those moments will arrive.