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So. There's this 25 Random Thing meme going around out there. I've been tagged a couple of times.
Yeah.
Truthfully, I'm not that big of a meme fan. It's interesting, but this particular meme is actually triggering me. Which is a word I hate, because I'm feeling it's overused lately. Trigger. Triggering. Whatever. It's put me in a weird headspace.
I don't know how to answer or give 25 random facts about myself. It's not how I think. It's not how I live. Everything is constantly going into the Story Machine in the back of my brain to be poked at by the Muse Chorus with their pointy No. 2 pencils. Random? Facts? It's all random. It's all back there. Just 25? Are you insane?
I don't even know where I would start if I tried.
Which facts from which life story do I use? Or not use? The Physicist's Daughter? The Writer? The Painter? The Photographer? The Life I Can't Talk About? Some things are so private to me that I have a hard time even telling them to *myself*. Others, well, I just don't think they're all that particularly interesting or entertaining. If they're not, well, bugger it all.
And then there's the fact that I don't think I'm a good judge of what to share anyway in that arena.
Can you tell I'm a Libra and can argue all sides of this sucker?
I'm better off with the, ask me a question, form of meme. I might or might not answer. But I'd know where to start.
This is all percolating in my brain simultaneously with the move, with what I want to do with my art, proto novels trying to eat my brain when I need to finish the one I'm on, and just in general having more thoughts than bandwidth to handle them all. I try to meditate lately, but the noise is so loud, I end up not. I just circle. Hamster. Big squeaky wheel of noise.
I don't like it. But it's where I'm at. My skin doesn't fit right today. I feel alternately too big or too small. My fingers don't seem to start where my body ends.
The only cure for a day like this is to make art. Something. Painting is usually the best, but my paints and canvas are buried. I need a huge expanse of sky over my head and not beige cubicle walls closing me in.
Which is all a long way of saying: I don't have 25 Random Things for you. I've got this weird little multiple personality life. If you have a question, well, it may not be an answer, but I'd love to tell you a story.
Once upon a time...
Yeah.
Truthfully, I'm not that big of a meme fan. It's interesting, but this particular meme is actually triggering me. Which is a word I hate, because I'm feeling it's overused lately. Trigger. Triggering. Whatever. It's put me in a weird headspace.
I don't know how to answer or give 25 random facts about myself. It's not how I think. It's not how I live. Everything is constantly going into the Story Machine in the back of my brain to be poked at by the Muse Chorus with their pointy No. 2 pencils. Random? Facts? It's all random. It's all back there. Just 25? Are you insane?
I don't even know where I would start if I tried.
Which facts from which life story do I use? Or not use? The Physicist's Daughter? The Writer? The Painter? The Photographer? The Life I Can't Talk About? Some things are so private to me that I have a hard time even telling them to *myself*. Others, well, I just don't think they're all that particularly interesting or entertaining. If they're not, well, bugger it all.
And then there's the fact that I don't think I'm a good judge of what to share anyway in that arena.
Can you tell I'm a Libra and can argue all sides of this sucker?
I'm better off with the, ask me a question, form of meme. I might or might not answer. But I'd know where to start.
This is all percolating in my brain simultaneously with the move, with what I want to do with my art, proto novels trying to eat my brain when I need to finish the one I'm on, and just in general having more thoughts than bandwidth to handle them all. I try to meditate lately, but the noise is so loud, I end up not. I just circle. Hamster. Big squeaky wheel of noise.
I don't like it. But it's where I'm at. My skin doesn't fit right today. I feel alternately too big or too small. My fingers don't seem to start where my body ends.
The only cure for a day like this is to make art. Something. Painting is usually the best, but my paints and canvas are buried. I need a huge expanse of sky over my head and not beige cubicle walls closing me in.
Which is all a long way of saying: I don't have 25 Random Things for you. I've got this weird little multiple personality life. If you have a question, well, it may not be an answer, but I'd love to tell you a story.
Once upon a time...
