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So, I’d like to write more, but that would involve writing from home, and there’s this problem. My computer (and only my computer; this isn’t a network problem as far as I can tell) just won’t see this site. What it sees is the old site, on the old server, and with the default WordPress styling to boot, not with my customized styling.
My work computer sees the gray-palletted Dreamhost-ed site; my phone sees the same; my home computer sees the old one. I’ve tried emptying cache in all of my browsers, but no dice. What are some other things I might try?
If you are reading this blog on LiveJournal, please read on.
Having successfully migrated words’ end to DreamHost and playing with their WordPress install, I’m finally dealing with the minor annoyance of not being notified of comments posted to the LiveJournal RSS feed. Not just that: the comments disappear into the ether when LJ no longer sees the post.
So, I’m doing two things. First off, I’ve set up cross-posting to w0rds3nd. In fact, this is the test post for that; we’ll see if it goes through.
Second, in a couple of weeks I’ll look into cutting off the LiveJournal RSS feed by blocking LJ’s IP address. I figure, if people care enough to comment on my posts, I’d like to know about it; and this is the only way for me to ensure that I’ll see the comments.
Anyway. Friend w0rds3nd, if you will. All posts to it will be public, and commenting will be routed off LJ to my site. You’ll be able to subscribe to followup comments and there’s threading, and I’d like to keep all comments in the same place. So really, no major functionality is lost compared to LJ. Come play.
Found this in my drafts. From May 13th, 2003. This was when I was in grad school, taking a writing class, and most relevantly living next door to Talan. (Where’d his site go? It had such literary-critical gems. Aigh.)
To sleep… to sleep is a price too steep, must work, mold words, count-downing ten pages — downing a beer after allergy pill, a mistake in the making — mold words meekly, humbly tumbling tattered idea to tattered idea, just-do[ing]-it getting over it getting it over with, thought passing over and under and either side of computer, books, words, work, up and away to coffee or not-coffee, to still softness, still tentative, still — sleepy and still… movement come from within, building gilding the rose, rising welling up then dive, a well so cool then still
to be behind below beyond the chatter of Greimas grimacing from out his structurgrid grinning — to leave, to weave instead a bed of leaves or sheets or page, to think nought about wages, war, weakness, wage peace in stillness, movement minute, diluted further by soft smooth laughter out from the inside.
Last weekend, I moved house. I now live a fifteen-minute walk from where I used to live, a little bit (five minutes’ walk or less) further from the Davis Square T stop, with a different crowd of hippie geeks. My reasons for the move are many, but mostly boil down to, this new place may be better suited to what I want to do with my life. Appropriately enough, it’s called Something Completely Different.
I’ll miss And/Or. Then again, they’re still close by. And though there will no longer be a circus band practicing in my living room every Thursday night, they seem to have taken up busking in Davis! Do come out and see them, if you’re local. It’s a good time.
Last week, just as I was on top of things but suddenly sick enough to be unable (unwilling) to pack, moving stress suddenly struck full-force. Up until almost the last minute it wasn’t clear who-all would show up to help me schlep my stuff (of which much had been moved beforehand, in cars and thanks to the efforts of several friends). Lo, enough generous souls showed up to make it a three and a half hour move start to finish. Stressful, as such things are, but not nearly as much as it could’ve been. That, and sushi for a thank-you lunch afterward, and a tenth-wedding-anniversary party at the new house on my first evening there — all of these things made for a good welcome.
There are many children around the house at various times, though none of them live there. My cats are making cautious acquaintance with the two resident cats (who will, alas, soon move out). The people are quirky and passionate and good. The kitchen is well-loved, and a social nexus. There’s a ton of space, genial conversation at breakfast, and at least three different things fermenting on purpose. (One of them is my kefir-like-but-not-kefir stuff! Thanks for the culture, mom.) There’s a garden, which I hope to learn to tend well.
Oh, and bacon. No, seriously. Lots of bacon. You’d think I were following some internet meme, but I’m not. Bacon.
And, of course, what do I do on my first weekday in the new house? Stay at work ’til past 8pm. Time to go home.
I took a weekend of silence this weekend. Took? am taking? It doesn’t matter much: I’m succeeding at not talking, but fail at not communicating. There are three reasons for the fail. One, the nasty cold I’ve been fighting off all week has taken over my body and turned it into SINUSES with some irrelevant stuff attached. Two, I’m [re-]learning that it physically hurts to be cut off from my loved ones and from the world when the means of communication—computer, internet connection—are right here. And three, I need to finally write up last week.
A week ago last Friday, at 7:30 in the morning, Ethan and I headed to the county court on Cambridge Street. The papers we’d filled out were checked for completeness, we paid the appropriate fee, were directed to Judge Kaplan’s courtroom in another building. Once there we self-addressed a couple of envelopes each, waited a little, and were called up to the bench. We did the I-swear-to-nothing-but-the-truth-so-help-me-Zeus bit. We answered some pro forma questions about our respective free will and states of informedness about the other’s financial statement. Judge Kaplan informed us that she is approving our joint petition for divorce. We’ll each get written confirmation within thirty days. The divorce will become final four months from the day of our appearance before her. We were out of there by 10:30 or so.
And, like that, it’s over.
It was a good marriage, and then it wasn’t good, or a marriage. To end it wasn’t my idea, but I wouldn’t go back. The last year and a half has been the most difficult time I’ve ever known. In some respects it’s not over yet: we have debts to service together and taxes for last year yet to file and the car to re-register in Ethan’s name. In more emotionally important respects, it’s been over for more than a year, since before he moved out in December of 2007.
Still processing the six heady years since meeting him. Their impact on me, on my psyche, on the shape of my life hasn’t even entirely revealed itself, I’m sure. But many things did change, mostly for the better, and I’m thankful for having found my feet again.
As you may imagine, my feelings about Ethan are myriad and complex. A fair warning, though (not that I feel this forum needs it, but just in case): if I get any comments on that are cruel to him, passing as some kind of support to me, I’ll delete them.
The rest of that Friday was filled with mad errands, which would’ve been madder if court had taken the half a day I’d thought it was going to take. Got together for lunch with Molly, who is a treasure and that’s all you really need to know. Went gift shopping for a three-year-old’s birthday. Went food shopping for my birthday party, which was the next day, and got too much food as usual. Saw a Pagan-chant video embedded in this post, and found it grounding, all that returning.
But that’s not all, no. That Friday also had a housemate, who without even thinking about it got off his comfy bed to help me lug four 30lb bins of cat litter upstairs. My cats stayed close to me when they could and purred up an appreciative storm. I got to savor cooking for the birthday party until the wee hours, just me and the stove and instruments of nourishment. I understood, again, that difficult doesn’t always mean bad. Later I got to talk with a mentor and a friend who lives halfway across the country, who talked to me about grace and beauty. That whole day symbolically encompasses most of my life right now.
So what now? Now I keep working at the workplace and in a field where I belong, impostor syndrome be damned. Now I keep loving the people I love, kids and grown-ups. Now I plan and dream the rest of my life, and get on with it. I’m moving to a different hippie-geek-scholar household in May, and though I’ll miss this one, moving is the first major step to making my dreams take form. These dreams were here before Ethan, and they’re still here, and I have re-learned how to live every day.
So now you’ll have more context for later posts, should I get around to writing here more. (Oddly, Twitter has been a better medium for me, what with the 140-character constraint. Often there just isn’t time for any more than that.)
Today is the international Day of Digital Humanities, in which over a hundred of us (I think…) are blogging what we do on this particular date. It’s not going to cover everything I do evar, but it’s a decent cross-section. If you’re interested, take a look here.
Since intersession ended on January 5th, I have not had a single full school-night’s sleep. Catching up on the weekends is useful but still not healthy.
Thursday was one mad dash after another at work right up until about 6:30pm, and culminated in drinking wine at a reception in our library, chatting with coworkers, then cleaning up and getting a ride home, arriving around 7:45. And immediately turning around to drive the car I time-share to its home, take the bus back, and collapse.
Friday was one mad dash af… well, you know. Ran around almost non-stop 8-6 with a two-hour break for a dental appointment (three cheers for my dentist, again), came home and had a fantastic dinner with this gorgeous babe who is funny and fascinating and has good taste in movies. I showed her An Ordinary Miracle.
Now it’s almost 2am. Not setting an alarm. Still, I’d like to figure out how to live life as fully as I want, and still get anything approximating enough sleep most nights. I feel my immune system wearing down.
I am so, so glad that I live in an age when I can watch my soon-to-be president’s face as he walks through hallways of walls and people on his way to assume office.
I’ll be telling my children about this day. My goodness, the smiles on people’s faces.
I don’t care if he doesn’t live up to the hype. There’s no way for him to. He’s a person, a politician, a president I want to follow. It’s breathtaking.
