The Orange Hat

I write as If I speak, to an audience of myself or to people I presume read what I have written. There could be a name for this, but I haven’t thought to look it up. I think of this because once ~ two schools ago, across an ocean, in a land that has varying temperature along with an temperamental sun; known to be more persistent in the months surrounding July and in remiss in the month of Janus and his neighbors ~

`In a related note I’ve decided January is of the masculine persuasion’

a good friend of mine comment on the use of the ellipsis, which I just learned how to spell*. I remember it was particular to an article he was reviewing, and that the person who had written said writing had used the ellipsis in a stylized manner. I had never though about using an ellipsis in a reference other than a pause in though… like so.

This was a revelation to me then, as it is now, in the context of my writing.*** Because then it dawned upon me the audience I was and always had been addressing, was and probably still at some point is: Me. Now it is a memory I look back upon and realize how important it was because I care.

I’ve written possibly four works of literature that I was proud to show other people. At least one has been in the past month, the other three were in the past twenty years. In the same way that people brag about their accomplishments, and partake in activates they are proud to boast over; I actively seek hobbies I enjoy accomplishing. Writing for me was a task to battle through, but not something to show others. Arguing over who’s term paper took more sleepless nights to expunge an “A” from the grasps of Grammaticus Yagustus for me was comparing my struggles as a quadriplegic climbing Mount Everest to an able bodied person: I knew I had help obtaining my grade ~ Probably via my grammatically able mother accompanied by headaches and shouting~

I took no pride in what I did, and sad as that sounds, there are many papers I still do not fill me with a sense of satisfaction. In retrospect, I think this could be to lack of tangible audience****. A audience which I believe I have now, and because of this change of stage, it’s as if I just bit the apple, (Woah! Where did that biblical allusion come from?) and realized that I look absolutely foolish when I misspell a simple word, when trying to convey a serious message.

In reading other peoples writings I realize what I have been missing out on. Just as I watch my bother paint, I want to partake in this art form of “communication,” but also just wiring for the fun of it. This is probably more serious than I originally intended- but from writing over the past month I’ve discovered characteristics I didn’t know about myself.

I also have come to ask myself why I read other peoples writings. People I don’t know.

I’ve been in Nairobi for 43 days. Somewhere spent in an hospital, most are in the vicinity of the University of Nairobi, very few have been outside of the city. I have lived here, yet I do not feel that I have explored this amazing country, or even town, to the extent I feel possible. If I were to leave in fifteen days, I could not say I am well traveled in Kenya, that I know the city well enough to take my friends around to tourist locations (without a taxi) and I have yet to take the amount of pictures I have spending one week in California.

Now I sit in Dormans Coffee writing about it.
-this took almost two hours to muse over

Catch you Friday.

*I have no clue what the parameters of this sentence are. This is also the first foot note I’ve ever written in a non-referential context. I also feel somewhat snobbish using the words: presume, temperamental, remiss, persuasion, particular – and other words I have to rely on spell check to save me from looking like more of a dolt than I am (I say this with a smile on my face)**

**Because I interrupt my thoughts so much I am searching for more appropriate grammatical devices and symbols to show my more linear readers my intentions and thought flow. That I care about this, I find amusing and will subject it to further review (an asshole phrase), in the respect (another one) that this session at a coffee shop in Kenya started off about my musings about me reading other peoples writings

***Even as I write this it tickles me to think of myself as a “writer,” and I find myself on a tangent of self-definitions, and how there are very few people who will have read this far besides my mother and perhaps Mr. Abrahamson himself

****look! Real writing, without the pretentiousness of my fist three paragraphs. Oh and you can ponder over what that says about my character, because I certainly have


[I will change the layout to something orange-ish, but I like this layout better]