shnow

it has started to snow here ... it really takes me back.

I have a diary/sketchy-book thing. It is unbearably lame, festooned with things that were definitely not festoons, and includes plenty of lists, badly designed desks and clothes that no man or woman could ever possibly fit into as well as an occasional entry.

I made this diary/sketchy-book thing the first time I was in Montreal (2003?) and then did not use it again until I came back for the summer of 2006. It was weird reading the entries from the first time and realising that my fears, desires, goals (or lack thereof), etc. were pretty much the same. three years had passed and some of the new entries felt verbatim to the old entries.

I didn't feel the same, but when I wrote I apparently was the same. It was disconcerting but a little reassuring. I could be pretty sure that I was still me.

I am aware of it now and, like that dalmatian appearing in the splotches, I can't not be aware of it. It informs any personal writing I do - I always wonder if I am thinking the same and, being inherently contrary, it causes me to try and think differently. Or at least fake it 'till I make it.

The point: the writings were always about finding some purpose. I seem absolutely addicted to purpose, to moving forward, to tangible accomplishment. I hope one day I can not feel that way. can a goal of mine really be to become goal-less? is that allowed?

maybe goal-less is the wrong sentiment. maybe it is content where I am, rather than content in my ambition. endless streams of frailty make me question ambition. ambition may have failed us. but I so desperately want to go into space.