Note to future self: I’m only writing this because I’m trying to keep a streak going. Will not even bother fixing the paragraphing.
Damn I’m tired. Physically tired. But this is to be expected– it’s only my third day in a row waking up at 6am, and I didn’t get as much sleep as I wish I did. I’m going to work from home tomorrow– I’m still going to wake up early, but I’m going to take some naps throughout the day probably. But I intend to keep waking up at 6am every day.
It’s interesting to see how different I am when I’m tired. It’s totally a different state of consciousness. I forget a lot of things. And I can’t make good decisions. I sort of just default to this “Ignore everything, just go home,” sort of state. I have 900 more words to go and I no idea what I’m going to talk about. This is a challenge. So what does my mind default to when I’m this tired? Uhh. I guess I start describing my surroundings. I have a potted plant on my kitchen windowsill. My cats are sitting outside my bedroom door (my wife’s inside, and they probably want to be let in). I’ve started keping track of my stuff on calendars that we printed out with our new printer. Yeah, I finally got a printer. I’ve always sorta wanted to have one, but it never felt like a pressing need. It felt like an indulgence. But I figured, hey, if I’m going to be a writer, I’m going to want to print stuff out and read it on paper. It’s just a different experience, isn’t it? A part of me sincerely wants to print out every single word vomit I’ve written. And just hold it in my hands. It’ll just be this really tactile, concrete evidence of the work I’ve been putting into this, however silly or arbitrary or inconsequential. And also I’ve just always liked the idea of being able to externalize cognition, yet I’ve always done very little about it. It’s just one of those ideas I’ve held on to for a long, long time. I’m particularly in love with Brett Victor’s ideas about interactive spaces. About thinking with our hands, with our bodies. Laptops with Internet connections give us superpowers, but they also have us all hunched up, moving our fingers. I suppose a standing desk might be better. I have that option at work but I hardly use it. Why? I don’t know. Habit? Do I feel silly? It seems like I have some strange friction or blockage or inertia that keeps me from trying the things I know I should try. I want to get better at drawing little sketches and doing sketchy note-taking. So I should plan in advance and set aside some time to do this, maybe over the weekends.
Well, at least I’m writing about it now. I’ll want to review/reference this. Let me add it to my Workflowy… okay, done. And then I got distracted for a minute or two, but I’m back here because I really want to finish this and publish it and to go bed. Why am I writing this so late, anyway? I left work a little later than usual but not THAT late. I must have been drifting off after I got home. Oh yeah, I really took my time to have my dinner (a subway sandwich that the wife had bought and didn’t finish). I suppose all of this is just even more incentive and proof that I need to get myself quality sleep. I’m feeling as sleepy now as I usually do when I stay up until say, 5 or 6am in the morning (when usually going to bed at say, 230am).
How’s everything else? Well, it’s alright. I’m not sure if I mentioned this but I’ve discovered that it’s quite possible to read many books at once if/when I read all these books in different contexts. So I keep a book in my toilet (I have a pretty high shelf where I keep it, so it’s dry and stuff– I finished Tolle’s Power of Now, Strauss’s The Game and Wozniak’s autobiography all entirely during toilet time, lol), I have a couple of books in the living room (I seldom if ever get around to reading these… but it does feel like they’re “getting warmer”– the big one that I really want to have read is Levinson’s The Box), I have a couple of books in the bedroom– I believe right now I’m reading Stupid White Men by Michael Moore, who has a very quirky, witty style. And I have Games People Play in my sling bag which I used to bring to work everyday. (I’m experimenting with a habit of leaving my laptop at work as much as possible, which does make for a delightful, unencumbered trip home. I suppose I could bring my bag with a book even if I don’t bring the laptop. Hmm. I’ll try that next week.) I’m kind of curious about Stendhal’s Confessions of an English Opium Eater. And also I feel like I’d like to sample the Faulkner, Hemingway and Steinbeck that I have but haven’t touched. I’m just raving randomly now.
My current toilet read is “Conversations with Remarkable People” by Osho. It’s really cheesy. It’s amusing to think anybody might take it “seriously”. I feel like the only real way to take spirituality seriously is to embrace it with a sense of humor. If you can’t laugh heartily at how silly and absurd everything is, the way a child does, then you’re kinda trapped, aren’t you? I suppose some people like the idea of being trapped– it’s a sort of sacrifice, a purity ritual, or a penance of some sort. I am unworthy, I am imperfect, I must suffer and be punished, and through this suffering and punishment I experience some sort of significance. That sounds crazy intellectually, but I have a feeling that a non-trivial part of me actually is hooked on that game, or some remix or variant of that game. Yeah, I guess if I should finish any particular book that I’m halfway through, it might be games people play. But really, this whole vomit is just me trying to small-talk my way to the end. Get me out of here. I’ll look back on this and think “jesus, go to sleep you stupid idiot!”
or maybe I’ll be kinder to myself by then. In any case. We’re done. I can write words to fill out a page. It’s a thing I can do. Goodnight!