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10:01 a.m. - July 19, 2004
Long in the making, short on the substance
I purchased the laptop yesterday morning, and now it sits on my desk, off. A new toy that will be severely underutilized except when I travel. Underused unless I heed the pull towards setting up shop in a cafe, at the park, on the waterfront. Anywhere other than my desk inside this house that seems more prison-like than ever.

I'll bring it with me when I'm at CIL on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, if the contract is approved. I asked Nina for travel time instead of mileage and I'm hoping the proviso is satisfactory. I need to acknowledge a small desire for the contract not to be approved. Working with that client in such a high-stakes environment twice a week for a year is daunting, though the challenge appeals as does the contract itself. I envision plenty of down-time during which I can get some writing done. The hourly rate is excellent, though again I'm uncertain it will balance out the detractors: Client, location, type of assignment.

Let's face it: The rate is why I'm going for it.


I'm glad I bought the notebook.


Must write today. Barbara-the-Editor is demanding materials I haven't completed yet, I need to do more permissions letters, I need to get off my ass.


You know, fuck that. I'll do as I please. I'll write when I feel like writing, not because I'm obligated to.


A lot of people have asked for a password and I don't know what to tell them. I think at some point the need (desire) for validation infected Non-Descript, some want not to have people comment for the sake of commenting, but a desire to feel close to people, vulnerable. And yet I didn't disclose, didn't write about the things troubling me, as if I were afraid of people commenting. I worried that people would think me foolish for talking too much about the molestation even though it's burning to get out, or about Ken and how I still think of him and want to dissect the interstitial comingling of his effects on me in light of / despite / because of the molestation's effects, comparing everything to myself as a whole person with a lot of baggage. Since Brad mentioned the likely connection between the molestation and Ken, I haven't stopped thinking about it, analyzing patterns and responses. Writing about it sends me in circles and I didn't want people to see the devolution of my writing.

No, that's not quite it. I hold back in my writing, worry that if I share something personal nobody will reassure me that it was okay, that it was received and listened to. Self-imposed silence is better than the gratuitous.

Or something.


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