intuitive ink

One of my online friends once asked me why I have so many blogs and journals all over the Internet. Thinking about it, I realized I like to keep strict separation controls on my writing, building a barrier of contextualization with which I can do free-writing and association for certain types of writing: some serious, some for fun, some experimental, some that I might as well, or have been, gushing blood or sweat or tears or potentially broken bones during composition. Anyway. Aside from my online journals, I have (rather had) a notebook journal that was gifted to me via a "Secret Santa" thing that from an online writing forum I frequented some time around Y2K, when started using a particular online pseudonym for writing and coding. This notebook/journal has been stolen . I think about it sometimes, like . . maybe somebody has read it, all my secret private thoughts and such -- makes me very uncomfortable. This digital gypsy has a new muse these days; the depth of space betwe...

I'm in mourning. Deep, deep mourning and sadness and I cannot even begin to describe the sense of loss and emptiness I feel. I'm in rage. Various profanities have poised themselves on my lips and I must fight them because they want to lash out and curse the bastards who smashed out the window in my car and made off with the most precious collection of belongings I've ever owned. Ah, but they're just belongings. Perhaps to some people, a box or a few boxes of books might be "just belongings," but not to me. My book collection is indeed the most precious thing I've ever owned, and it's gone. Stolen. Violently ripped from my vehicle and probably lying in a dumpster somewhere. I know my books are not what the thieves were after because several books were left, carelessly tossed aside and in disarray lying among the not-sharp shards of busted-out car window glass. And it's all my fault for being such an idiot. It's going to take me a very long time ...