So many things to write, so little time and recollection of all of the profound/deep/emotional/thoughts of the past week. Aren't I just the center of everything?
I read somewhere on the vast internets that sometimes, in life, it's not about who you are. I assume that the second half of this phrase could logically be "but what you do." Writing it, it looks a little Go US Army, but I think the first part at least is a good one to keep on the mind I think. Unless the person who you are is a happy, productive, engaged, curious, with-conviction, lover-of-life and society, well, sometimes you have to plug on through. Though even this seems a bit Minnesota-conviction-nice-stuff. Blech.
Another thing that has been happening lately is my realization that, horror of horrors, the restaurant isn't bringing in as many people as it did over the summer. This more than likely has a little something to do with no more outdoor seating (it's 36 degrees here today!) and a little with the financial "crisis." Either way, I approached the owner with a proposal to dink around on the internet (i.e. promoting the place) when there are no customers there (which has happened for a couple of hours a few times in the past week.) Currently there's no ads out for the place, which is fine and all (I prefer a no-marketing, word-of-mouth type approach to promotion myself) but certain indominatable factors like the location of the place can't be overlooked any longer, especially with this dearth of customers and moo-lah. Now nobody out there go getting worried - I am all wrapped up and safe in a security blanket of a healthy personal checking account and another little stash from when I worked here, but you know - it's always good to stockpile, so when I get the courage up to make those big jumps that life invariably includes, I can do so without being held back by not having enough capital. Monies, monies, monies - not the most interesting topic.
In addition to more work less pay-off, I've been reading a shit-ton of Virginia Woolf and also a shit-ton about writing, books by emerging writers, shit like that. I will say that once in a while I snap out of it and realize that, for now, reading about things is a thinly-veiled substitute for actually doing thing, because, well, nobody's going to write something that's thought-provoking or even emotionally-charged by not adventuring themselves. I keep in mind that since writing is what i'm pursuing, well, I fucking have to do it then. Write write write write write. Blech.
I don't know if I can verbally throw-up anymore. My stomach has purged itself of words. And last night's ill falafel is a distant memory. I'm going to go downtown and right the situation. Thanks for reading (if I've kept you through this far.)