I kluged my computer back to functioning semi-normally. The solution seemed to be uninstalling a whole bunch of shit like anti-virus and malware protection, deleting massive amounts of crap on my hard drive and honest-to-god, opening up my laptop with a screwdriver and pushing on chipset and wire connections to see if any were loose or faulty. No, I had not a clue as to what I was doing, and from past experiences, it usually leads to a very expensive paperweight. Go figure.

I see to be entering into a mood upswing. Why? Insomnia has returned. Freaking hate it. Some nights only three hours of sleep, the rest of it mostly anxious tossing and turning or furtive tasks to fill time. I do get a lot of reading done, though. Mostly fiction. Can’t bring myself to read non-fiction much anymore. I’m sick of the world of ideas. I desire only sensation and enchantment.

This intellectual fatigue. How can I explain it? It’s like all the philosophy in the world pales in  comparison to a dance, or to a cormorant on the Ujigawa. How can you keep them in the classrooms when they’ve learned what sunburn and thirst are?

Let me put it this way: Words by themselves are ways of conveying information; one’s thoughts, experiences, or imagination. In every way, it is a secondhand thing. If I describe to you my time riding bike during the winter along the backroads of Japan, you’re not really getting my experience, you’re reconstructing it from my words. Your experiences of winter, bike riding and Japan (and lacking that, some mental image you have of any or all of the three).

Of course I’m not explaining anything novel or original here, but when you get down the meat of it, when your own words constantly ring hollow to yourself, lacking that essential kernel of what you’re trying to express, do you fault yourself for maintaining silence? It’s no mistake that the more I’ve lived, the less I care for sharing what I believe, what I’ve done, or what have you. The silence speaks better for it.

Concomitant with that is the ever growing lack of care for what others think of what I think. Despite my visible eccentricities and personal iconoclasm, I’ve never much cared for the attention of others. What I do is for my own bemusement and stimulation. When something is no longer interesting for me, I cease to do it.  Sure, I might dabble every once and while, but nothing serious. Here’s a secret those who know me in person might be shocked to find out.

I’m almost paralyzed by stage fright, I have been since I was a kid. How does that jibe with the shameless ham? Easy. Not once have I considered what your reaction was. Oh sure, I wasn’t going to riff on your weak spots, but that’s just not being a dick.

Long story short:

If I’m not feeling it and I don’t care whether or not you’re feeling it, then why constantly recite that eventually I’m going to start saying something real-soon-now?

The answer is this: Filthy Lucre. I’ve gotten it by my writing before, and I’m pretty sure if I kept my chops up, I could do it again. Sure, it’s a freaking pittance in the grand scale of things, but I’m sure I’ve gotten more dough from my occasional publishings than 99% of all people who’ve ever blogged. Hell, and it’s not like I don’t enjoy writing… it’s always like I feel I just have something better to do than to fart around with words.

Oh yeah, and figuring out how to work tango lessons into my schedule, which would actually not be so hard if I didn’t live and work on the other goddamn side of the island (far enough that getting to the city is a pain in the ass, not far enough that I get the benefits of living in the countryside).

I was going to spend it on a blog subscription (to you-know-who of all people), but dance lessons seem like a better investment for a variety of reasons.