coyotegoth | looking over one's own shoulder

In the course of keeping myself awake at a daylong temp job (I was up far too late helping someone get ready to move*, and then finishing painting the trim on my room**), I've been reading back through the bulk of my LJ. My reaction to re-experiencing the world's events aside, it's been odd, seeing the way this journal has grown and changed over the years. I use friends-only posts more often, and private posts not at all (those go into the paper journal*** nowadays); the interstitial percentage of my journal has grown tremendously, too. Perhaps most of all, I've been feeling a sort of nostalgia, seeing how the cast of characters has grown and changed over the years. People have changed their journal's names, and deleted them ****, and even passed away; old LJ friends have fallen largely silent, and new voices have been heard. Subtle changes, in the warp and woof of this Internet tapestry we're weaving together. To everyone I keep (or kept) in touch with largely through this medium, thank you; you've made this a better, richer experience for me. To everyone who's moved on, my best wishes, and thank you for being a part of the story, even for a while.(Hmm; and now I seem to have wandered deep inside my own head. Suspect that this will translate into a week spent largely at work on the book; suspect that this is not at all a bad thing.)

*- Do you know, I tallied it up this morning; excluding myself, I've helped twenty-eight people move over the last four years. Please note that multiple people are being counted separately; even though, say,

roadnotes and

baldanders were moved to the same location, they still count as two people because, well, they are. Quite the moving karma I've racked up of late; one hopes the gods are noting this in my favor.

**- I don't know why a certain shade of pale tan is so endemic in my part of Brooklyn (was there a sale?), but damn, I was sick of looking at it on my walls. Now my room's walls are a lovely pale blue, with white trim- sky colors- and my mood improves every time I look at them.

***- My sister recently mailed me, in the course of preparing the family house in Potsdam for possible sale, two fat three-ring notebooks in which I'd kept my journal in for the better part of six years; quite an experience to receive such a slice of one's life in the mail. (The journals in question included my most active clublife years; one hopes she didn't do too much browsing.)

****- One privacy-minded soul even went through at least fifty entries, and manually deleted every single comment she'd ever made. In our last few AIM conversations, she'd mentioned being increasingly nervous about her presence on the Internet; guess she took those feelings to heart. Huh.