The migrations of glynnis
Posted Sunday, April 06, 2003 @ 10:54 AM
Early in the morning when no one is online save a few sleepy people, I can remember my original fascination with the internet. Mostly I remember vintage road, or the hours I'd spend at the bookstore on schoolnights, thinking about people or thumbing through books, searching for quiet inspiration. I can remember sitting on the pavement of my old middle school at three o'clock eating goodies from the icecream truck and waiting for my mom. I remember carpooling with schoolmates that lived neighborhoods away, and walking home through woods and backyards with a weightless backpack, anxious to get home to design and to write.
I remember when the internet was a medium, rather than media. Now, it seems pretty lifeless, and is more a habit than anything. It merely contains ghosts of people, including myself, though it's amusing to go through and read them.
I keep promising myself that I will revive it. Rocket, at least. And who knows. Maybe that will happen this summer.
It's never really that I'm busy, but that I have been expressing myself through letters, books, knitting, crafting, and when I come home from a long day of grueling over writing exercises or short stories, it seems strange to come home and try to craft something similar to place here for you to read.
It's like so much happens now in just a few days to where it takes a truly extraordinary experience to focus on, rather than trying to explain thousands of significant details through novels and novels of history and text.
It's like everything is so central to the way I am feeling and changing, to where I can't possibly explain it. Instead I find particular experiences to write of as if they were fiction--experiences that perhaps reveal something about me, but what I don't know. Instead of coming home to share something, I am dangling on the strings of habit, trying to hold on to something that used to mean everything to me, hoping that one day it will spark and explode into something new or something the same.
But for now I am lost between pages of fiction and scratchy letter writing. Perhaps I am knitted into scarves or pressed beneath a four-square ball on ASFA's courtyard pavement. I am somewhere in mix tapes from year's ago, in The Cure or The Smiths--music I thought I'd never grow to like. I am wandering through tents of the cirque du soleil, looking at shirts and programs and wondering about the lives of the performers.
I am still here, but in different places.
Welcome to the past, bucko. You're swimming through the archive of rocket-fish.org. If this isn't where you were headed, I suggest you get out of here while there's still time.
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I'd miss you if you were gone. since this is the place I can connect with you.
07 Apr 2003, 8:42 PM.
Once, I totally saw this cat. And, well, to make a long story short, The End.
25 Apr 2003, 8:30 PM.