I will never get the hang of blogging. Tumblogging, anyway. It’s not that I don’t get it; I just- I fail to apply myself properly to it. It can be done. But I’m not about the- Wait. Lemme take a breathe. I need to submit more original material. I need to take the time for that. After which I need to think about what I’m about and transfer the result to my Tumblog. Everything needs a subject. Especially if it indicates a greater purpose toward some given thing. Technology. Science. Literature. Humor. Whatever you got. You can’t just barf shit out onto the Internet. You can… Thousands do it everyday. More. But there’s nothing precise to anything they offer. After awhile — like immediately — their readers will get bored and jet.
Stay true to yourself. Keep within that niche. Those interested in your mind will stick around for more. That’s what I keep trying to tell myself. And don’t destroy everything you’ve done thus far if you don’t think it adheres to whatever! Struggling to find your voice is part of your story. You’ll get there. If you keep at it. And not force it.
I regret it all the time that I’d gone back and deleted everything up to a certain point, to start over. It all winds up in a similar place, anyway. It’ won’t get to where I want it to be until- Until it does.
Don’t worry about it. And reblogs? They’re good. Stick with what interests you, though. Because ultimately, the subject of your blog is you.
I’m sweating like a pig. I’d written on my Facebook page, last night, that I’d awaken that morning feeling like someone had tried to tear my cranium off from the base of the neck upward. Tender spot, there. On the left-hand side, with pain along the left side of my head across the ear and to the back of my head to the top. There’s a weird rash just under my left ear; I wonder if I’d been bitten by something. Couldn’t turn my head. Went to bed at like 5 p.m. and slept for around four hours, after which I felt somewhat better. This afternoon, I’m in about the same spot. Slept weirdly — which has been the norm, lately — with weird-ass dreams, couldn’t get comfortable. That’s how a neck gets crooked-up. This rash hasn’t gotten better or worse. It’s just sitting there below my ear, itching. On top of that I’m worried about resuming college in January, getting all that shit together. I haven’t been back since June 1990. In many ways, I feel like the same person who’d left campus, then — in spite of the fact that I’m now 45. I feel like I’d bee the odd old man going back. Though I know that there will be plenty of souls older than me in attendance.
Worry breeds more worry, I guess. That’s all it does. Whether it’s for going back to school or some wacky rash on your neck or how to maintain a blog. You just do or shrug it off and go on to the thing that needs doing. Somehow, I’m not wired for simple activity like that. I wonder if I wasn’t born chewing at my fingernails. But I know I wasn’t so worried about everything when I was young. It just happened, one day. Something just snapped apart and there I was, quivering like an autumn leaf about to fall onto the ground. Worrying about something I’m meant to do like that. Worrying about nature.
“Most people are not really free. They are confined by the niche in the world that they carve out for themselves. They limit themselves to fewer possibilities by the narrowness of their vision.”—V.S. Naipaul, Collected Short Fiction
Ribcage still hurts after the tumor was removed from my chest the April before last.
Antiseizure meds make me feel doped-up half the time, put me to sleep the other half.
I’m going back to college! But I’m still trying to scrape together the $50 application fee.
Vocational Rehabilitation is helping me with college (they say; I confess I’m cloudy on what they’re gonna do for me, exactly). But they can’t get me a waiver for the $50 application fee.
I’m worrying about how I’m gonna support myself while going to school. Though tuition and books are said to be taken care of if all goes as it should, that leaves living expenses. I could continue to stay at my sister’s — if it was near a bus line. I could move closer to school, on my own — but how? How do I afford that, disabled? I’ve got an SSDI hearing coming up. Although the state recognizes me as being disabled with a need for assistance from it, although my case worker from Voc Rehab recommended the degree program (Yay!) rather than the few employers willing to work with someone like me because the jobs they offer cannot sustain a person at living level, although the state recognizes that I’ll not be able to work without its assistance, I may yet again be denied Social Security disability benefits. Although the Voc Rehab program is designed to work in conjunction with such benefits. So I’m in school for two to three more years? Maybe four? Without a way to support myself? I’m telling myself not to worry, as I may very likely be able to get work in some capacity at the college itself. Anyway, it’s got me all wound-up. Had a few stress-related seizures as a result. I’m a wreck.
I continue to spend my downtime writing, hoping to sell something, enough to pay for a sandwich, here or there. I’m also trying to knock out as many Amazon Mechanical Turk HITs as I can.
Too many people in my life aren’t getting what I’m going through. A big thing with me is that I feel everybody’s got to understand me. This is as much a shortcoming of mine as it is anyone else’s. We can only hope that the people in our lives get us, get what we’re going through. In the end, it’s us we have to live with. If we get it, if we get ourselves, if we’re okay with ourselves, if we love ourselves, that’s all we need. The rest we’ll have to take as it comes. Or let it go. Who cares if so-and-so can’t follow along? They’ve got their own things to go through; leave them to their problems, help out if you can. But don’t depend on outside assistance. Go it on your own, I tell myself. Meaning, again, that if somebody’s not getting it, don’t worry about it. Let it slide off your back. Ignore it. It’s not the end of the world.
Did I say I feel like shit? It feels like somebody’s detonating hand grenades inside my skull. Constantly. Never lets up.
I feel like I’m drunk when I’m out and about, when I’m up and about. Some days are better than others. Some make me feel like puking my guts out. I can’t keep my balance very well. I’m okay most of the time, though. Couldn’t ride a bike if you offered to pay me a million dollars. That hurts. I love riding. And there are so many places to enjoy a ride in this area. Pisses me off. I’ve found a couple of adult “training wheel” get-ups I could attach to the bike. If I had the money. Everything’s about money. But I’d ride that sonofabitch. With those training wheels. I don’t care what anyone might say or snort about it. Let ‘em. I’d be mobile and having fun. I hope. Balance problem might be solved, but I’m no good at judging speed nor distance, anymore. I’m sure I’d be okay, though, if I went slowly at first.
Memory is fucked-up. I’ve learned to accept it. But sometimes it really bugs me. I’m constantly forgetting words, how to spell words. Thank God for spell check. Seriously. Thank Him. I do.
That’s probably enough whining for now. I didn’t get around to mentioning the things I’m grateful for. Except for spell check. I’m grateful for a sister and brother-in-law who’ve put me up in their home for two years. I’m grateful for good doctors and nurses and CNAs and physical therapists and psychologists and paramedics and people back in Nevada who tacked my name to prayer boards and always kept me in mind and in heart. It’s easy to forget the important things when you get to bitching about true-enough problems, but the things that really matter will get you through the bullet points above.