These violent delights do have violent ends, and in their triumph die like fire and powder, which as they kiss, consume.

And so begins my  first venture into in-person book promotion.

All the hopes of a doe-eyed dreamer.

 Come see the pretty books and buy the pretty books. You must love me. Grandeur of thoughts.

 Most people who come out to social or community events are elders and parents with young kids, and many of these people know each other, and are there to socialize.

So, I sat there waiting for the moment the cool kids notice me. All the cool kids are teenagers who are volunteers. I'm terrified of them, but eventually handed out business cards with bated breath.

In the end, I was a voyeur to the delight of others, watching the joy of others talk about their work and hoping someone would notice me.

I didn't sell that day. I have more days. More disappointment or new triumphs?

 February is the shortest month.  Promises to keep and miles to go before I weep.

I discovered reaction channels during the pandemic. These are channels where newbies to a series watch the series for the first time, and you, the oldie, watch along with them, relishing their reaction to your favorite series, plot twists and discoveries.

Long live vicarious nostalgia.

It's something that comes with age. Wishing you were discovering old loves anew.

Sometimes wonder if it would be better to be a teenager today or back in the 2000s-2010s.

In a way, older millennials (b. pre-1990) are the last generation to experience a childhood away from the Internet.

​That's always a bonus.

We're in late stage captalism. Millennials (and especially zoomers) are the children at the end of history. We've peaked as a civilization, and the culture is being decontructed and folded inward, which means nothing is new, exciting, and original anymore. Everything is rehashed and rebooted, and stale.

But the zoomers, and especially Gen Alpha, can create a new world from the ashes of the old-- god help us with these cyborg children and their obsession with hyperreality.

In the meantime, I like seeing these younger people find value in old things.

Read my article: hyperreality and cyborg children 

This post is a ramble. To quote Nina Simone, "this is a showtune, but the show hasn't been written for it yet."

I am forever trying to understand my own mind, likes, wants, desires, fears, cares and the whole gestalt of who I am, and what makes me so, and whether I can call myself a good person.

 I call myself an empath.

Empathy is intrinsically the base trait of goodness, defined as how we treat/relate to people and living beings around us, even the environment. But, empathy may also leave you vulnerable to abuse, being taken advantage of, being disrespected, and carrying emotional burdens that weigh you down mentally over time.

 The moral of this story? Lash out when you're being disrespected, regardless of the consequence.

Over the years, I have worried about the unsaid things that swirl in my mind, what I often refer to as the noumenal locutions that I cannot express, both because I am resentful of needing to do so, and because I simply have difficulty expressing myself, often not being able to find words until well after the fact, and never in the appropriate moment when it matters.

Thoughts and ideas that I struggle to express leave a lacuna between who I am and how i present myself. That Liminal link thins and increasingly makes it hard for me to fully express myself.

Not everyone who claims to be a victim is (and not simply because said person means to deceive-- psychopathy). Sometimes, you can scream and cry that you are right and still not be right.

Lawsuits or tears? Pick your weapon of rightness. We equate tears and cries with victimhood. If you cry, literally or figuritvely, you must be the one worthy of sympathy. But this is not true. 

Did Lance Armstrong not sue people who accused him of doping?

As paradoxical as it is, you can like/love a thing and still recognize imperfections and problematic aspects of that thing. I can like Star Trek Discovery, while still admitting that the show has many flaws. Flaws within a thing or person doesn't make them disposable.

I have some thoughts about internet culture, black lives matter, and the frustration of hearing viewpoints dominate the mainstream consciousness that lack , well nuance.

I hate mob mentality.
Internet: you are cancelled.
Me: This is absurd
Internet: Let's get Bill Maher fired
Me: Let's not. He's entitled to his opinions.

Truth: I hate arrogance, vanity, narcissism and phoniness/insincerity. That explains why I hate celebs, which is a generalization (I don't hate all). It explains why I avoid reality show stars, influencers, social media stars, and attention-seekers. And the distaste Prince Harry's wife leaves in my mouth.

Truth: at the end of the day, a person's character matters more than melanin.

My Mind works like this: Nuance
Internet: you're either with us or you're with the terrorist
​Me: Here's an analysis of A, B, C, and oh, also, D, E, F, G, H...
Internet: you are blocked/racist.

FACT: Racism exists on a spectrum. You don't have to be a card-carrying Neo-Nazi to be racist or harbor racist sentiment.

Amy Cooper would've voted for Obama a third time if she could. 

Internet: only conservatives can be racist
Me: I don't give a damn about your political affiliation
Internet: you give a pass to Justin Trudeau for blackface
Me: I have no power over what Justin Trudeau does/gets

My mind works like this:
Me: Is Lea Michele guilty of racism or bullying/diva antics?
Internet: it does't matter. Her victim is black.

My mind works like this.
Internet: Sasha Exeter is a victim of Jessica Mulroney's white privilege
Me: who's Sasha Exeter?
Internet:  Influencer
Me: nevermind.
Internet: self-hater

Internet: Tomi Lahren is racist
Me: I don't care about this person and don't like you putting this person in my consciousness.
Internet: Tomi, Tomi, Tomi
Me: silent pouts, shuts down, shut off device

The painful irony of "having time. Remember when you would say, if only I had time, I'd do this and that? Looks like it's not time that keeps us back, after all.

Lethargy, tiredness from little or no physical exertion, or just plain fatigue.
​
 My brain's active--ideas are constantly forming, and I am forever excited by them, and yet, now stuck at home, with more of my day to myself, I am unable to do a thing about all these ideas driving me insane.

How about them apples? 

I haven't read a book since January.  That hasn't stopped me from making booklists, and borrowing digitally from the public library, even putting physical books on loan; but I never get around to reading them. The most I can suffice these days is browsing reference books and encyclopedias, and even those are barely explored.

Once upon a time, I had this plan that should I get more of my days to myself, I'd become a kitchen witch--I even bought all the herbal and plant books, all the books about health juices and growing a witch's garden. And two months of working from home, I have yet to lift a finger toward doing what I have always wanted to do. 

Do I get an A for thinking and planning all the same?

I still have plans for that backyard garden and with warmer weather hopefully comes more physical efforts.

Maybe my problem has always been overthinking and worrying. The period between end of April and end of May represents a strange month for me. My birthday brings life worries, mother's day and my mother's birthday brings even more worries and sad reflections.  Covid-19 hasn't helped. Like many people I am worried about employment, a job I need but don't want.

I worry about paying bills, and with a new home, I have lots of them.

That might ultimately be the problem. Yes, I have more time but I still have worries that stalk my waking hours and night. I suffer from anxiety and all these things weigh on me, draining my energy.

So it's not time, or the absence of that is the culprit of why I cannot live a personally fulfilling life, but rather, worries that lead to wasted energy. And it's a cycle.

I sleep on it. I wake up and think on it.  Consider it. Fodder it. Entertain it. Sustain it.  Dismiss it. Then I sleep on it. Dream on it. Inspired by it, I wake up. And I linger on it, tinker it, cuddle it, and nurture it ... my heart's full of it.

And the days drift, and I lose it. Then I regain it, pulled from a coil of a dream of it. Then I desire it. I repeat it. And I recycle it. and praise it. And I go on to shape it, imagine it, but never fully grasping it.

I owe it, a birth into existence; hence the persistence. I'll never grow it, and I know it, but ​ I put all my hopes on it ... until the day I die.