Reading harold_maude's journal

Well, it's sunday according to the calander on the wall.
Winter seems to be melting away finally.
I'm glad but at the same time I don't look forward to summer which I have this feeling is going to decend on this town and cook what it will.

The last two days have been realitivly quiet for the most part.
No drama just the quiet. I love the quiet, more so now than at other times.
Sometimes I want there to it to be party on and on and on.

But lately, I've been craving quiet. I spend part of the quiet reading journal entries and thinking about what I'm reading.
It's all very much like a very huge book, many autors, many stories.
Much history of many people.
Faces sitting in front of screens much like this one bringing
their part of the world to the rest of us showing us something that what we know from day to day.

I've found myself seaching the net through links that have lead me places that have sparked questions and thoughts.

In the quiet I can almost hear the writers narating their entries, but since I don't know what each voice sounds like I have to just accept the voice I hear each one in.

I've looked at pictures of some faces, and thought with amazment at the brilliance I see. Happy faces, happy times.

Friends and families of writers that I would have probably never other wise met, how ever vicariously, and it's been alot like flipping through a photo album as I've read and looked.

A friend who I haven't talked to for almost two years tracked me down last week. It seemed that it was going to be a strong reconnection.
Then a series of events took place and my friend seems to be gone again.
I tried to get ahold of her several times, but it seems the lines are disconnected yet once again.

I am leaning again what I have known for many years, that many people come and go. Their time in my world is brief. I think that reason alone would make me like this place. It's the same reason I like books, it doesn't matter if someone goes, what ever they had to say I can read and re-read.
Unless someone does what I did, their work stays here.

So even though the person is gone out of my view, the impact of their words remain alive.

I did some more work on a chest that I started several months ago. I am learning about construction with small parts. It's alot like putting a puzzle together. There is no picture except the one you draw, and make measurments for.

Anyway, this chest I'm doing is going to be a good sized chest, and it will also be in the sculpture group that is growning.
I want to take a picture of it before I either sell it or find out who it belongs to. My art does that sometimes. I will do a peice and someone will show up and I know that the peice belongs to them.

I guess that makes everything in my life temporary. Everything in reality is temporary as well. It's just hard to see that when we seem to live longer and longer.
Some times it feels like I'm standing still and the world is disolving around me.
Layer after layer. Melting away into haze.
I feel my eyes close in slow motion and another minuet passes.
I once again feel out of sync with the world around me.
Out of time, shifted just enough out of kilter that nothing quite feels like everyday feels.

It feels unreal somedays, almost like I shift forward just enough so that I'm out of kilter with my body. I don't know how many other people in the world go through this, or if it's just unique to me.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe all of this is just some very long very detailed dream, and I'm laying in some hosptial bed somewhere else in a coma or something like that.
Everything feels real, but very often our senses fool us into believing something that really isn't real at all.
So maybe this isn't any thing more than just some dream I'm stuck in.

You are the best immatation of you that exists