This week, I've noticed myself making what seems to be an unusually (and certainly unpleasantly) high number of mistakes. By “mistakes” I mean automatic behavior patterns that, had I considered carefully whether they were what I wanted to be doing at the time and applied the willpower to do what I did really want to be doing, it wouldn't have been that. I've been forgetful and clumsy, have had sleep problems (since disposing of the broken futon frame, I've left the mattress on the floor, and this week several times I've found myself waking at random times of night on the mattress, not having brushed my teeth or changed into pajamas) and haven't felt truly awake at all, and have gotten stuck in loops while putting off for days things I really should have gotten done much sooner. I'm not sure what is wrong, and I can only hope that it will improve. I do have a pretty good idea that the basic problem is a lack of moment-to-moment mindfulness and persistence at putting the ideas presented by that mindfulness into practice, but with my current lack of energy it seems to be tough to put a fix for that into practice.
I wonder if I'm lonely. I don't feel upset, but maybe the variety of upset that I used to call “lonely” would actually have been better described some other way, since other people rarely seemed to fix it. I think I've now determined that the problem I so frequently cast as a lack of understanding from other people is due much less to a lack of knowledge or intelligence on their part, and more to not investing the energy and attention into a dedicated, quasi-obsessive attempt to understand me.
I think adults are, on average, less obsessive than children, and I don't think I like that.
I've been listening to Built to Last on audio CD. It should be my variant of self-help, inspiring me to improve my own life, but instead I've been treating it more like porn—tantalizing to look at, but of no real consequence outside of the time one is watching it.
I've also been rather obsessed with Primer, though I honestly hope that will blow itself over now that I'm pretty sure I've understood everything there is to understand about it.
I've been deathly afraid of writing. I've thought of it as an enormous time sink. I should have written about two weekends ago, which I spent with Ratha. We went out to a vegetarian restaurant with her parents, and we went to a sculpture garden, and we saw her niece and nephew's kittens, and we were at the cookout and celebrated her mother's birthday (Ratha and I set up the iPod that was her gift) and she and I and her brother Tom played Cosmic Encounter before I had to leave. It was kind of a unique visit in that it didn't fall into either of the two molds that seem to have been common for our visits: mutual infatuation or whininess culminating in some sort of attempt to make things okay. It seemed like things actually were okay, mostly.
My sister is coming out to visit this weekend. Among whatever else we do, we're planning to go to the SPCA, where I may or may not get a cat.
I find myself getting stuck in negativity, so I suppose I will post this journal entry and try to move beyond it.