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counseling somebody to break up if their partner keeps not fulfilling their needs. unsure whether they're actually bad for them or it's the black bile in me trying to spread itself.

I mean they have been talking for months of this one core need being ignored no matter what they do, and I'm trying to be very explicit and direct about the fact I'm speaking from an awful place and probably overly pessimistic etc. but still I worry about doing harm rather than good counsel

friendship ended with girl gender

tired hairy legs middle-aged lesbian* enveloped in clouds of smoke** is new best gender

* not actually lesbian
** not actually smoke

our protagonist is secretly high on girlchunks during this scene, hiding it from her minimum age radioactive waste collector job, her panties still secretly sparkling

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the poet is a faker.
she fakes it all so much
that she even pretends it's pain
the pain she indeed feels.

Fernando Pessoa, about me streaming Porpentine.

cw: job search, heavy themes, fictional drug abuse, me vaping industrial strawberry chemical flavour as if it was some drug

My children are in a very vulnerable and precarious situation right now, both of them, for material as well as emotional reasons.

I have to be strong, if not for me, for them. Strength doesn't mean self-reliance, it means leveraging all the help I can. And job. And learning React. One weekend.

> I have just written the word "infinite"

> have not included that adjective out of mere rhetorical habit

> I hereby state that it is not illogical to think that the world is infinite. Those who believe it to have limits hypothesize that in some remote place or places the corridors and staircases and hexa­gons may, inconceivably, end—which is absurd.
>And yet those who picture the world as unlimited forget that the number of possible books is *not* .
> I will be bold enough to suggest this solution to the ancient problem:

> The Li­brary is
> unlimited
> but periodic.

> If an eternal traveler should journey in any direction, they would find after untold centuries that the same volumes are repeated in the same disorder—which, thus repeated, becomes order:
> the Order.
> My solitude is cheered by that elegant hope.

emotional flashbacks of past depressive periods, the weight of absolute solitude in são paulo streets, the scents the shouts the taste of permafear hormones in your blood. glue-sniffing little boys approaching you for your cellphone, trying to sound threatening. "just kidding, mister, i’m just kidding" when something evil in you stares back. buying a pastel for a street kid, having a dozen more pop up, having to say no twelve times for every yes. saying no to the longing gazes of gay men. living signs everywhere, a thousand eateries all alike, fruits hanging everywhere and bready fluffy pizza and alcoholic men. stopping at places for comfort more than food. living with twelve million people, in absolute solitude. being called "boss" and "champion" and "German". reading Burroughs it’s hard to explain, I’m trying to pinpoint that very particular mood or feeling I had on those streets, but I’m not Woolf I’m not Sartre or Beauvoir, I can’t find the words that evoke its hues. so many days in São Paulo, all bad. the common but distant humanity of the buses, stuck in traffic forever. you’re never stuck in traffic you are being traffic, the city all around you like the entrails of incognizability.

House of the Dragon 

Rational brain: It's going to suck. They'll break it apart. They'll break your heart too. Don't forget last time.


re: relationship-, memories 

with computers you are little Kai, putting together ice-puzzles in the Mirror of Reason under the ægis of the Snow Queen.

with literature it feels like your most subtle feelings, things you weren’t even aware existed, are multiplied in infinite resonances. you escape into literature by becoming multitudes, it’s language for the heart. I am craving this language, because I don’t want to forget my heart.

reaproacching tech feelings, ranting about literature 

reapproaching tech feels weird. first of all, tech was pre-transition stuff, so there’s gender stuff involved, feeling like I’m regressing. but I have learned to deal with those.

then there’s a sense of defeat; I spent the larger part of the last, let’s see, 15 years or so trying to move from tech into humanities. at some point I succeeded; only to run back to it with tail between my legs seemingly at the first sign of trouble. have talked with therapist about this at length: it wasn’t really "at the first sign of trouble", it was some pretty big trouble, it was full disillusionment with academia, and also I’m not the person I was before, I don’t have the same values, goals, needs. for the place I am right now, a stable tech job is a much better deal than the exploitative positions at academia; there’s nothing wrong with that.

one thing that never went away, though, is the sense that I in some sense just fit better with the humanities crowd. this was in large part due to the lit folk being woke and politically aware, while the techies near me were all chauvinistic (u.s.-style) "apolitical" "libertarians"; esp. the experience of Google made me very aversive to tech culture. literature, by comparison, was like finding an oasis after a desert.

post-transition, turns out a lot of trans folk are into tech and you can feel like you can relate to them, at a tech level at least. so even if you’re tired of techbro culture you can vent with people who understand you, or see them venting about the same things, and it doesn’t feel nearly so bad as it did for me back in 2008.

but there’s still that sense of solitude. there’s a kind of wall of incomprehension I hit whenever I get too much humanities, usually in the form of the familiar words: "but what is the *point* of this? what is it all *for*?" and I just fail to convey the magic, the music in the words, the poetry of it. and I can’t help but miss them, those professors who sparked with enthusiasm for the thing-in-itself, for the thing without further purpose than sheer delight; the one who was into Greimas and the one into Barthes, the one into Valéry and the one who taught me to think about Poe, the one who did erotic shunga gravures and the one who went over 8th-century Classical Japanese poetry with me, word by word, as slow read as it gets… browsing the green Loeb editions of the Odyssey without knowing Greek, for the sheer joy in the musicality of the song, discovering Foley’s "How To Read An Oral Poem" by chance…

the girl who taught me about polyamory. she was literature incarnate. the extreme fascination she caused in people, me included, the briefness of our affair, my distant longing for years. she still watches my Instagram stories, never interacts. me reading Mélusine thinking of her, me reading provençal poetry thinking of her, me listening to her songs thinking of her, White Stripes, "Fever", I still think of her, every time… she probably moved on from that stuff years ago, I have no idea what she’s up to these days, it hurts to look. her sincere respect that I expressed our breaking up with song. how I loved her for it. how I still do.

I won’t go as far as saying that the whole of my literature studies was chasing my early 2000s polyamory activist lit girl, but she was a catalyst in my life. I would sing to her, song from her band,

> Then something else came to mind, that was the mirror
> …And it might sound a little strange for me to say to you
> But I'm proud to be you
> And I'm slowly turning into you
> And I'm slowly turning into you
> And I'm slowly
> turning
> into
> you.

oh if only we knew.

I am not 19 anymore. I know how to relate to people now, how to make contacts and build community. I have at least a couple people to talk about theory, at least one person into Greek stuff, at least one person into art, at least one person into philosophy and math. but I seem to have no one to share enthusiasm about, say, mid-20th-century Argentinian literature, or phonæsthetic theory in artlangs, or stream of consciousness. ("I tried to read Orlando on your account", said my ex, back when we were together. "I couldn't make head or tails of it." and also: "hearing you talk is like reading Virginia Woolf". I've never felt so simultaneously proud and lonely at a single remark.) it’s like this whole section of my life was buried – ok that’s true of the whole pre-transition life, all buried under the sea, but this was the part I _liked_, academia never worked as well for me as it did during literature undergrad, previous me’s golden age for sure.

this peculiar sterility of tech life.
if I am to do this, I can’t forget to feed my lit side. I am, technically, an award-winning writer and fiction translator. gotta do something with that, if only to keep sane.
get in touch with the scene.
during my lit period, I kept playing with tech as a hobby; now it should be the other way around.
I will write poems.

standing bags for boxing 

ok these seem to be good enough for a casual like me. they can be filled with water, which would make them lighter but would be a good makeshift to not having to carry a ton of sand upstairs.

I’m worried if the noise transmits through the floor and bothers the neighbours, but then I realised I could put one in the attic if I open up some space there. the attic is above my own apartment, and it’s even moody because it got those UFC-style cages partitioning the space. currently my space is full of stuff but I could either leave the thing in the corridor, don’t thing anybody would mind, or move my own tralha around; basement is still mostly empty.

at a bit over 100€ for entry-level models these are not for comfort spending during unemployment, but after I get a job… hmm…...

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clumsiness vs. self-harm 

sometimes I wonder if I hurt myself so much and so often out of some subconscious impulse to self-harm. just tried to open the sofa-bed and somehow dropped it on my foot upon opening, hurting it bad. then I realised I don’t even need the sofa-bed, there’s not enough people left in the house to need 2 beds. then I spilled half the gin.

(and I did the libation, wasn’t even them charging it or anything).

I’m not aware of any desire to destroy or punish myself. on the contrary, I want to live forever, even on the hardest moments, if but out of spite. I *am* aware of the desire to destroy or punish whatever else. maybe that gets twisted by the subsconscious if I don’t have an outlet, and result in things like opening the sofa on your toes and breaking all the gifts you treasure.

I am Daenerys of house Targaryen, part of me just wants to burn everything, all the time. I’m aware of it. That, or it’s just poor motor coordination, comes with the condition they say.

The other day by chance I saw a stand-up boxing bag. Took all I had to resist the temptation of hardening my shins then and there. I was not aware that these exist; I thought putting up a standard punching bag on this ceiling would be inviting trouble, what’s with poor construction and evil landlord and all. But I think I could benefit a lot of something that I could just vent on freely, teenage-like, and it would take it all without damage done. I wonder how stand-up punching bags compare to heavy bags, if you can use them for power not speed or coördination. In the absense of sparring for the foreseeable future, perhaps if I did this I would magically stop cutting, burning, cracking, breaking etc. myself and surrounding objects. Or it won’t make a difference because it’s just clumsiness and not a mysterious subconscious impulse, but at least I’d get to punch something.

bitching about emacs 

> Warning (initialization): An error occurred while loading ‘/home/ramona/.emacs.el’:

> Wrong number of arguments: (1 . 1), 2

sigh. I love open source software.

(this won’t even be in the .emacs.el, these error messages don’t follow the source when you load others. yup it has existed for 45 years and still does that by default. this will be in some obscure library I wasn’t even aware of which is conflicting about some function signature they changed in the current release, this is emacs dev’s favourite hobby it keeps us in our place, oh look it’s elpy yay.)

((how did I find that? to actually get any context abt what’s happening you need to restart with --debug-init, even though _not_ doing --debug-init doesn’t seem to have any benefit. maybe it made it run 3% faster on a PDP-11 once, it’s impossible to know, the thing that makes emacs actually slow is that it’s an OS without multitasking, these microoptimisations don’t make any difference in the actual latency even in a raspberry or pinebook. it’s what is called a "fix my application toggle". emacs has a lot, and I mean a ~lot~, of fix-my-application toggles. 45 years of problems being fixed in the form of toggles that come off by default, though nobody in the world leaves them off. one’s first step in emacsland is to learn about which toggles to flip up before you start.))

(((there’s two or three entire Emacs distributions whose reason for existence is somebody found and flipped all the fix-my-application toggles before you open the box.)))

((((these are widely derided by emacsbrethen as ableist-slur-ed inferior versions for babies.))))

oh wow borg-backup wasn't running. should set up alarms any of these days, haha. let's give it a test run and—

oh I see the problem, it's missing a python module?? but why? it was installed via pip, shouldn't have changed by itself. oh well a pip upgrade solved it.

ah and of course I need to do a port redirect also in the new freifunk router.

ah there's one more thing, I forgot to disable host IP check for my dyndns server and ssh is complaining.

oh yes I also need to disable the borg check for change in local repository path, I changed mounts since them. this is annoying.

ok now it will run… what, fail2ban blocking ssh? ah I see, my new network setup is masquerading all source IPs into the router's accidentally, better turn off f2b for now

lmao how many layers of breakage there was between server and working backups

is there a lieferando restaurant you can call and they'll bring you coffee and sweets and make your bed and fill your forms and tell you it's going to be ok

Harold Bloom wrote a Bloom Guide to the Handmaid's Tale 🤢

pao was unreachable for a while, due to changes induced by switching my main notebook.

- changed an IP number and forgot to update firewall
- tried to make some convenience union mounts to simplify accessing the old notebook's backup files, was left with a nonworking line on /etc/fstab .

turns out raspberry confs will make it 1) give up booting if any line can't be mounted (unless you pass nofail), so you need to hook up a screen and keyboard to see what's up, and 2) lock the root account out of recovery boot, so you need to remove the sdcard and fix it elsewhere (no recovery shell to do something as simple as editing /etc/fstab ).

turns out we had all these effective tools to cope with the bad stuff and empower ourselves

and all we had to do was to leave behind the pretence of atheism, respectability and sanity

or as I've taken to call them, our limiters 😆

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Elilla’s personal server.