The Burden of Meaning or Notes On How Isolationism Can Breed Perversion

I've begun the arduous task of re-building this site. The past two evenings I've slept six hours, total. It's a process that is going to take some time, as I'm having to learn technical things that I've spent the past six years ignoring. It's not fun, all-in-all, combing through code and trying to figure out weird bugs and what's compatible with what, although that random moment where you discover a solution is rather electric, if only because it often happens at 3:00 am when the world is a weird humming sound from your hard drive. It's a whole new way of thinking, though, and I often catch myself in deep bouts of misanthropic fear, where I'm whispering to myself, that fuckin' cunt, over and over. Sometimes I worry that my house-mates hear me. Then I forget about it.

I'm reading Complicity during breaks in my schedule, and I just bought Taschen's The Polaroid Book (for $9.68. I know, huh!), a murky yet beautiful collection of, yup, Polaroids, and these seem to have a calming effect on my nerves. Perhaps I'm just being naive.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, forgive me. I'll eventually check my voice-mails from last weekend and answer the emails that I've conveniently ignored all week. There's just so many hours in the day, and I'm not interested in amphetamines, so two triple Lattes, five tablets of Walbourne, and concentrated doses of absurd drama are all I have at my disposal.

But trust me, I have plans.