Week one of the new place and new commute was nigh idyllic. Now the students are back, and springtime chugs along in its grey way toward summer. I’m swathed in polarfleece and wore a lined jacket as well as a scarf this morning. Is it really almost June?
It didn’t take me long to adjust to living with a television again. Now I can spot “Stargate SG-1” within just a few bars of the ominous score, and I’ve even seen part of “The Swan”. The former is quite enjoyable (mm, hot linguists), while the latter is painfully not.
A few days ago, I started a brand-new Moleskine journal, which got me thinking about the 1000 journals project, and about keeping a handwritten journal in general. I’m much less interested in public literary vivisection these days. Perhaps it has to do with my loathing and consequent avoidance of interpersonal drama. Reading my LiveJournal friends list these days leaves me cold. I yearn for small, real connection instead of this deluge of electronic pretense. I do feel quietly sad when I see I’ve been removed from the confidence of others, but I realize that is a natural consequence of not keeping them in mine, and the sadness passes.
When I write in my offline journal, I’m the only one who reads it, aside from a few excerpts that the MSG has perused. If something he reads concerns or confuses him, he asks me plainly what it means, and I explain. I have no drive to confide in as many people as I used to; I am much more content to listen, to give advice when it is asked for, to share trivial details, and to otherwise remain silent on the subject of myself.
Does this preference make someone less of a friend? Please weigh in on this topic, if you have an opinion. I’m curious to know what your experiences are.