tatjna (tatjna) wrote,
tatjna
tatjna

Here, let me explain myself before you all hold a wake

I am not dead.

I was not in a meeting.

I am not currently being eaten by a bear.

And I most definitely will not be posting as resurrected zombie bear poop Tats next week.


Yeah yeah, I know. I normally post, like clockwork. I have a 10 year habit of posting pretty much daily, and unless

a) it's the weekend
b) I'm traveling
c) I'm in a meeting
d) I'm being eaten by a bear (either the physical or metaphorical variety)

then you can generally expect a post from me at about ten o'clock every morning, without fail.

Until I don't. And then I start getting these emails from people asking if I'm ok. Which is nice, in that it's kind of validating to know that people care about me enough to notice my absence, or be concerned with out of character behaviour. But it's also a reminder of just how bloody reliable I am - it's basically an expectation that I'll post daily, that I've constructed around myself, that feeds into those who read this also having a similar expectation.

I know I'm under no obligation to post every day. Nobody is forcing me to. Lots of people tell me they find me entertaining and would miss my blog if I stopped doing it. But I've never felt any external pressure whatsoever to post - just so you all know.

What I do feel is internal pressure. I have developed a daily habit and what with the OCD and all, it's now impossible for me not to write. But sometimes I don't have anything to say, and I'd rather say nothing than put up a post going "Nothing to see here, move right along, by the way I washed my hair."

Lately, LJ has been pretty quiet. It's outlived it's natural lifespan and the folks left here are the diehards and the fanfiction communities and the LJ Idol people and whatever crossover there is between those. People have resorted to friending frenzies in which folks hook up with random strangers and try them on for size, just to have something to read (and somebody to write to). The vast majority of my real-life friends (the ones I've actually met and interact with in meatspace on a regular basis) don't post any more, and most of my reading list is made up of (very interesting and lovely) people in other timezones. This means that the conversation in comments becomes stilted, because people are all offset from each other. That conversation in comments? That's the thing that I get out of blogging, that's my entertainment. I know I'm supposed to not care about comments, but I do, because that's where I connect with people.

And sometimes, even though I know it's a self-centred viewpoint and uncharitable and curmudgeonly (what Tats, you? Curmudgeonly? No!). *cough* Where was I? Oh yeah, being bloody curmudgeonly. Because sometimes, I really really wish all those people who find me entertaining and like what I do and miss me when I don't post, would reciprocate by posting stuff to entertain me, you know?

There, I said it. Yes, I do sometimes feel as if I'm carrying an entertainment-at-work can for a community.

The follow-on from this is that when I've got nothing to say I feel kind of guilty. I know this is not other people pressuring me, but I'm so damn good at coming up with things to write about that if I wake up and there's nothing, I feel that I haven't just let myself down, but you lot too. And if I have a week of making posts in which no real conversation starts to happen because people aren't commenting, or comments aren't meaty, or whatever, I start to feel separated from that community that I've built up in my head, and that makes me not want to make the effort. Usually I do make the effort, but this week I've pretty much drawn a blank.

No I am not trying to guilt trip you into posting/commenting. I'm just expressing myself honestly, and maybe even saying things that may sound a bit familiar to some of you.

So there's that.

Added to that is that it's the day before the solstice. I'm affected by the length of the daylight hours, and it's darksleepytime right now. For me, this means that reality is becoming increasingly uninteresting, and all I want to do is get it over with so I can escape it. Don't worry, it's not painful or depressing or bad. I'm just.. not interested right now. As such, I have nothing to say about reality (she says, after several hundred words of preamble) that I think other folks would find interesting, and the unreality I'm spending most of my time in is not something I'm willing to share.

I have been writing, just not here. What I have been writing may or may not end up being read by anyone other than myself. But I've churned out 700 to 2000 words a day for the last 10 days and they are still coming. I've been eating badly and staying up late and am considering taking a week off training. All of these things would normally point to a problem, and I feel as if I should stop and do a self-check, and I have. And there isn't a problem, that I can see. I'm just not interested - which makes me not interesting, basically. So I don't blog.


And yet here I am, blogging. Because that thing they say about writing is true. If you sit down and put words on screen, eventually there will be more words and some of them might even make sense. And if you make it a habit, then you do it naturally. Ta da!

And just so this isn't all introspective meanderings, I think Lower Cuba is becoming gentrified. Our downstairs kebab shop just got replaced with one of those fancy cafes that charge $9 for a glass of wine. Because Wellington doesn't have enough of those yet, right? The little specialty shops are slowly disappearing and being replaced by ones that cater to the upper middle class. And yet, since our building got listed as earthquake-prone, there's been an influx of students leaving cigarette butts in my plant pots and I find myself hoping that the strengthening work will get done soon so the rents go up and we get people who actually give a shit again.

So it seems that I'm caught between being a snob about students all up in my apartment building and having a chip on my shoulder about posh cafes moving into my neighbourhood and pushing out the crappy kebab shops.

Who said I had to be consistent?
Tags: curmudgeonly tats is curmudgeonly, ocd and its fun manifestations, reality is overrated
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