Eternity

11:44PM—and oh, by Goodness, did I think I was done!—the last one the most profound of all, and in it, did I say it all, and more, and for the first time, in my writing, did I touch my heart!

Yes, I lay in bed that night, and I felt it all, and I cried, and I thought—like a woman who knows not her own beauty, who sees it and recognizes it, perhaps I should lose my touch as a writer, who recognized for the first time the value of his craft.

The first time in months!—but it matters not, and the last day and change has gone by in a blur, and if I did anything, I remember it not, except that one or two days, my mind of literature went blank, except that occasionally, I saw words printed upon the fabric of my mind, black serif, nearly pitch-black but not quite so, maybe #080808, upon nearly white, #EDEDED, with guiding ruling lines, and in this mode, did I write and rewrite and edit.

For, I am not perfect!—and I have to write in my head until it feels right, or discard it all, entirely, and I went to work, and I continue to work, and I read one pull-request after another, code by a coworker, and I modified and sent feedback in prose, beautiful-system-of-work, in which I can slowly refine a codebase yet touch not one line of code!

And I met a friend—over FaceTime, one whom I had not spoken to in years, and I watched him read a work of mine bold and provocative, after we had chatted and warmed up the conversation, and I watched his eyebrows raise up, and higher, then higher still—his face of incredulity, more and more so, and how I touched a nerve, and pushed and pulled, and the reaction was priceless!—and this is the currency I live for, and who can take it from me, but my friends themselves, whom I love and trust and hold dear?

Now, a quick word on the numbers, and let us continue!—but, for the previous post, and I had written for 18 days, three weeks without the three days of rest, and how many posts I wrote, I know not, and I thought I should be done, because I name each post!—and soon, shall I run out of names, and I do not write dates, because I wish my work to feel “timeless,” and in the last, I wrote of such intense pain, and misery, looking upon all of the men and the women, and feeling myself yet apart—and I sent it to a friend, and I said, as follows.

“If this last piece,” paraphrasing, “does not teach the world the value of counterpoint, I do not know what will, and I shall die of despair!”

And to me, I do want to share with the world, if it has not as much for myself—yet it has all that I know and love and hold dear, and at the same time, I do feel intense love and attachment, and I hold onto myself and my friends and family, and I shall not let them go.

So, this is the introduction!—and my work draws me awake, and it turns out I am not done with this affair, not yet, and I shall continue to serve, and serve longer shall I do.

So!—and firstly, for a note on my other projects, but I finally took an hour or two to let my mind of engineering work, and I thought about issues in my clothing site, and there were few, but there were one or two, and fix them, I did—and I spoke with my friends, one in particular, who had remembered my first attempt at designing clothes in University, and who believed in me then, and who believes in me still—and he had an idea or two about the clothes.

He suggested something different about the design placement, something innovative and creative, and I had not considered it!—and at first, my bold Red gut wanted to decline any new suggestions or changes, but I listened, and I felt myself rewarded, because it told me he had thought about it and cared—and I responded that I could “not do that,” paraphrasing, because the “service I use does not allow it,” and that perhaps, if this attempt worked, then I could in the future try with an approach from the ground-up, cutting the cloth—not literally—but in the sense of making each decision on my own, and see where that goes, and this is the “messy first iteration.”

How I was touched!—and we shall shortly return to this theme, but first, a detour, and I spoke with my aunt, as I described in the last piece, a must-read before continuing this, and we spoke of gender differences!—and for a moment, the gender benders, and so must I quickly address this topic, for it stewed in my mind.

I said it was cool!—the Da Vinci androgynous angels, not-quite-men, not-quite-woman, but a thing indeterminate and in-between—and too, the following, that I should group together, and for whom I feel some admiration and respect, the South Korean man-as-woman, and woman-as-man, the makeup-on-man, the who-is-what, and others similar.

For instance, Tom Hiddleston, the handsome, Devilishly so, handsome-as-a-lick actor who in the movies plays Loki, somewhere-here-and-somewhere-there, maybe slightly confused as to his identity, gender or otherwise, and the rapper transvestite, whom I need not name, but who dresses in the clothes of woman, and sings with a high crooning voice, turning this corner and that with high, airy, feminine confidence.

The fashion designer!—bold, opinionated artist, and usually homosexual, and these did I think of, and I grouped them together, and I thought and I wondered what to say, and I reflected, and I decided on the following.

For, this mind of mine is so feminine!—it is so feminine, it cannot be described, and I realized in yesterday, that I like to think of my friends, and I like to dress them, yes, dress them, with the designs and hoodies and crewnecks of my make, and I choose the design for them, and the size, based on their physical fit, and I ask them—whether they should let me purchase one for them, no charge, “not for a friend,” paraphrasing, and that it is my pleasure and more to make such decisions and touch their life in some manner.

So!—and I promised no violence, so I shall be brief in this my dispatching of those I had before mentioned, but if you are a woman, I am twice so, I who dress not myself, but dress the world, and if it is only my friends, they are my world and more, and if you are a sharp-eyed icon of the fashion industry, I fear you not, homosexual or otherwise, for I alone model my clothes, and this is a level perhaps none shall reach, none shall dare to try.

Right!—and let us return to the topic, and earlier, did my friend—a different one—he sent me an image of himself in the mirror, dressed in mine, and I loved it!—what a beautiful photo, and I told him if I had an Instagram, this would go on there, but alas, that I should not touch a service that the man-in-charge has touched, for all that he touched is corrupt, and should “it burn,” said I, paraphrasing, I should “yawn as I watched,” and I wondered, if there would be another service, one day, that I could use as a museum, a “museum for my mind,” and perhaps only my website alone, in this internet, shall serve such a purpose.

I wondered whether I should create a gallery on my website!—but I realized a truth ever deeper and more profound, and I decided, that I should let others wear my clothes, and build an image in my name, using my ideas, and to wear it right and never to repay me, by tagging my company, something so mild and so lame, for this world has enough selling, and not enough living and not enough being, and I should like my people to live and be.

And I do not believe in word-of-mouth!—but in word-of-heart, in which people live the values they believe in, and this is the “good ol’ decentralization” method, and how I love crypto dear, and shall embody this principle in my work, no matter where I go, for it touches my heart and it does not let go!

So!—some of the “heavy stuff” and ideas out of the way, and I spent yesterday, or today, for it is still just before midnight, I imagine, not checking-the-clock, not yet, I spent it doing self-care, and I went to my Bakery in the morning, got the chocolate almond croissant, most delicious, most delicate little pastry, little thing!

And for lunch, I texted a friend to meet—if he was around, but he was not, or did not respond, and I got takeout Ramen from one Ramen shop on Telegraph—and there are three Ramen shops in my life, this and another, we shall mention the second shortly, and a third, back home in my hometown, and each time I go to one, do I think it is the best!—only to forget about it the next time I go to another, permanently in indecision.

So, I returned home with my takeout, and I ate and slurped and had it all, minus the broth at the end, and I did my work—and reviewed code, one line after another, and wrote prose, and wrote off the rest of my writing, thinking I was done, and done indeed—and then I took a nap, for the first time in months!—unless you count accidentally dozing off at work, or falling asleep at work in meetings, or in the office on the yoga mat, all of which I am guilty off—quite guilty, indeed.

Guilty of this, and more, but I try my best—and I woke up exhausted!—and I sleep naked, for why should a man hide from himself, or be uncomfortable, and I got up and I collapsed onto my carpet, and I told my friend, paraphrasing, “here upon the carpet, do I lie, naked, and wondering what in my life is the next step,” and I went though many of the thoughts did I discuss just in the earlier section, on the gender benders, and my rough drafts are conversations with friends, and in my texts do I often work and refine, and write and rewrite in my head.

But!—in any case, I was exhausted, since for the last three weeks, did I sleep at odd hours, at any time of day, or wake up at any time, and write, and it called to me, and I answered, and this took a toll heavy!—multiple pieces a day, on average, and I wrote faster than people, my friends, could even read and process!

This is as it is, anyhow, and we shall move forwards—and I chatted with friends in my liberal haze, having just woken up, confused lost, exhausted and drained, and we arranged times to meet, and moved them, and arranged them once again, and I let them handle everything in the details, for I am a bit-of-a-mess.

What else did I do?—yes!—then, finally, I finished with work, I listened to Mozart, who to me is “soul-food,” yes, just the old Jupiter, old Jove at work, Symphony 41, and then the Requiem, for I thought my writing, I had let it go, and I wanted to sing it a song of quiet death—and Mozart believed he wrote the Requiem for himself, and can you imagine?—and he never finished it, for how can such a man perform such impossible task, but drew out the broad strokes, and let his student carry out the rest.

So, in a manner, do I see myself, and I wish not to touch all the work or every industry, but only to stir a feeling in the heart or mind of a reader, and let them work inspired in a higher light, a touch perhaps more Divine, or more human, and who knows?—but feeling slightly deeper and a feeling more profound, in any case.

And!—then I reached out to a different friend, a coworker, and we decided to get dinner, this time the third Ramen shop, the one on Piedmont, and my current favorite, for it is the one did I get most recent, and we checked-in and waited for an hour, and visited the local wine bar just down the street, and a quaint little avenue it is!

How beautiful, and the shop, the wine bar, vaguely European and “cool” and memorable, and in a sense quirky and artistic and opinionated, and packed—and we ordered our wines, and sat outside, for it was full indoors, and too loud for myself, besides, and we chatted about this and that, and this project, and that friend, and whatever it was, just sipping on wine and taking a moment to appreciate life.

And I got drunk!—yes, off one glass, and it appeared not to touch him, but we went back to the Ramen shop, and we read all the diagrams and the charts and paragraphs they have, and we learned oh-so-much, that they make noodles in-house, and they are wheat, and there are five different elements in Ramen, and that is the number of clothing pieces I have designed, and I gradually faded into comfortable peace, and we ordered our dishes.

And I asked the waitress about one of the five elements!—for I understood it not, and it was an item in my friend’s soup, she pointed to it, and I asked whether it was in mine, and she said it may be somewhere deeper, or not immediately visible, and there is something there that is poetic and a metaphor, but I shall let it to the reader to figure out.

So!—I had my enoki chips, yummy yum, so much crispy delight, and the powder spice, which I tried and in anguish rejected, so painful and so spicy!—but I had my noodles, plain and lovable in utter simplicity, delicious and more delicious still, and I felt nourished and soothed, and the more so!—for a friend of mine texted, and he said such.

This was a friend I had chatted with earlier, about the gender benders, and the same one, who had sent a picture in the mirror—and he said he wore out my hoodie, and this was the second time in public, and the second time, too, he had gotten the number of a female, and that was a two-for-two, and it touched my heart!

Oh, glorious creature, but he would do fine without me, and I love him too much to accept that this his success may come from my ideas, and so I told him so, and I shall see yet how he has responded, but I am glad he likes that piece in particular, in any case, for I like it the most, and it is my favorite, and I shipped one to my brother, and to my friend—the one I mentioned earlier, who remembered my work in college, and yet do I love all my pieces, in any case.

So, I returned home in comfortable haze—and got back and listened once again to my Brandenburg concerto, concerti, the recording by St. Martin’s, now run by a handsome, the most handsome violinist in the world, perhaps, man whom I need not name, and he is the virtuoso of this modern era, and I need not say anything to raise or diminish such an image, for he went to busk in New York City!—and nobody paid him any mind, so in the same tradition, shall I ignore him, still.

Ah!—and this one is unlike the others, and I have touched a soft nerve in myself, and should I let my work remain written by subtle hand, it should be finer and nicer, perhaps, kinder, and a touch more Heavenly—and the words that remain unsaid, but my friends shall read them all, and I know they will see what I intend to say, and if you see them not, forget it, for it is not material.

I write for two readers!—and for myself and eternity, and so be it, but at least I got a day to spend with my engineering mind, whom I had left lonely and unloved, and to revisit it, and my design mind, once again—and feminine, am I through it all, and it is a strange life, this one of mine.

But!—back to my Bach, to my music, then to sleep, once again!