Sometimes i go back a week or two into the archives to see what i’ve been talking about, and i’m surprised by it. How does that work?
by krisis
Personal
I just (for the first time ever) caught wind of someone plagiarizing my content for their own nefarious uses. The site itself seems to have disappeared, but Google has faithfully cached the one offending page here. Strangely enough, i located it via a referral from a the search “that the only way to convince me of its worth is to do amazing,” which sounded oddly familiar because i wrote it here. Further perusal reveals that this post was also partially lifted. The only other pages from “Bellylicious” that Google seems to have cached are all just index files or in other languages, and i can’t seem to locate an active email link on any of them, so i’ve hit a dead-end in locating the perpetrator.
I don’t know what i find the most bothersome out of this entire happening. First, the search itself is rather odd … anyone searching for that exact phrase would have had to have read it on either my site or on the plagiarist’s … anyone doing the former would have no reason to search for it, so someone read the latter and found it familiar (maybe the author forgot where she stole it from?). The second thing that bothers me is that i would’ve never even imagined someone was using entire paragraphs of mine to say what they were feeling, let alone known about it. In a way it’s almost flattering … she wasn’t using whole posts, but just succinct sections of them that she found applicable to her life. At the same time it’s rather chilling — as though i’m a blogging thesaurus that anyone can tap into to to find some relevant emotions to spruce up their post with.
The third thing that bothers me is… well, it’s just the stealing itself. I’m sure if someone emailed me and asked if they could use a lengthy excerpt from my page i would probably let them so long as they attributed it to me. Frantically trying to track down the person who has been stealing from CK via Google has led to this tiny kernel of panic in my stomach that is saying “what happens when someone takes one of your songs? you won’t even know… you’ll never know it.” And, it’s true … most of my songs are copyrighted enough to hold out in court, but anyone could be covering them on MP3.com with different titles and i would never even know it. The entire concept bothers me… i’ve never stolen anything in my life … i don’t even eat spare grapes in the produce section of the supermarket! The fact that someone could be stealing from me right now… not only stealing, but stealing something that i spent time and emotion on so that other people can enjoy it totally disconnected from me … it’s almost enough to make me tear all of this down right now.
Of course, i can’t do that. This is my life, and my therapy, and my fun. And, if it brings on a couple of more crises along the way, so be it
Yesterday was the day without motivation — having used it all up on Friday. I was recharging… incapable of doing anything with any amount of zeal. So, to follow it up, today was a day consisting of all of my energies focused into one thing that i absolutely know how to do right: clean. Yes, i just cleaned for seven straight hours. And, do you know what? It feels good.
It feels good because i spent the sum total of my emotional and mental energy on something entirely unlike cleaning on Friday, and was horrible at it. Or, alternately, i was terrific at it and it wasn’t well-received. Either way, i’m not entirely happy about the whole affair. By contrast, with cleaning you absolutely cannot fail. If you mop long enough, scrub hard enough, and fold precisely enough, everything will turn out absolutely perfect and no one can possibly argue with you. There is no arguing with something that is spotless; you can’t decide to like it a little while not being really thrilled by it. The sight and smell of something that is like Brand-New cannot be deflected or denied.
I did seven loads of laundry in industrial strength machines with spin cycles that lasted me through whole chapters of Infinite Jest. I mopped every piece of tile in our apartment, going back over the tough spots with All-Purpose cleaner and then clean water so that the floors wouldn’t be sticky. I refolded every piece of clothing that vaguely rotates into my daily wardrobe and reorganized my closet and bureau. I got down on my hands and knees with an industrial strength sponge and a can of Ajax and scrubbed the floor of my shower until all i could smell was the activated bleach and all my eyes were tearing up and i couldn’t even see if i had gotten the floor white yet through the haze of scrubbing bubbles.
It wound up pearly white. I had no idea.
Seven hours later my back hurts, my hands are dry and aching, my eyes are red-rimmed and sore, and i owe Lindsay a new sponge. And i did it all absolutely right, and no one can argue.
Meanwhile, i am inexplicably one of the only six hits for the term “boywhore.” When it comes to search placements one thing i’ve learned is to never ask questions…
Today is a lack of motivation in progress. I really don’t mean it to be… I’ve tried typing something, thrashing at my guitar, cooking, eating, and working on Uprush. None of it seems to head anywhere… everything feels just like treading water. I’m just wholly unmotivated by anything i can reach out and touch in this place, and the result is my sitting in this dumb plastic lawn chair staring dumbly at the screen while i blast Juliana Hatfield and sing along in falsetto. I can’t seem to manage to do anything else.
That’s what i get for pouring out all of my energy into one laser small focus for an entire day… now i’m just fizzled out. I can’t focus on anything.
All this kvetching about things related to my (ever-precarious) gender role and identity may have to do with a date i may have tonight. May. It may be a preliminary evaluative “check-out-the-goods” opportunity where i’m supposed to try my best to be coherent while maintaining a vague sense of romanticism. Or, it might be two friends going out to dinner. Except, i think it could be a date… you know, Friday Night and all that. But, i don’t want to assume. So, it’s really out of my hands. I have nothing to do with it. I just need to shave and shower and show up looking pretty. Well… pretty for a guy. You know what i mean.
Thus all the anxiety about the razor. And the fairy.