Conflict
Edit: Guitar Hero controllers not currently being a pressing issue, I decided to place them behind a jump.
All that said, here’s something nice
MIT’s got some students blogging for their admissions office, trying to rope people into their posh little academic circus. I wouldn’t care about something like this normally, but Lulu Liu, a sophomore from New Haven with an awesome name, also takes pictures. More interesting than her posts (to be fair, she’s only written twice) is what is available in her public directory. I’m not going to link you, but the photos in the blog entries are stored there. I’m also not going to offer critique of the cache except to say that shit like this is why I’m so very fond of the internet. ![[WS]](/blog/media/end.gif)
Proof
I’m wondering if what I’ve been feeling lately has just been a mild case of blogger’s block or if it’s something more akin to what my pal Mr. Teller complains of: an inability to write about that which he finds insubstantial. I feel like I used to be able to write about things that were not really of any importance, but when I stop to think about that more I realize that in times past when I would write such drivel I would quickly lose interest in blogging altogether. It’s been about a month or so since I started writing seriously again, and I spent much of that time traveling anyway, so there wasn’t much to be said on a day-to-day basis. I love writing my little travelogues (even though I feel they are largely composed of “Today I went here, ate this, and saw that,” which is the sort of stuff I try to avoid writing on the regular. I realize that I never wrote about my trip to Florida.
But maybe this blogging issue is indicative of a much larger problem. I say this as though I’m really questioning that concept’s validity, when I already know it to be true. The problem is stasis, and I am just as deep in it here in Maine as I was when I was living in Troy if not more so. Nothing changed there, every day involved me getting up, doing nothing for a while, eating, doing nothing some more, visiting some friends, maybe some pot smoking, video games, bed. Here it’s more of the same, less the friends and the pot. Here, though, the whole routine has a tinge of guilt to it coupled with a restricted sense of freedom. I mean, I’m just as free to do things here as I was in Troy; to her credit, Mom’s not saying explicitly I can’t do this or that. The differences are in my lack of mobility, in my lack of choice when it comes to activities, in my lack of alone time on my terms. The guilt, of course, stems from the finance end of things as usual.
And so but what does any of that have to do with blogging? Rather than use my time productively by either working on some creative baloney or on my own head, the two activities about which I would feel most comfortable publishing writings, I seek the distractions that save me from having to do either. Thusly there is a deficit in my desire to write. QED.
Climbing the walls
I have learned something over the past two months here in Maine (two months?): I get tired of being at home very, very quickly.
Things I miss
Third Street south of Ferry in summer. Campus in autumn. My apartment on Fulton Street at night in winter. Holmes & Watson, The Ruck, the brew pub (I refuse to call it Brown’s). The Daily Grind. 2013. All the good friends I made through school, wherever they may now be. Even that fucking hill.
I miss you, Troy, you rotten bastard.