There is quite a storm out there. THe wind was blowing all night, and now the rain has come.
The couches. Mary's dad decided the couches had to leave yesterday. Mary said she is giving them to me. He enlisted the help of Mary's in-town bf to get them loaded on his truck, and then R put them in my carport, covered lightly by a tarp. They are pushed against the wall of my mobile home but the rain is still hitting them. Damn.
Mary will come over after work today so we can get them inside. Then we have to get the old one into the truck and to the dump. The "old one" being the one we spent $50 getting here not all that long ago.
I took the cushions from the couch inside before I left for work. Mary called shortly after I arrived at work, saying we've got to get the couches inside. I said I had gotten the cushions inside and covered a part of the couches with more plastic. She was going to call again soon. I imagine she is at work now, though. Unless the carport actually floods I think the couches will be okay, will not become soaked. The rain has really been coming down but it now seems to be leveling out, not so windy. It's the wind that got to the couches because they are well under the carport cover.
I've been nursing a headache this morning but I'm starting to feel better now. I have stuff to do, always a good thing.
I sent out copies of my draft ordinance on second units to various agencies last week and got an email from the head of the housing authority today. He had some good comments, as he usually does. George is something of a maverick, says what he thinks. He's also extremely effective at his job, which is terrific. So he's a great resource for housing questions, affordable in particular. I have always enjoyed working with him and have even thought of working *for* him. I doubt the HA could afford me, though, given my experience is related but not right-on, so I'd need to get up to speed in areas I have only brushed over in my career.
More and more I do want to work in areas where I feel I am actually "fighting the good fight", but I have little respect for most nonprofits. Some notable exceptions. I can see working for an environmental firm, one that prepares environmental documents. I've written a large number, just haven't done a full-on EIR myself. I don't see that as procedurally a lot different from what I have done, though.
Which reminds me. If I am going to get my paltry pay for the last two play reviews I have to send in an invoice. Must send invoice. Must send invoice.
When I first started this journal, I thought it would be a good place to keep track of my exercise schedule and my writing efforts. Somehow, by having it online, I felt I was making more of a commitment. Even though nobody was reading it at the time I was making the commitment publicly, to myself.
This is still a primary reason for my keeping a journal here. I have also kept note of events in my life for a couple of reasons: to remember when certain things happened and how I felt about them; to track daily stuff in my life, as fodder for the fiction mill. It seems like I forget rather too easily. My mind becomes foggy. So by writing I keep at least a hint of an experience at hand and can look at it again and remember. Sometimes the feelings will resurface when I reread, and I need that.
As I go about my rather busy life I do think about what I am doing and often will think about how I would describe what I am seeing or doing or hearing. Trying to find a way to describe it as accurately as I can, as close to my own experience as I can make it. There is, of course, no "true account" of anything. Everything is someone's experience of it.
I have read journals by others. I particularly remember parts of John Cheever's journals. A little mention of this or that, a description of an argument, an episode at someone's house. Often it is the little entries that tell the most, when added up. Cheever was as true to himself as he knew how to be. It struck me that he wrote about his drinking defensively and saw his marriage as a burden, saw himself as a victim. Anyone reading his words could see what was really going on, even though he didn't see it himself. How terrific that he could tell such truth in such a way, not even realizing.
There is another reason I keep it online. It is a place where friends or family can look to find out what is going on in my life, what matters to me. But they don't have to look if they don't want to. In that way, it's different from my sending dozens of emails every day, leaving others with a sense of obligation. No such sense here. I don't expect comments, don't feel either an obligation to comment on others' journals nor do I feel others have any obligation to comment on mine.
Finally, if I meet someone new, I like that I can send that person here to "get to know me" - in a way. Am I trying to shortcut my way to a new relationship? Not really, more a matter of letting others find out more about me rather quickly so that they don't waste their time with me when we are not going to be a good fit. Most people will not be a good fit for me, but many of them don't know it initially. Maybe I am getting too old to be telling my story so often. I want to cut to the chase. Even knowing, as I do, that it is so easy to get me wrong, even after reading reams of this crap I write here.
I made the mistake, a short while ago, of trying to reveal a hidden part of myself to a very few others I have met online here. I was under the impression that these particular people might grasp what I had been through and why, even though it is a subject many will never understand. I had wanted to write about it for some time and this seemed a good time to tell that history. It was not well-received, was most certainly misunderstood, and I have now made those entries readable by myself only, and I will continue to tell that story only to myself.
So I continue to write the mundane along with the deeper thoughts and observations. I feel a conflict inside me about the friends I meet here: on the one hand, it is so nice to meet others who sometimes comprehend and commiserate and celebrate, who sometimes appreciate me, who sometimes have had similar experiences, who identify with parts of me. I feel less alone - I am alone, but not so often lonely, to tell the truth.
On the other hand, I feel I sometimes censor myself because I know of those who are reading this. I don't always say exactly what I want to. I go to my written journal for those thoughts. Do I still worry too much about being liked? Less than before. I'm getting over it. I have learned, the hard way, that being liked for who I am not is bullshit.