{"id":2199,"date":"2016-06-29T15:54:53","date_gmt":"2016-06-29T20:54:53","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.boldulysses.com\/?p=2199"},"modified":"2016-06-29T15:56:33","modified_gmt":"2016-06-29T20:56:33","slug":"you-dont-care-a-bit","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.boldulysses.com\/?p=2199","title":{"rendered":"you don’t care a bit"},"content":{"rendered":"

the dust has only just begun to form
\ncrop circles in the carpet<\/em><\/p>\n

Back in a different life I used to work at GNC. While on a shift, when things were especially slow (or even when they weren’t and I could sneak a spare second), I jotted down journal entry ideas or poetry fragments on bits of register tape. I need to do that again—not with register tape, mind you, but on any of the assorted stacks of blank post-its I have here in my cube.<\/p>\n

I’m frustrated with and disappointed that as much as I told myself otherwise, it appears that a huge source of motivation for me to write, back when I did write frequently, was the attention of an audience. It takes the roof off a bit, metaphorically speaking, forcing me to admit to myself that maybe my online persona didn’t completely match my real-life one. As soon as I say that, though, the retort is that I didn’t write or discuss anything that was ever contrary to the way I really felt or thought. So it wasn’t a qualitative difference so much as a quantitative one. The quality is still there, albeit somewhat atrophied from lack of exercise, but I don’t believe it’s anything that can’t be resuscitated (triple negative?).<\/p>\n

So, status check:<\/p>\n