11th Thought

Hello --

I don't have much to say, but I wanted to stick my head in here and say hello, hello to the Neocities editor, hello to the dark screen, hello to the night leaking through my blinds. It's 2 in the morning and I don't want to go to bed. I hate that I get tired; I hate having to sleep; the only times I enjoy sleeping is when I haven't enjoyed the day -- not quite, no, that doesn't fit, because I didn't enjoy today. The only times I enjoy sleeping are when I actively disliked the day, because then sleep is a relief. But that doesn't fit either, because I actively disliked the day today; the day has to wear on me, grate me down, not just be subpar or suboptimal. That's what I'm referring to. That's what I mean.

Last night I sent an email to a poet and economist I admire; I won't name her here, on the off chance she comes across this blog/diary/journal by namesearching herself, which is what I wouldn't be able to resist doing if I was in her position. I was honest; I told her that I enjoyed her poetry, that I was glad there was someone else who took the machine/AI seriously who also wrote seriously, which is a rare combination in the current poetry-world climate, and that I tried to read her economics papers with Claude's help, but that I wouldn't pretend to understand much. I don't think she'll write back. Why would she? I told her I wasn't expecting a reply, but if I'm being honest with myself, a reply would make me smile -- not so much a full smile as a slight upturn at one corner of my mouth when I'm staring at my computer late at night. (Another writer I admire, someone else who I won't name, she mostly writes short stories, did write me back -- I said much the same thing, that she's aiming at a target few others can see, that I respected anyone who aimed at that target rather than trying to hit the ones everyone else tries to hit. She was kind and appreciative and gave me reading recommendations but I already knew them; Lutz, Markson, Diane Williams; I didn't write back, there was no need to reply to a reply. Privately, I think Lutz is an astonishing sentence-level acrobat but I've never read a Lutz story that reordered how I think about the world, even if and though I adore and envy her sentences.) I guess it doesn't help that I wrote to both of them as a peer seeing another peer; why would they see me that way, with my protonmail address that's a combination The Onion/Spinoza joke, with nothing published, starting each email with 'we haven't met and we don't know each other'? Why would they take me seriously? I wouldn't take me seriously in their position. I'm probably one of a dozen emails they get a week. (Always tricky to work out how much deference to show without losing respect for yourself. I won't grovel.) A third, the poet from DIAGRAM, shared pages of his collage-poetry-in-process, which I loved. I should've written him back. But that was months ago now. Best to leave some things, I think. Would be strange to reach out again.

Before the email last night, I took my partner out for fast food at a very late night fast food place. We splurged; I dropped like 30 odd bucks on fries and a few specific things this chain sells that I won't name because it gives too much information about where I am. Enough meatless items to eat vegetarian. My partner's influenced me on this; being raised Hindu they've never tasted meat, but it's taken me several years to gradually and begrudgingly come around to the idea that eating meat is probably indefensible. (Yeah, yeah, I know the Spinoza on this, I disagree. Chalk it up to temperment and guilt if you like.) Cannot stand seeing them hobble to the car, ease themselves into the seat, wince themselves out of it when we got back to the apartment. We ate our food while watching Battlebots on TV. Neither of us really know anything about mechanical engineering, we're in it for the bot fights. They keep track of the teams and the rivalries; I can never remember who was fighting with what bot before they switched to what other bot, although I love Ray Billings and Tombstone, especially their t-shirt design, a curved white script over the left breast that says "HARDCORE ROBOTICS," and the back is the hooded Grim Reaper, which is so delightfully Boomer in spirit, made even better by the fact that they've earned it. My partner follows the rivalries and the grudges and the interpersonal drama; I can never remember it; chalk that up to the bulk of my Battlebots-viewing happening while high (no, I don't smoke anymore, makes me think about everything I've ever done wrong now) and not to my natively poor memory and we'll be happy. One day I want to take them to a bot fighting tournament. Maybe not Battlebots, that's out in Vegas, but if there was another, smaller league that was near us, it'd be worth the drive. We'd make a weekend out of it if they were feeling up to it. I hope they would be. They seem to be getting worse. We go days without talking more than a few sentences to each other and every movement they make their face tightens. I really, really hope this specialist they're seeing in October works out. Spinoza tells me I shouldn't hope, but I can't help but hold onto the superstitition of it, the childish idea that if I hope enough, in the right orientation, in the right direction, it has some causal effect on the future. Maybe I'll just feel guilty if I don't hope and it doesn't work, which Spinoza would also shake his head at. But he would disapprove of so much with me. As would he with us all. Except, maybe, some poets, and George Eliot.