Crosspost from another place.... in These titles mean nothing.

Sometimes I go back here in 750 words and can’t find what I’ve written.

~

It’s somewhat alarming to find you’ve lost what you’ve written. This electronic, cloudly internet storage of words and ideas and self is fraught with limits and pitfalls and stuff like that. I like it. Of course I like it. I devote time and energy to it. I look back to see what I’ve written before and while of course I have known the vast disappointment of OD’‘s failure to exist, I do not expect perfection. OD was my first love and it is gone. It is as gone as Bobby. And it’s gone in much the same way. Funny I wanted two things from the internet - a place to write and someone to talk to. I can find those things. I can enjoy them satisfactorily but I can’t keep them forever. Of course forever is another fraught concept. It does not exist. I need to be more ZEN. I need to believe in NOW.

170

I noticed missing words here before. I had a little exchange with the wife of the man who runs the place, more accurately the woman of the team who run the place. She said she’d never heard of it before and wondered if I was saving my entries. Well you don’t really have to save entries. The program does that for you. And does it 99% of the time. It’s the 1% I was trying to call her attention too. Weirdly enough, I still get credit for word count on the blank days. It says I’ve written so many hundred of words but they just aren’t there. I will try to make sure I exit correctly, following her advice, but I don’t believe that’s the problem. My content is a high percentage - not 99% though - of tripe - but I still would rather not lose it.

319

Part of my house cleaning in preparation for the Canadian visitor involved relocating and sorting through my vast collection of notebooks. I have two shelves of the new book cases full of the 70 page narrow ruled spiral notebooks I favored for life preservation before the internet. I have another section in the library bookcase with some miscellaneous notebooks I didn’t want to throw out. I like that format of diary/scrapbook life but I am reconciled to believing I have about enough of it. If I had kept doing it I would have way too much to even think about, let alone leave to the next generations. That is a joke. I do not have any plans for leaving it to anyone.

442

After Loretta died I heard that she had notebooks full of newspaper clippings that she had saved. I think Margaret had them. I wonder if they are still in the house. I remember asking if I could have one just for curiosity and history documentation but I was not given any. I have a vague impression I saw one once. I seem to remember a lot of bad Farm Bureau Spokesman recipes and Heloise clippings. I tend to think my collect is better than that. Well, I know it is. But I flatter myself to think it has value to anyone. Even to myself. But still I am glad it’s there. I like to look at it in the bookcase. I like to take one down from time to time and see what’s there.

577

I do that here of course too. I sometimes see what I wrote a year ago and two years ago. I will have been writing here two years January 1. Like my paper journals, what I have written here sometimes surprises me. There are details that bring back memories, even in the short term. I often find the almanac quality to be interesting. Last year on this day we did what we did yesterday or tomorrow. Life spins on its axis. Forever. It won’t last forever. Well that’s the point of everything isn’t it? Nothing lasts forever. And all we have is now. That is my philosophy. It has been anyway.

689

Right now I’m thinking of cross posting this entry in Prosebox. I haven’t don that in a long time. I haven’t been writing here in a long time and when I do I rarely have enough cohesion to pick anything up and move it. I rarely have enough time. Today I doubt I have enough time. As of RIGHT NOW which is 4:14 am I have my lunch packed, my coffee poured and I am dressed except for shoes. This summer I’ve been wearing flip flops to the car and changing into work shoes in the parking lot when I get to work.

793

Last night I tried to upload a meaningless photo of a flower painted on a glass door pane in dowtown LaCrosse to decorate a Prosebox entry and failed so I went to bed.

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Tomorrow’s first sentence.

Walking the streets....