That last post is a prime example of the reason I'm trying not to force myself to post anymore. It's useless to do it that way. It comes out so badly.

Zack and I, on our way home from Massachussetts this weekend, stopped in Best Buy. I heard Best Buy Radio say the name of one of Casey's favorite artists-- he had never heard pronounced by anyone with any real authority on how to say it, so I called him to tell him. Ler-che.

While we were there, we bought a CD buy someone neither of us had ever heard of so we could listen to it fairly-- rather than something one of us liked and the other did it. The album we ended up with is "O" by Damien Rice. I judged it by it's cover, knowing instantly when I saw it what kind of music it would be. Slow and lyrical and kind of Indie. Accoustic. It was obvious. I felt bad because it's not really what Zack's into, but when I tried to explain to him that he wouldn't like the kind of music I knew it was, he said something about not judging a CD by it's cover.

It occured to me then that that phrase really isn't as meaningful as it once was- don't judge a book by it's cover. Oh, it made sense in the say-- you've seen older book covers, they're very rarely revealing at all. But nowadays, while I'm sure it still applies that you shouldn't really judge anything by it's outside...you really can glean certain things by a book's cover. Some of them, anyway.

The rest of the weekend was all more pleasant than that day, and all probably more deserving of mention. But, as I've just told Emily, I'm trying to work on obeying my creative impulses more. I've just now written poetry-- a quick little thing with no painstaking concentration, just the flight of urges and words, and it came out exactly how I might have wanted it to, had I known that that's exactly what I wanted.

The urge was fueled by the music, my CD player. Damien Rice turns out to be inspiring, the way Ani is. Not all that much like Ani...slower, for the most part, but inspiring as well. Fueling, if you will. I should really make it a point to listen to this kind of stuff more often. I'd have so much more to write.

When Zack left for work, and even before that, I was bored bored bored bored. Stayed like that for a while, determining that there's little to nothing I hate more than bored-bored-bored-boredom. Then I got off the damn computer, away from the bor-bor-bor-boring conversations that always rope me in when I'm like that, and changed out of my work clothes. That, in itself, seemed to do a world of good. Went to Movieland. Rent whatever I had an urge to rent-- Days of Wine and Roses, which I've seen, and Angels with Dirty Faces, which I haven't, but I vaguely remember seeing one of the characters mentioned on this Heroes and Villains documentary my mom was watching a while ago. I think, unless I've mixed it up with something else, that it appealed to me. I don't know that I'll have time to watch these movies in the near future, but it was the walking down to get them that was really important.

There's these two maple trees in a yard on main street that are very tall. I love the time of day when the sun's just starting to set, or maybe mid-set, I don' tknow, but the sun is touching the tops of things but not the bottoms. And it set so perfectly on these trees today...I was underneath them, and their branches and leaves were cascading into each other, and the sun was cascading into them. I stopped and looked up. I was thinking of how I must have looked to the passing cars, and thinking whether or not I would write about those trees on this. I figured I wouldn't, but since I was writing anyway, it seemed worth a mention.

I wonder if I'm still interesting anybody.

Mr. Ladd called today to check up on me. I was worried that he'd be insulted, somewhat-- once I started work, I just sort of phased him out of my life, with no intentions of it being permanent, but having no real drive to call him right away. It turned out that he took my not showing up for a while as an indication that my life is going well, and he seemed so happy about it. I didn't correct him. No real reason to-- life, in some aspects, is going swimmingly. In many, it's falling apart at the seams. But I don't, as of right now, see how my interaction with him can continue to help me with it until I've given it some thought on my own for a while. To be honest-- and I open with that warning because I believe he still reads-- I've been considering another therapist. Not because he doesn't help me, as everyone seems to know he does me a world of good, but...well, a feeling I have no real definition of. Firstly, I think I love him to the point where he can't have the effect on my he really should in what's coming up. He's the one who's gotten me this far in my current issue-- dangerously, defeaningly, horribly low self-esteem. (Except to call it that seems to take away from the hollow of it all.) But, having had him to help me realize it...for some reason I think I want to talk to a woman about it. I guess I really don't know why. But it's him. I don't have to worry too much about his feelings...he's always telling me not to, and, anyway, I've done far worse.

So I've decided that all of you should go out of your way to ask me about the poem I wrote today-- "Ascension", it's called. I don't feel like pushing it on anyone individually, knowing how little time I put into it, and something else; embarrassment, I suppose. But I do want people to read it. So ask me. Go on.

Go on and on and on with it.