raybear: (Default)
[livejournal.com profile] anjiyama wrote this:

"In honor of summer, and writing and saving lj, I am reintroducing 300 words. You don't have to do it everyday but it is great if you do, just sit down and write 300 words, at least, daily. I'm hoping it will bring up something different than my usual this is this and that is that post. To help me make it different I'm going to write it in word then cut and paste. We'll see."

God knows I love a group challenge! So here goes. Its 300ish.

~~~~~~~~
When I was 10 or 11ish (I have a hard time placing many vivid memories on the timeline and have to rely on context clues, which is frequently difficult given my precociousness as a child), I told my father I needed to go to radio shack to get a transistor radio. A small handheld one, with a speaker, battery-powered. He expressed disbelief that I really wanted something so small and simple and cheap. I had saved up allowance money, oh wait, that’s it! I asked him how much it would be, because I had started to save and wanted to know how much further to go, and he asked what I was saving for and that’s how the conversation happened. He told me about ten dollars, I nodded thoughtfully, that wasn’t too far off. He bought it for me, practically the next day, if I recall, unexpectedly and waving off my attempt at reimbursement. It was nine dollars, the price-tag was still on it. I wanted that radio in the bathroom, to listen to in the bathtub, to listen to in the morning while preparing for the day after my shower, the face washing and hair styling and outfit applying. I also liked the idea of being able to walk around, listening to the radio, it had a survivalist feel to it, I had this image of what a person looks like who walks around with a radio and I wanted to be it. I even liked the lovely tin echo of the bitty mono speaker, that radio used a nine-volt battery and stayed in that bathroom for years and years, in high school upgraded to a cassette player, but the transistor radio remained and got used occasionally. Come home from college, listened then too. One day maybe it finally broke, I think, over ten years later.

My favorite use of my iphone is putting on Pandora or public radio stations or the ipod function and listening to music through the speaker and I am carrying around that transistor radio again, I am finally that vision from childhood.,
raybear: (Default)
Yesterday I had to make a phone call to vent and the person I called very nicely reassured me that I had already resolved the situation and its done, which is totally true, but sometimes I need someone to balk with me. Balk at this bad behavior! BALK!!

I am home after a long full day of people and events (pet parade, suburban history tours, going-away potluck), and I was going to watch a movie, but suddenly the intimacy of taking a book to bed seems more appealing. I am enjoying the companionship of simply myself, except for when I'm not. But isn't that most things? Right now is one of those "nots".

I remember a time when things weren't real until I had written about them on livejournal, whether a public declaration, or a filtered one to a select group before going public, or usually some combination of both. Now I hardly ever think to write here, I condense it all into facebook statuses or twitter, though also I have been having lots of face to face conversations with people, funny how that makes the internet's role change in the social functions. I find myself here now, and I don't mean to make a "livejournal is dead" post, it is just hard to ignore the observation when I actually decided to click that post an entry link.

It has been an intense year of grief, or maybe an intense year for grief, as if grief is one part of me that exists in its own capacity, as if that part of my heart could have a string of bad luck over the course of a few months. Which is not to say, I don't feel unlucky about any recent chains of events, if anything my primary reaction in many of them is "it was bound to happen to you soon, so just time to step up and get through it" and mostly this works, but sometimes it doesn't, it bears down on me and I lose all the confidence in my words I had just said aloud hours earlier, things I've been saying for day, weeks, and they seem perfectly true and fine until they aren't and then I falter and think they must not be true at all, ever, I am wrong. Calm down. It is one day, one night, not even -- it is one hour. See me again in an hour and tell me what you know and we will figure it out.

Which is not to say things are all bad, that is not true at all, they are just operating at a different level and place, and that is probably just part and parcel with this period of underemployment and career change and everything else change, that every routine gets pitched or at the very least reconfigured. Still, it is hard to be unravelled sometimes, strands separate on the floor, not touching.

And now to go to my bookshelf and select my lover for the night.......ok, I almost pulled off saying 'lover' in earnest, but I couldn't quite do it.

May 2010

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