'Ff'lo (fflo) wrote,

It's a cold-ish rainy night, and it's gonna keep raining for a while.

It's Friday.

Writing here is so sticky, with the new world way of not saying anything of so much on top of the already not saying some things.  This is no way to live.  Or to write.

Gonna be having some conversation tomorrow night (if it comes off) (yeah I know there I go with that asterisk, but it's not that crazy) that I hope is good stuff.  Not bad stuff.

There's something about the combination of the falloff in the fad of these linked personal-ish blogs and the dialing back to the shallow and the cryptic that makes it feel all but pointless to type in these rectangles and push the "Post to fflo" button.  Some fflow.

Thing is, I like to make sentences.  I like to make sentences about what's going on with me, about what's in my head, and about nothing, and not even sentences sometimes.  Words.  I like to put those words somewhere in the world in which they may be read by another, or some others. I don't know what that's about.

I like one-on-one words too.  If you've ever been in typed conversation with me in the enthusiastic way I love to get into typed conversation, you probably know I like to type words and sentences to people, and read words and sentences people have typed to me.  When that gets zingy, that gets quite zingy sometimes.


I guess it's all the person and the conversation.  In the sentences placed before whoever-happens-to-look, that's different.  It's typing into sort of a vacuum but not an actual vacuum or at least you know there's a good chance somebody might be reading it, and so no you really can't talk about x, and then y is too fraught and involves, say, s's personal life, and z --- well, z.

I'm sleepy.  I appear to have (basically) sleeptexted last night.  Kind of bizarre. 

Had email from--- ah, crap.  Had email this afternoon with some good words in it.  Food for thought.  A possible focus.  I want to say the stakes feel high, but I don't even really know what the stakes are, what's at stake.  Something feels like it's at stake, for me, anyway.

See, none of this freakin means anything, cuz I'm not really saying anything.  What is the damn point.  And where can I do that thing where I say something.  I just want to type it instantly to whoever and have that be okay.  Sure, letters, I guess i can write letters.  It's not that I don't want to write letters.

Private v. secret.  Was that in a public post I spoke of that this summer?  That's another notion.

How forthcoming to be.  One-on-one.  Here.  Everywhere.  Inside.

Brought some pictures home from the office computer on my new thumb drive tonight.  Some pictures I really like.  One was already on my home machine and is in my phone.  It's a beautiful portrait I could wax on about at such length.  I could point out to you several versions of why I love it so.  If I could show it to you.  If I could really tell you about it.

Wuvoo.  I don't know why I say that now.  I say it now.

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