The old stomach cramper

Well. My plan for socialization is continuing apace, to the detriment of my nerves. I've tried taking some valerian; maybe i'll get rhodiola tomorrow. Every day... perhaps it will coalesce into a habit, I won't be able to go on w/out talking to people. My inadequacies pain me. That which is so easily accomplished by others, simple idle chatter, entails for me an effort of will so great. And in preparation for this effort of will, which may it must not be forgot be called upon at anytime, I must be a coiled spring, belly-sick and unfocused. Life is damnably hard. Family suffers. Health worries always. Sleeeping well. Chance for intellectual giantry. And maybe my efforts will one day be rewarded. The existentialists say that the genius of proust is in his novels; my personality is in my interactions. But no - in fact so no i'm probably misunderstanding them - my personality is in my stomach.
Making my bed there, it occurred to me to say that its time like these that one can be glad life is finite. But does this make any sense, i.e. can I feel the finiteness of my life, that it will one day end. Quaere.

it's a new dawn, it's a new day

Well, with the roar of traffic but thankfully not people without I write, in my new place. Good roommates and a tiring day; a room better than imagined. A bit overstimulated to sleep just yet i think. Nothing really more to report; an unnoteworthy day inspite of its noteworthiness. This is really only posted coz I said i'd post. Perhaps it's unnoteworthyness is infact noteworthy; perhaps i'm tireder than i had imagined.

last night

Well, it bes the final day of my summer holiday, and for posterity's sake i thought it were appropriate to blog about it. It has been a good summer, that is, intellectually satisfying. I hope moreover that some seeds of change have been sprinkled, some spermata zoein ( wrong infinitive?). To be more social, is the easy to type but hard to enact rallying cry of the next few months. Firstly among the new things to be considered is roommates, which is vital to one's general comfort in foreign lands. Secondly tho probably should be firstly is the wellbeing of family.
I'm not really getting anywhere describing the inner world. Let's try to outer: it is very dark for 8pm. My hands are somewhat shaking perhaps owing to over smoking, over sugaring and undereating. My newly tidied room is very light. The big slightly open window brings a few sounds of cars in a windless night.
There exists, one hundred odd miles away, my appointed room. It is on a busy street, hopefully sheltered from traffic sounds. There also exists my roommates to be. There exists the library, where I will go everyday, and the little section of seats where I tend to sit. It will be open, filled with a few conscientious ones.
Perhaps i'll post tomorrow, fill in the details; satisfy the anti-realists among my gargantuan readership, who won't be happy with these bald there exists.

O taraxic life

Ahhh life is complex, as is my stomach, tightly knot in anxiety. I am between two habits - the comfy summer habit soon to be as gone as summer evenings, and the new, back to uni habit, which means people: to be surrounded w people, to live among people, and hopefully to try and be one. Of course i'm calling it a habit; but it'll only be a habit once i've started. But amongst the ideal entities of this world, a habit is laid out for me. And it's my ignorance of how it will turn out to be that causes my anxiety, or at least one half thereof. The other is altogether more intractable, dealing with a family member in a similarly shaped bind. To bear one's own anxieties is tolerable; to be aware of another's is not so easy.
In Beckett's book on Proust he relates Marcel's habit-woe as he struggles to acclimatize himself to a new room. He is away from home; everything is unfamiliar; he sees the world thru different, undeadened by habit eyes. And what is the world he sees? Suffering; unconceptualized life, actually seeing things is to suffer ( he owes plenty to Schopenhauer does Beckett here; and he mocked this book is later life, but he did call his trilogy "godawful" or something like that, so he may not be the best self-critic.). Or at least so say Proust, Beckett and me. It is of course highly concievable that we're each of us judging life from neurotical dispositions (from body parts? My stomach is the centre of my reactions to the world, Beckett had a dodgy ticker, what about Proust?). Or again, perhaps it's an aspergian thing ( Unstoppable brilliance, a book by michael Fitzgerald( i think, can't be arsed checking) conjectures that old SB was an aspie). Don't know abour Proust tho.
Because the vast majority of peeps, I imagine, don't undergo such torments when changing, such wrenching anxiety.
Meeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

As was perhaps sadly predictable, my blogging activity has fallen away. However, things have been at least periodically vaguely interesting. Well, that's a damned exaggeration, but anyway. Last week I was forced to go to a party; not a young person party admittedly, but strangers standing talking in a room at least, and all the rest of the rancid monkey jism entailed by any instantiation of partyhood. And it was... exhausting, but not as depressing as it could have been. I rediscovered that I have a slight capacity for forced civility. If I could harness more effectively this rather puny power then indeed to be reckoned with in society a force I could be. Specifically I can think of requisite shitty jokes and requisite shitty small talk, and give a relatively convincing impression of a zoon politikon. The problem is, like a man wearing a drawn on beard for disguise under hot interrogation lights, it soon wears off. When this happened during the party, it being located in a place and staged by a host known to me I could slope off to a bedroom and lie down. However, should I desire to harness my meagre skills elsewhere, I would need to arrange it in timed slices, so that the disguise would hold out.
Secondly of all, this very day, nay nary a 1hr a go, I entertained en famille some strangers. Amongst them was an infant. I quite like children; they're less boring and bored than adults, they're more interested in thgins. Also the human adult male among them was a nice and funny guy, and I think I socialized relatively well.
Now I desire some form of sociality. This we can take as given. And so, perhaps, little by little I am heading towards a less avoidant ( tho in fairness both incidents above were nigh on impossible to shirk) Seinsmodalitaet. Of course, it were surely cloying to end on such a positive note, a problem which this sentence has disposed of.