Month: April 2007

The software that I use to maintain this journal has a feature that supposedly allows some entries to be labeled as “private,” hiding them behind a password.

Somehow, using something like this seems to me to be defeating the very purpose of this journal’s existence. But at the same time, not using something like it makes me feel thoroughly exposed, making it hard for me to say some things I really want to; defeating the purpose of this journal, yet again.

You lose some, you lose some.

I’m so confused, but I’m contemplating trying it out. I plan to mark certain entries as private—probably revealing a tiny blurb letting everyone know what they’re about. And then, if someone’s really curious to know more, they can ask me. I’ll grant you access if I am OK with you reading the entry. Otherwise, tough.

What do you do in such situations?

It turns out, like most people, I’m hyper-sensitive to rejection. So when I was turned down, not once, but twice (thrice, if you count another minor sub-story) for something as innocuous as lunch, I began to panic, hyper-ventilate, and seriously doubt my abilities as a human being.

You know, standard fare.

Yes, the rational part of me could vaguely grasp the notion that she genuinely might be too busy to hang out—or whatever it is her excuse was—but as always, that logic was soon drowned by the emotionally-underdeveloped side which just had to make it all about me. All about my inadequacies… ones that ensured I wasn’t even enjoyable enough to grab a bite with.

Given how innocuous the whole affair was, I didn’t know this would get to me so much. But it did. Usually, I’m left to myself thinking, “If I do make a move right now, something will definitely happen. Nothing’s happening only because I choose to do nothing.” But incidents like these seem to tell a different tale: Nothing’s going to happen even if I make a move; for I am who I am.

I really wanted to write about something entirely different today, but I suppose this is what has been playing prominently on my mind all day. The thoughts returned when I ran into her at a time when she said we couldn’t meet.

She looked haggard and was rushing between arduous tasks—tired and spent. It turns out she really was insanely occupied after all. At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself so I can go to sleep now.

Good night.

Often times, I wonder why we’re so reluctant to casually float down the stream of life. Why we’re so insistent on struggling against the current, lusting after bits of algae glued to rocks on the stream’s bed. We believe we know how delicious these morsels are, but all we have to go by is what we see from above the water’s glistening surface. Are we sure the grubs here are so much more gratifying than the ones downstream?

It’s sadder still to realise how territorial we are, squawking grotesquely as we wrestle to stake our claim on places we can’t hold; for the stream forever flows.

Panic becomes apparent.

Is that something new?

There is this kid from my part of the world who entered graduate school here at the same time as I did. He’s from my home town in fact, and I got to know him in my first few weeks here. We kept running into each other in the corridors of the department as we were out begging for financial support. You know, to stay in graduate school, now that we’d entered it.

I don’t usually get to talk to him very much because we lead entirely disparate lives, but I ran into him during a seminar this morning and we decided to meet a little later in the afternoon. To chat about things.

By now, you ought to be able to guess what happened next.

As is all the rage these days, he informed me he was getting married in a couple of months.

But in a strange twist of fate, this news didn’t even remotely bother me. Instead, I listened patiently as he described the situation to me in some detail.

He’d been introduced to her last August by his parents. And by introduced, I mean provided an e-mail address. He’d then proceeded to get in touch, and over the course of the e-mails, and pictures, decided by December that “She was the one.” At this point they were e-engaged, or something. He then flew down over in March (yes, like few weeks ago), got to meet her in person and “Got engaged for real.” He’ll fly back in a couple of months and “Marry her for real.”

He then went on to talk a bit about her. Her name. Where she was studying. About how she had no professional plans of her own, so she could leave at a moment’s notice and follow him anywhere his work took him. How she was “more than adequate.” You know, standard things.

Under normal circumstances, when the “Did I tell you I’m getting married?” spiel begins to drop, I break down into this hysterical mess of sappiness and fail to listen to the real story. But this time, having calmly listened to the entire tale, I have to say I am not distressed. In fact, I almost feel sorry for the guy.

It was pitiful when he began trying to convince me how e-mail and a web-cam are a valid substitute for the real thing.

It was most pitiful when I noted that it wasn’t me he was trying to convince, it was himself.

(I know your heart must’ve skipped a beat when you read the title of this post. I know, admit it!)

Yes, I could have loaded the dishwasher and forgotten to turn it on.
No, I didn’t “Not turn it on to spite you.” Perhaps I’m just scatterbrained?

One thing that women—including moms—don’t understand is that it’s not always about something specific. And more importantly, it’s not always about them. Another person could just like or dislike or love or hate or whatever them purely independent of who they are as a person. Really, they can.

I don’t have reasons for feeling a certain way, or not, toward anyone. I just do. That’s why they’re called feelings and if they were as rational as thoughts, then I’d have clear, valid reasons. Don’t you think?

I wish the world would let me be. Let me feel like I want to feel, whatever that might mean. I just want to feel unconstricted. I don’t want another’s life intimately tied to my emotions or thoughts or decisions; that’s just too much pressure. Is that so wrong?

I feel backed into a corner. I feel trapped and choked. There, I said it.

It’s hilarious (actually, it’s not at all) how I’ve even become so troubled about saying anything here for fear of who I would inadvertently hurt. Between the stalkers, friends, relatives, lovers, exs… it becomes too hard to actually form, let alone express, a real sentiment. I long for a time when this was an untethered forum, where I could speak my mind. Where I could yell and scream and curse and no one would know.

Who am I kidding? I long for a time when I wouldn’t need to yell or scream or curse.

I’ve spent most of this weekend glued to the computer. Unfortunately for you, this does not mean I made the time to write something interesting down here. Here is what went on instead.

Starting with little more than the following drawing,

I’ve initiated a process of bringing my work web-site out of the dark ages.

Clicking the image above will take you to an evolving site where I test different elements which frequent my work web-site. The plan is to make sure it looks presentable in recent browsers before I migrate the older content over.

I think I’ve captured the essence of the original site quite nicely. What do you feel?