Maybe the green tea is not hot enough. Or I’ve been trying too desperately…just trying, not knowing what I’m trying. If you’re in the middle of a crowded, hectic environment and you watch how cheery and miserable people juxtapose against each other, you wonder where exactly you stand. In the end you refuse to stand anywhere and keep moving until all of them have receded into a somewhat bearable distance. But today they were everywhere. Why they all have to remind me about the time of the year, I do not know.
And then I noticed I wasn’t breathing. My attention span dropped. My brain refused to utter a word through my mouth.
This is when you realise you long for some solitary pastime involving a creative and self-expressive process; either that or you need to get laid. I guess we all need a reminder that we are still there and not…
I’ve once again become a bad listener. I’ve never been a good one which is why I’d slept all the way through history, physics and chemistry classes. In this environment my ears absorb so much, that in the end I only hear a drone in my ears and simultaneously hollowness emphasises how much I don’t care about you. If I have no interest, my sense of focus becomes non existent. Nothing you say will be of any importance.
At work I hear so many whispers with a tone suggesting resentment, dissatisfaction and endless bitching. These whispers and the sound of London in general manifested themselves in my dreams last night. Imagined noises must have woke me three times during the night along with numerous hypnic jerks.
Are you a fan of stories that start in spring and end in fall? I think a story’s process should always adjust to the seasons.
Whenever I realise that even music is unable to translate my current mental state and access my heart, I know there is something not right and there is nothing that I can do about it. Sleep it off. Run it off. It’s not easy.
For the first time since late August I feel weak again, powerless against the concept of survival. There is this uncertainty of whether or not what I do is of any significance; questions about the country’s mental state, my own stability and my debts to people I care about, the only people I care about. This is so Modernist.
What else do I have to do to prove that I am a bad person? Have I ever told you that once I was at an independent cinema, they were showing the trailer of a drama about a man with Down syndrome who was in love. I caught myself laughing loudly. He said something along the line: “I may be stupid, but I can love.”
But listen, I thought I was incapable of loving. And the idea of someone who lacks the ability to comprehend fully made me want to categorise myself as mentally disabled, too. I was laughing at the both of us, but I know this is no justification.
It’s weird ever since I’ve moved house. At the landlady’s, despite the noise and her frequent family gatherings, I felt a soothing brightness; still I was annoyed and felt claustrophobic, but still there was a light. And in my new place there’s a warm darkness. I felt a heat in my room, which, I am sure, will be hellish once it’s summer. And when the landlord suggested that we could cook something on Christmas Day, I knew it was not right, especially if sensing some form of inappropriate intentions, which are actually harmless at its base. If I say I need space, I need it to the fullest.
I remember the best Christmas and New Year’s that I’ve ever had. It was in High Wycombe back in 2006. I was all by myself in the house on Garratts Way. I read four books in less than a week. I never had an opportunity like that again.
I hope you lot enjoyed the dreadful video blog, which I only watched once and never will again, the same with all the other ones. The next one will probably be a letter; a very resentful letter. However, it won’t be as resentful as Kafka’s letter to his father. Or maybe yes.
In Prague, when I left my note on Kafka’s grave, I recalled the dream I had about him. Both of us were in danger, but he only cared about saving his own arse. I resented him for that. The moment you realise that someone’s not loyal and faithful enough; you automatically create a shield which you call self-reliance. It’s not necessarily a sign of not trusting people, though.
Though, self-reliance, after a long period of time, hinders you from asking others for help, even if it’s only a little favour. Because you know they won’t do it. You are never of priority to anyone, except to your mum. And this is why she’s the most important person in my life. But I’m too much of a coward to tell her.
Samstag, 24. Dezember 2011
Sonntag, 11. Dezember 2011
The anatomy of love
So that was my first night at the new place and like last year I had a little lady bird invasion in my room. They are all funny and dazed, slowly dying on the ceiling and underneath my bed.
It’s the first time that I feel alone – in a negative sense. Ever since I put my novel aside for no particular reason (apart from waiting for the final comments), I’ve been occupying myself with friends and work mates; I have no idea how I have managed to last that long. Both cheeks are still sore from heavy lifting. Socialising requires a lot of energy only to pretend that you can connect well.
So in the last few days I’ve been moving, shopping and arranging my room. The mattress is bliss and so is the new duvet cover. I admit that double beds make you lonely, I’m not even that type of person who encounters that sort of feeling, ever. That’s because usually I’m always writing, which means, I am never alone. But having abandoned writing for over a week, I feel like I’ve been wasting time.
Sorry for criticising you for not being able to cope with loneliness. I didn’t know you were emptier than I am, that you have no creativity to create an alternate world to live in. However, I still envy you, because you can cope in the world with people that I hate…for a longer period. You’ll make it a lot further than I will.
Other people play music or read books to reflect their souls, which is fine, but I want to create reflection by myself rather than having someone to do the job for me. Listening to Nine Inch Nails, for instance, makes me wonder why I can’t create music like that. You know what I mean?
I do understand why you feel alone, but in order to prevent this, you mustn’t abandon your creativity. Utilise it to the max or up to the point where you believe you no longer need people around you. It’s not always a bad thing.
Very often one of your friends might ask you: “Are you capable of killing someone?”
And because in my dreams, I am, I say yes, depends on how much I am driven by hate. There are times where I abandon my conscience. Some people aren’t good with reason, but they have reasons for acting this way – anger and indifference. Again, I envy those who are free of these negative sentiments and are ruled by reason. I also hate them for trying to teach me by seeking to talk. If I had wanted to talk, I would’ve continued visiting my psychiatrist who was convinced that the way I am leads back to being born with an Asian mentality which will be part of me forever.
How ridiculous it sounded when he first said that, I’d spent years thinking about it. Despite being more westernised than most people and showing indifference to my ethnic origin, I did see a mistake there. A lot of resentments and disillusion play a role in this matter, but I don’t feel old enough yet to tackle this issue. I haven’t even mapped out my memoirs, yet. You see how busy I am?
On the outside they say I have beauty that attracts; attracting who and what? Freaky losers it seems. And winners that are on the other side of the globe.
I’m still paranoid about my landlord’s intentions. I hope the tenant-landlord-relationship will remain as discreet as possible, each one minding his and her business. I made a shocking discovery in the bathroom the other day. Inside the shower cubicle are five thick square windows built in underneath each other revealing a blurry view to the corridor. Is this art or full exposure? The previous tenant was a gay theatre guy. I haven’t had chance of meeting him, although I was supposed to get the other spare keys off him, which never happened – a shame really, as I had some questions. I met the gay couple in the other flat next door and I met a lady in the flat beneath. She said “Another new one!”
I wonder how long each of my landlord’s tenants lasted and how long I will last.
Some women are only looking to get married to kind-hearted men who are unable to stir anything up inside. All they want are security, someone to look after and cook for. And I hate how some men particularly view Asian women this way, as if these women were easy to bait into marriage. He might think I am one of those. Another sign of inappropriate approach and I will spread all possible negative energies that I possess.
Unfortunately I don’t fall in love with people, I never have. I fall in love with ideas. Now I understand why as a kid, I always wanted to become an inventor. It makes perfect sense now.
There are people who are not granted love…they are given one chance, but they let it slip. I’ve let it slip several times, because I no longer know how this all functions and on the other hand, are you not supposed to feel a spark?
The novel’s emphasis on the heart is only to depict love differently. It’s not particularly an emotion, is it? My capacity for decay is currently huge, so I need to get back to the novel to minimise the hole as much as possible.
But the thing about shadows…they can expand, shift and swallow.
It’s the first time that I feel alone – in a negative sense. Ever since I put my novel aside for no particular reason (apart from waiting for the final comments), I’ve been occupying myself with friends and work mates; I have no idea how I have managed to last that long. Both cheeks are still sore from heavy lifting. Socialising requires a lot of energy only to pretend that you can connect well.
So in the last few days I’ve been moving, shopping and arranging my room. The mattress is bliss and so is the new duvet cover. I admit that double beds make you lonely, I’m not even that type of person who encounters that sort of feeling, ever. That’s because usually I’m always writing, which means, I am never alone. But having abandoned writing for over a week, I feel like I’ve been wasting time.
Sorry for criticising you for not being able to cope with loneliness. I didn’t know you were emptier than I am, that you have no creativity to create an alternate world to live in. However, I still envy you, because you can cope in the world with people that I hate…for a longer period. You’ll make it a lot further than I will.
Other people play music or read books to reflect their souls, which is fine, but I want to create reflection by myself rather than having someone to do the job for me. Listening to Nine Inch Nails, for instance, makes me wonder why I can’t create music like that. You know what I mean?
I do understand why you feel alone, but in order to prevent this, you mustn’t abandon your creativity. Utilise it to the max or up to the point where you believe you no longer need people around you. It’s not always a bad thing.
Very often one of your friends might ask you: “Are you capable of killing someone?”
And because in my dreams, I am, I say yes, depends on how much I am driven by hate. There are times where I abandon my conscience. Some people aren’t good with reason, but they have reasons for acting this way – anger and indifference. Again, I envy those who are free of these negative sentiments and are ruled by reason. I also hate them for trying to teach me by seeking to talk. If I had wanted to talk, I would’ve continued visiting my psychiatrist who was convinced that the way I am leads back to being born with an Asian mentality which will be part of me forever.
How ridiculous it sounded when he first said that, I’d spent years thinking about it. Despite being more westernised than most people and showing indifference to my ethnic origin, I did see a mistake there. A lot of resentments and disillusion play a role in this matter, but I don’t feel old enough yet to tackle this issue. I haven’t even mapped out my memoirs, yet. You see how busy I am?
On the outside they say I have beauty that attracts; attracting who and what? Freaky losers it seems. And winners that are on the other side of the globe.
I’m still paranoid about my landlord’s intentions. I hope the tenant-landlord-relationship will remain as discreet as possible, each one minding his and her business. I made a shocking discovery in the bathroom the other day. Inside the shower cubicle are five thick square windows built in underneath each other revealing a blurry view to the corridor. Is this art or full exposure? The previous tenant was a gay theatre guy. I haven’t had chance of meeting him, although I was supposed to get the other spare keys off him, which never happened – a shame really, as I had some questions. I met the gay couple in the other flat next door and I met a lady in the flat beneath. She said “Another new one!”
I wonder how long each of my landlord’s tenants lasted and how long I will last.
Some women are only looking to get married to kind-hearted men who are unable to stir anything up inside. All they want are security, someone to look after and cook for. And I hate how some men particularly view Asian women this way, as if these women were easy to bait into marriage. He might think I am one of those. Another sign of inappropriate approach and I will spread all possible negative energies that I possess.
Unfortunately I don’t fall in love with people, I never have. I fall in love with ideas. Now I understand why as a kid, I always wanted to become an inventor. It makes perfect sense now.
There are people who are not granted love…they are given one chance, but they let it slip. I’ve let it slip several times, because I no longer know how this all functions and on the other hand, are you not supposed to feel a spark?
The novel’s emphasis on the heart is only to depict love differently. It’s not particularly an emotion, is it? My capacity for decay is currently huge, so I need to get back to the novel to minimise the hole as much as possible.
But the thing about shadows…they can expand, shift and swallow.
Samstag, 3. Dezember 2011
What if we could?
It’s another of my favourite season gone and I still haven’t made it back to my beloved Edinburgh where I fell in love back in 2003. The autumn colours were good to my eyes and the smell of maple a pat on my cerebral surface. It was a sense of melancholy that had produced tears of joy. But instead of spending the money to go anywhere, I decided to join the gym and book my flight back home. Finding it more important to visit your family instead of a well-deserved holiday in solitude is normal. For solitude, I only need to find a different place behind a closed door and it should be fine. But I won’t tolerate any noises other than my own and that of the boiler. In a town like this, it’s very difficult. You would imagine I’m better off in a hut somewhere in the mountains. Maybe…but ghosts would haunt me. My head would release too many sounds and misconceived images. How inspiring they might be sometimes, I couldn’t handle the overkill. The overkill of anything would drive me towards the edge of what’s left of my own mercy.
Mercy, yes, you heard right. The word just randomly shot through my head and it makes perfect sense, but in a non-biblical way of course.
There are people who can’t forgive themselves and who are unkind to themselves. And those people you can no longer save from insanity.
This morning was my first time jogging through the cemetery. Pretty much all grave stones were moss-covered, the paths hilly and uneven, but all those names still have meaning. While thinking about that I felt a tingle in my stomach. All those names were begging to be revived, but I don’t remember any of their names.
Someone insulted me by saying I was the female equivalent of Schopi. Why would they say that? If there’s one dog breed that I don’t like, it’s poodles. Scarily enough the night after, I dreamt about petting an abandoned white poodle. Poodles are so weird; always so anxious and so full of themselves…
If I say I cannot give the required motherly love to a baby, this also applies to dogs; your most loyal friends. Strangely enough, the idea of looking after someone seems to mean the world to a lot of people, as if they had no other purposes. I feel sorry for those, but at the same time I admire them. At least they know how to function and interact with creatures of the same kind; the kind which resents you for not feeling the same way; the kind that doesn’t understand that a feeling is never mutual.
We may smell the same, but the ingredient of our sweat is of different origin. People never will understand.
27, and still can’t use a basic tin opener, I get confused about whether I’m a right- or left-handed person. There’s nothing that confuses me more than that. So this morning I couldn’t have beans on toast, because I ran out of Heinz beans – you know they have a ring pull system which other brands don’t have! Why would I buy non-Heinz beans? I was so screwed this morning. I was too embarrassed to ask my landlady for help – you know me, I don’t ask for help – I haven’t got to that point yet where I’m shameful enough to do so. And yet, I’m telling you this. That’s because for me, you don’t exist. Not many things do.
But decent tin openers exist and I will buy one today.
I think in order to get the person that I really want, I need to work a lot harder, not for his sake, but for my very own. Maybe I will get to the point where I will tell him “I no longer want you”. Then I will watch him drown in his own perplexity while I cry on the inside shouting at myself for being a piteous liar.
And there’s nothing worse than lying for the sake of pride.
It’s inevitable that every day we do things that we hate. And hating only signifies that we are prisoners of our own emotions – the feeling of being trapped; doing things that we don’t want to do, but our duties are more than clear. You may call it discipline, OCD or whatever, but it doesn’t change the fact that the concept of freedom is only wishful thinking; imagination striving for escapism. It has never been different.
Once you have arrived at your desired place, there will always be something missing.
Going back to Schopi, I don’t like him as much I as I like Cioran, who expresses a lot more anger and determination and truth, while Schopi was just hateful and resentful of those around him, particularly his mother.
I just realised that all my favourite philosophers never believed that life was about something more. To them it is all about staying alive and feeding our boredom.
Please note that all these words I write I don’t talk about. If we meet, please kindly keep this shit to yourself, because I don’t discuss things. I couldn’t discuss things with anyone.
What if we could? Then you must be the character that I’ve been waiting for all my life. I want you naked on my sheet of paper…so bad…
Mercy, yes, you heard right. The word just randomly shot through my head and it makes perfect sense, but in a non-biblical way of course.
There are people who can’t forgive themselves and who are unkind to themselves. And those people you can no longer save from insanity.
This morning was my first time jogging through the cemetery. Pretty much all grave stones were moss-covered, the paths hilly and uneven, but all those names still have meaning. While thinking about that I felt a tingle in my stomach. All those names were begging to be revived, but I don’t remember any of their names.
Someone insulted me by saying I was the female equivalent of Schopi. Why would they say that? If there’s one dog breed that I don’t like, it’s poodles. Scarily enough the night after, I dreamt about petting an abandoned white poodle. Poodles are so weird; always so anxious and so full of themselves…
If I say I cannot give the required motherly love to a baby, this also applies to dogs; your most loyal friends. Strangely enough, the idea of looking after someone seems to mean the world to a lot of people, as if they had no other purposes. I feel sorry for those, but at the same time I admire them. At least they know how to function and interact with creatures of the same kind; the kind which resents you for not feeling the same way; the kind that doesn’t understand that a feeling is never mutual.
We may smell the same, but the ingredient of our sweat is of different origin. People never will understand.
27, and still can’t use a basic tin opener, I get confused about whether I’m a right- or left-handed person. There’s nothing that confuses me more than that. So this morning I couldn’t have beans on toast, because I ran out of Heinz beans – you know they have a ring pull system which other brands don’t have! Why would I buy non-Heinz beans? I was so screwed this morning. I was too embarrassed to ask my landlady for help – you know me, I don’t ask for help – I haven’t got to that point yet where I’m shameful enough to do so. And yet, I’m telling you this. That’s because for me, you don’t exist. Not many things do.
But decent tin openers exist and I will buy one today.
I think in order to get the person that I really want, I need to work a lot harder, not for his sake, but for my very own. Maybe I will get to the point where I will tell him “I no longer want you”. Then I will watch him drown in his own perplexity while I cry on the inside shouting at myself for being a piteous liar.
And there’s nothing worse than lying for the sake of pride.
It’s inevitable that every day we do things that we hate. And hating only signifies that we are prisoners of our own emotions – the feeling of being trapped; doing things that we don’t want to do, but our duties are more than clear. You may call it discipline, OCD or whatever, but it doesn’t change the fact that the concept of freedom is only wishful thinking; imagination striving for escapism. It has never been different.
Once you have arrived at your desired place, there will always be something missing.
Going back to Schopi, I don’t like him as much I as I like Cioran, who expresses a lot more anger and determination and truth, while Schopi was just hateful and resentful of those around him, particularly his mother.
I just realised that all my favourite philosophers never believed that life was about something more. To them it is all about staying alive and feeding our boredom.
Please note that all these words I write I don’t talk about. If we meet, please kindly keep this shit to yourself, because I don’t discuss things. I couldn’t discuss things with anyone.
What if we could? Then you must be the character that I’ve been waiting for all my life. I want you naked on my sheet of paper…so bad…
Sonntag, 27. November 2011
Night cramps
If we live only to delay the end and to distract ourselves from the end, it will make more sense to pretend that there is no end, like we already do and yet, some cannot wait for the end, they even speed up to meet the end.
The only reason why I’m in a hurry is only because I’m not sure how much time is left. One hour is like thirty minutes and five minutes like two. Living in this city doesn’t make things any easier.
Last week I dreamt that I could run up mountains, but now I find myself climbing with dry hands and broken fingernails. This is why I wake up, tired. I’ve been climbing all night!
This also explains my leg cramp last night which felt like a rat squeezing itself through a tight hole. Who knew that flexing your knees and pointing your toes downwards is not good for the blood flow in your legs? It’s an ordinary sleeping position.
My poor calf muscle…how ironic that these painful moments most frequently occur when you’re resting, when you believe that you’re at peace. Now suddenly I’m thinking about John Hughes’s death. Dreadful things can happen when you take a relaxing afternoon walk.
Other than that my landlady had decided to call someone to repair her shower at midnight. This is how out of order she is. And she knows I go to bed between 9-9:30pm. Inconsideration I do not tolerate and yet I am a coward for not saying anything.
I know I am an old girl who currently hates her life. And if my body hates me, I hate it back, but I still care for it.
Also I can’t believe that it’s time again to ask my landlady to top up my metre. I have 50pence worth of electricity left in my room and I know she will say it’s enough for another day.
I’ve met up with my new landlord a couple of times to sort out tenancy agreement, deposit receipt. Now that everything’s done, he’s revealing a little more weirdness and I no longer have this feeling that he’s a quiet guy. I was hoping this landlord-tenant-relationship would remain discreet. One doesn’t have to be friends with everyone. I’m getting tired of this game.
In one of John Martin’s painting there is a man struggling to climb a mountain – jagged cliffs everywhere. I forgot his name, but he is searching for the waters of oblivion.
You must have done something awfully bad, if you seek to forget. But he has made this his mission in life; he’s ready to go through hell just so he can forget. I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry about this. However, it’s his strong will that I admire, as it reminds me of Sisyphus.
No matter if good or bad, as long as you have something important to accomplish, nothing matters.
If art and photography are about capturing the moment, is writing then about finding sustenance in words?
There is a lot of art out there and living with art means to make it your own. The originality lies within you and how you plan to post-modernise it. See what Johnny did with Trent’s song. If you want to make something your own you simply apply it to your own life. Why worry about what’s been done and said. I want to know how you can do and say it. Nothing is ever the same.
Without my novel I feel naked and useless, I don’t know what to do with myself. I just realised that every day I wake up it’s to go to work, as if there was nothing more to live for. However, the break I’m taking from the book is necessary.
But I’m dying to read the comments on my thesis and I wish dear Maria would hurry and send them to me. This will be the last piece of feedback that I will receive from F. and I NEED it! Urgently!
Someone please massage my calf.
The only reason why I’m in a hurry is only because I’m not sure how much time is left. One hour is like thirty minutes and five minutes like two. Living in this city doesn’t make things any easier.
Last week I dreamt that I could run up mountains, but now I find myself climbing with dry hands and broken fingernails. This is why I wake up, tired. I’ve been climbing all night!
This also explains my leg cramp last night which felt like a rat squeezing itself through a tight hole. Who knew that flexing your knees and pointing your toes downwards is not good for the blood flow in your legs? It’s an ordinary sleeping position.
My poor calf muscle…how ironic that these painful moments most frequently occur when you’re resting, when you believe that you’re at peace. Now suddenly I’m thinking about John Hughes’s death. Dreadful things can happen when you take a relaxing afternoon walk.
Other than that my landlady had decided to call someone to repair her shower at midnight. This is how out of order she is. And she knows I go to bed between 9-9:30pm. Inconsideration I do not tolerate and yet I am a coward for not saying anything.
I know I am an old girl who currently hates her life. And if my body hates me, I hate it back, but I still care for it.
Also I can’t believe that it’s time again to ask my landlady to top up my metre. I have 50pence worth of electricity left in my room and I know she will say it’s enough for another day.
I’ve met up with my new landlord a couple of times to sort out tenancy agreement, deposit receipt. Now that everything’s done, he’s revealing a little more weirdness and I no longer have this feeling that he’s a quiet guy. I was hoping this landlord-tenant-relationship would remain discreet. One doesn’t have to be friends with everyone. I’m getting tired of this game.
In one of John Martin’s painting there is a man struggling to climb a mountain – jagged cliffs everywhere. I forgot his name, but he is searching for the waters of oblivion.
You must have done something awfully bad, if you seek to forget. But he has made this his mission in life; he’s ready to go through hell just so he can forget. I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry about this. However, it’s his strong will that I admire, as it reminds me of Sisyphus.
No matter if good or bad, as long as you have something important to accomplish, nothing matters.
If art and photography are about capturing the moment, is writing then about finding sustenance in words?
There is a lot of art out there and living with art means to make it your own. The originality lies within you and how you plan to post-modernise it. See what Johnny did with Trent’s song. If you want to make something your own you simply apply it to your own life. Why worry about what’s been done and said. I want to know how you can do and say it. Nothing is ever the same.
Without my novel I feel naked and useless, I don’t know what to do with myself. I just realised that every day I wake up it’s to go to work, as if there was nothing more to live for. However, the break I’m taking from the book is necessary.
But I’m dying to read the comments on my thesis and I wish dear Maria would hurry and send them to me. This will be the last piece of feedback that I will receive from F. and I NEED it! Urgently!
Someone please massage my calf.
Sonntag, 20. November 2011
Schuhe putzen!
Europa is probably the second best von Trier movie that I’ve seen. The opening was a little haunting because I was reminded of last night’s dream in which I saw two hung people dangling from a tree. And strangely, I was on a train myself when I saw them.
As long as precognition comes true via film rather than real life, it’s ok, right?
Young Kessler is the exact image of how I have imagined Stuart McCormick. He just needs a little bit more determination and he would be perfect. Who would have guessed that the movie’s already twenty year’s old? Watching how the character attempts to show kindness, I had to giggle all the way through. The juxtaposition of colour and black & white was fascinating and striking. It was a sudden moment of revelation and truth. And yet, love covers up your eyes as usual.
While already bordering on madness, you realise that your kindness is not, in any way, changing anything. People will always screw you over. It doesn’t even matter if they love you. A lie, a betrayal…remain a lie and a betrayal.
It all ends in agony.
Today the fog covered up the city to give us a Dickean atmosphere. It was spooky, but arousing… When running this morning, my face and hair caught a lot of water – so cold, but still refreshing.
I slept in today and didn’t wake up until half past seven. Some say I should try to go back to sleep anyway, but I can’t. There’s too much to do…
And tomorrow I have to back to work again with a smiley face.
I have been looking at my shoes lately. My slippers are falling apart. My chucks have holes and so do my Fila trainers which I’ve had since Year 7. Despite having a professional job, I look like a school kid on the outside. It’s not attractive. When buying a kitchen knife, do you ever get IDed? As if they cannot see the exhaustion in my eyes, the lines running down from my nasal wings.
I can’t do my hair properly either, and besides, they need cutting.
However, I neither have the time nor the money to pamper myself these days and if I do, I’d rather dedicate the time to something productive like work on the video blog and finish the final paragraph of the novel before the revision process.
Stuart McCormick. I always imagine him as a six foot tall guy with glasses. He is the only heart surgeon to prove to me that a heart can be fixed. There is just no one else that I believe…
As long as precognition comes true via film rather than real life, it’s ok, right?
Young Kessler is the exact image of how I have imagined Stuart McCormick. He just needs a little bit more determination and he would be perfect. Who would have guessed that the movie’s already twenty year’s old? Watching how the character attempts to show kindness, I had to giggle all the way through. The juxtaposition of colour and black & white was fascinating and striking. It was a sudden moment of revelation and truth. And yet, love covers up your eyes as usual.
While already bordering on madness, you realise that your kindness is not, in any way, changing anything. People will always screw you over. It doesn’t even matter if they love you. A lie, a betrayal…remain a lie and a betrayal.
It all ends in agony.
Today the fog covered up the city to give us a Dickean atmosphere. It was spooky, but arousing… When running this morning, my face and hair caught a lot of water – so cold, but still refreshing.
I slept in today and didn’t wake up until half past seven. Some say I should try to go back to sleep anyway, but I can’t. There’s too much to do…
And tomorrow I have to back to work again with a smiley face.
I have been looking at my shoes lately. My slippers are falling apart. My chucks have holes and so do my Fila trainers which I’ve had since Year 7. Despite having a professional job, I look like a school kid on the outside. It’s not attractive. When buying a kitchen knife, do you ever get IDed? As if they cannot see the exhaustion in my eyes, the lines running down from my nasal wings.
I can’t do my hair properly either, and besides, they need cutting.
However, I neither have the time nor the money to pamper myself these days and if I do, I’d rather dedicate the time to something productive like work on the video blog and finish the final paragraph of the novel before the revision process.
Stuart McCormick. I always imagine him as a six foot tall guy with glasses. He is the only heart surgeon to prove to me that a heart can be fixed. There is just no one else that I believe…
Dienstag, 15. November 2011
Twenty-seven
It’s close and there’s nothing that I can do about it. And before I begin to attach any blame to you, you’d better turn around and leave.
Did I ever mention that my last panic attack, before today’s one, was late August? I thought I did really well and my shoulder deserved to be patted, but as you know, certain things always return…like people who want more out of you. But a feeling like this is usually self-inflicted, usually because your environment unsuitable for your personal standards. Adjustment, they say, is important in life. I agreed to a certain point and now I no longer do. You are gifted if you have the ability to adjust. It’s part of the survival game (of which I am sick now!).
My evening run was horrific – started off really cold, but you either run yourself warm or take a cold shower and remain cold. Keep poking your immune system and suffer hard, it’s only for a moment. I felt warm eventually, but it was the first time a sense of paranoia impelled me to speed up. You think that only children suspect their shadows of following them? To be honest, I never looked at my shadow that closely before, the way it jumps, expands and overtakes me as I am running. I never look behind me when I run, but I could swear someone was behind me!
Having completed the novel I’m still not satisfied. I think I’m not entirely convinced of it yet, as I fear to look more closely at the darker elements behind the plot and character. It’s like gazing down at my end, not hers.
I’d give everything to be her, although on the emotional front, she is me already and she hates me for it. She is very contagious, especially her nimbus, which is now above my head, robbing my concentration, my calm and composure. Get rid of it!!! F***!
Funny that at the age of Seventeen I lived for the Sex Pistols song which saved me from the insignificance of peer pressure. And Alice Cooper’s Eighteen I completely forgot about. Jimmy Eat World’s Twenty-three gave me a sense of redemption. I hated that age, because my metabolism took a big turn. In the song Wish, Trent sings about being on the way to hell at the age of Twenty-six. And now looking at all the dead Twenty-sevens, I am actually quite anxious. I’m not quite sure where I am headed at the moment. I’m spending my time discharging the heat. I just want to keep my equilibrium? Be good. It’s not time yet. I want to become Twenty-eight – for there’s so freaking song about it.
Talking about anxiety, my sleep hyperhydrosis wakes me up every night. I knew that doubling my green tea consumption wasn’t the ideal option, but it was worth a try. Now I find myself washing my pillow case every other day. They say you should wash it weekly as apparently it’s dirtier than a toilet seat. Does anyone want to know how hygienic Lovecraft’s famous pillow is? That pillow holds your sickest and most nauseating nightmares. In comparison to his, mine is very harmless. In my nightmares you won’t walk on solid ground, but you’ll tumble and lose direction.
If you have an idea of how to diminish a hellish heat within, then please advice. Or maybe we could share our heat and get rid of it this way?
I am not being flirty, I meant it. Let’s become molten together.
Did I ever mention that my last panic attack, before today’s one, was late August? I thought I did really well and my shoulder deserved to be patted, but as you know, certain things always return…like people who want more out of you. But a feeling like this is usually self-inflicted, usually because your environment unsuitable for your personal standards. Adjustment, they say, is important in life. I agreed to a certain point and now I no longer do. You are gifted if you have the ability to adjust. It’s part of the survival game (of which I am sick now!).
My evening run was horrific – started off really cold, but you either run yourself warm or take a cold shower and remain cold. Keep poking your immune system and suffer hard, it’s only for a moment. I felt warm eventually, but it was the first time a sense of paranoia impelled me to speed up. You think that only children suspect their shadows of following them? To be honest, I never looked at my shadow that closely before, the way it jumps, expands and overtakes me as I am running. I never look behind me when I run, but I could swear someone was behind me!
Having completed the novel I’m still not satisfied. I think I’m not entirely convinced of it yet, as I fear to look more closely at the darker elements behind the plot and character. It’s like gazing down at my end, not hers.
I’d give everything to be her, although on the emotional front, she is me already and she hates me for it. She is very contagious, especially her nimbus, which is now above my head, robbing my concentration, my calm and composure. Get rid of it!!! F***!
Funny that at the age of Seventeen I lived for the Sex Pistols song which saved me from the insignificance of peer pressure. And Alice Cooper’s Eighteen I completely forgot about. Jimmy Eat World’s Twenty-three gave me a sense of redemption. I hated that age, because my metabolism took a big turn. In the song Wish, Trent sings about being on the way to hell at the age of Twenty-six. And now looking at all the dead Twenty-sevens, I am actually quite anxious. I’m not quite sure where I am headed at the moment. I’m spending my time discharging the heat. I just want to keep my equilibrium? Be good. It’s not time yet. I want to become Twenty-eight – for there’s so freaking song about it.
Talking about anxiety, my sleep hyperhydrosis wakes me up every night. I knew that doubling my green tea consumption wasn’t the ideal option, but it was worth a try. Now I find myself washing my pillow case every other day. They say you should wash it weekly as apparently it’s dirtier than a toilet seat. Does anyone want to know how hygienic Lovecraft’s famous pillow is? That pillow holds your sickest and most nauseating nightmares. In comparison to his, mine is very harmless. In my nightmares you won’t walk on solid ground, but you’ll tumble and lose direction.
If you have an idea of how to diminish a hellish heat within, then please advice. Or maybe we could share our heat and get rid of it this way?
I am not being flirty, I meant it. Let’s become molten together.
Sonntag, 13. November 2011
When mice hatch from sausages
So I’ve completed Ellen’s narrative, now I have to switch to the third person free indirect style, from the perspective of an innocent paedophile (you need Nabokov to explain this). Difficult but it needs to work. It’s only now that I kind of recall certain events on which my concepts are based on. But you rewrite everything in a way that it appears to be new like an original idea, but actually you have witnessed something in the past and you realise that your imagination is somewhat connected to the jelly in you. And over the years you attempt to harden up the jelly. It takes time.
I don’t know what’s going on, but I haven’t received my thesis results like everyone else. And Maria, the secretary is ignoring my emails. However, before I get them, I’d like to have the novel finished…in case of demoralization when reading Goldsmiths’ uber-critical comments.
Having worked for almost two months, I must say I have adapted myself quite well despite certain levels of hectic within the working environment. People are starting to let me “in” due to my integration and because I’m an early bird. I feel a lot more comfortable now.
I have noticed certain factors which are generally related to human relationships, no matter if friends, collaborators, partners or whatever, when it comes to money, you realise that a certain extent of discretion is required.
This is why you NEVER ask a friend to lend you money and you never lend money to them.
Business, eh?
How despicable this word is, I have learnt a lot in the last two months – from being scammed to being sincerely hired. I thought I had my own rules for the survival game, but when it comes to earning money, there are more rules to be added to the game. (Note that rules are ok when they are set by you.) The good thing is that you’re not required to be insincere, you just shut your mouth and I have no problems with that. As you know, I shut my mouth about a lot of things. And if I do say something, it always comes out the wrong way. (You remember my blog on Lars.)
Sometimes I know what people want to hear, but I just won’t say it. If I feel like deceiving them I pretend we share the same opinion and they’ll be like: “You and I are the same!”
Yes. We are sooo similar.
Is that the novelty of blending in, Dexter? Quite useful sometimes, isn’t it? Unlike you, I don’t want to be like them.
They call a “loner” but this word derives from “lonely”, so don’t fucking call me that.
I admit I have been very selfish lately; been treating my friends terribly. They invite me, I decline them. They text me, I ignore them. I need to keep in mind that when declining them, I shouldn’t give reasons. Whenever I give reasons I seem to be dragging them down with me.
The room in my life has become so small, I can’t even fit myself in, let alone a friend? I need more room.
I understand they all want to talk, but the thing with me is – I don’t. That’s the problem. You know what it’s like being around people with whom you cannot be who you are. They don’t realise that they have a problem with who you are. They might accept you for who you are, but they don’t like it and they will ask you to make an exception for at least a day. For instance, a friend invites you to her wedding, despite knowing you hate ceremonies like that. And they ask you to pull a happy face for at least a day. And it’s difficult, horribly difficult. In order to stop you from calling me selfish: I went to the wedding, but not more needs to be said. I will not attend any other ones, not even my own.
The power of green tea has saved my life, at least in the last two months. However, the angry sentiments have returned. And I knew they would. I clench my fists for no particular reason. No matter what I do to become a better person to myself, I seem to grow immune to all these…good drugs; my conscience does, if I still remember how it functions. Everything loses effect – so quickly. With me in particular. It’s as if this horrible thing can’t wait to salute me.
I was flat hunting again and surprisingly found something really fast.
There’s no way I’m going to extend my current contract. Landlady was having a massive argument with her son the other week – and this seems to happen frequently. Apart from that, she has her granddaughter over every damn weekend. She was squealing like a pig the other week; I have no idea what she was crying about, but a kid’s cry is so haunting. Besides, I envy them too much to be around them.
However, when my landlady and her son were arguing downstairs, I went to the bathroom and saw the girl in my landlady’s room. She was sad. In fact, I don’t hate her that much. I just prefer her quiet.
But there are several other reasons why I just do not wish to extend my contract. She turns small talk into small talk “conversation”. If the sun’s shining, she’d go on about the sun shine yesterday or last week, last month. Sun will probably shine tomorrow too or next weekend.
A conversation that can be short and simple becomes 30min. I can’t take it any longer. Even if it’s just once or twice a week.
I’d rather you enquire about my sex life. Or how about you tell me what you and your son always argue about?
Also, every month I have to ask her to top up my metre for electricity. Every time it shows“40pence left”, I get nervous about the food in my fridge. And she would say it’s enough for another day and a half.
So she’s only going to top up once the metre has gone CLICK? Yes. That happened over a week ago. And he was not in. I was sitting in the dark, typing until my laptop battery went off. This made me feel more horrible about my life than I already did.
I wish I had the money to live on fucking own. Give me some space. How much I love my friends, I have to admit I am glad to be on my own. Sometimes instead of going for a coffee with someone, I’d rather walk through the cemetery and steal beautiful names in order to create a new life for them…in a story. Not even writers would understand this.
From next month, I will be living with a quiet landlord with a strange personality, but he is reliable, quiet and clean – there is nothing more I look for in a flat mate. He says he is hardly ever home. And when he is I’ll only get to see him in the kitchen. I like the sound of it.
You’re anxious that I chose to live with a man, who, on the behavioural level is similar to me? Well, it was either him or extend contract with my current landlady who has started praying hysterically every morning like a madwoman. If God was the truth, why would people constantly call it The Ugly Truth?
I don’t know what’s going on, but I haven’t received my thesis results like everyone else. And Maria, the secretary is ignoring my emails. However, before I get them, I’d like to have the novel finished…in case of demoralization when reading Goldsmiths’ uber-critical comments.
Having worked for almost two months, I must say I have adapted myself quite well despite certain levels of hectic within the working environment. People are starting to let me “in” due to my integration and because I’m an early bird. I feel a lot more comfortable now.
I have noticed certain factors which are generally related to human relationships, no matter if friends, collaborators, partners or whatever, when it comes to money, you realise that a certain extent of discretion is required.
This is why you NEVER ask a friend to lend you money and you never lend money to them.
Business, eh?
How despicable this word is, I have learnt a lot in the last two months – from being scammed to being sincerely hired. I thought I had my own rules for the survival game, but when it comes to earning money, there are more rules to be added to the game. (Note that rules are ok when they are set by you.) The good thing is that you’re not required to be insincere, you just shut your mouth and I have no problems with that. As you know, I shut my mouth about a lot of things. And if I do say something, it always comes out the wrong way. (You remember my blog on Lars.)
Sometimes I know what people want to hear, but I just won’t say it. If I feel like deceiving them I pretend we share the same opinion and they’ll be like: “You and I are the same!”
Yes. We are sooo similar.
Is that the novelty of blending in, Dexter? Quite useful sometimes, isn’t it? Unlike you, I don’t want to be like them.
They call a “loner” but this word derives from “lonely”, so don’t fucking call me that.
I admit I have been very selfish lately; been treating my friends terribly. They invite me, I decline them. They text me, I ignore them. I need to keep in mind that when declining them, I shouldn’t give reasons. Whenever I give reasons I seem to be dragging them down with me.
The room in my life has become so small, I can’t even fit myself in, let alone a friend? I need more room.
I understand they all want to talk, but the thing with me is – I don’t. That’s the problem. You know what it’s like being around people with whom you cannot be who you are. They don’t realise that they have a problem with who you are. They might accept you for who you are, but they don’t like it and they will ask you to make an exception for at least a day. For instance, a friend invites you to her wedding, despite knowing you hate ceremonies like that. And they ask you to pull a happy face for at least a day. And it’s difficult, horribly difficult. In order to stop you from calling me selfish: I went to the wedding, but not more needs to be said. I will not attend any other ones, not even my own.
The power of green tea has saved my life, at least in the last two months. However, the angry sentiments have returned. And I knew they would. I clench my fists for no particular reason. No matter what I do to become a better person to myself, I seem to grow immune to all these…good drugs; my conscience does, if I still remember how it functions. Everything loses effect – so quickly. With me in particular. It’s as if this horrible thing can’t wait to salute me.
I was flat hunting again and surprisingly found something really fast.
There’s no way I’m going to extend my current contract. Landlady was having a massive argument with her son the other week – and this seems to happen frequently. Apart from that, she has her granddaughter over every damn weekend. She was squealing like a pig the other week; I have no idea what she was crying about, but a kid’s cry is so haunting. Besides, I envy them too much to be around them.
However, when my landlady and her son were arguing downstairs, I went to the bathroom and saw the girl in my landlady’s room. She was sad. In fact, I don’t hate her that much. I just prefer her quiet.
But there are several other reasons why I just do not wish to extend my contract. She turns small talk into small talk “conversation”. If the sun’s shining, she’d go on about the sun shine yesterday or last week, last month. Sun will probably shine tomorrow too or next weekend.
A conversation that can be short and simple becomes 30min. I can’t take it any longer. Even if it’s just once or twice a week.
I’d rather you enquire about my sex life. Or how about you tell me what you and your son always argue about?
Also, every month I have to ask her to top up my metre for electricity. Every time it shows“40pence left”, I get nervous about the food in my fridge. And she would say it’s enough for another day and a half.
So she’s only going to top up once the metre has gone CLICK? Yes. That happened over a week ago. And he was not in. I was sitting in the dark, typing until my laptop battery went off. This made me feel more horrible about my life than I already did.
I wish I had the money to live on fucking own. Give me some space. How much I love my friends, I have to admit I am glad to be on my own. Sometimes instead of going for a coffee with someone, I’d rather walk through the cemetery and steal beautiful names in order to create a new life for them…in a story. Not even writers would understand this.
From next month, I will be living with a quiet landlord with a strange personality, but he is reliable, quiet and clean – there is nothing more I look for in a flat mate. He says he is hardly ever home. And when he is I’ll only get to see him in the kitchen. I like the sound of it.
You’re anxious that I chose to live with a man, who, on the behavioural level is similar to me? Well, it was either him or extend contract with my current landlady who has started praying hysterically every morning like a madwoman. If God was the truth, why would people constantly call it The Ugly Truth?
Samstag, 15. Oktober 2011
Michel
This is the kind of revitalising cold that I enjoy; under a windless winter sun and Gustav Mahler in my ears to dissolve the heat in the core. – This is what I thought at 6am and by the time it was 12pm, the heat rose and sweated like a pig in my winter coat.
It’s not quite autumn, yet. I’ll give it a few more days.
If you ask me what I choose between catching up with my friends and writing, I’m going for writing. Catching up with friends would mean depressing them, infuriating them with my current view on things. The weekends are currently mine and mine alone. I spend 45 hours at work during week (-5 hours for lunch) and by the time I get home it’s almost seven and I spend about 2 hours writing before I go to sleep at 9pm. It’s like back at school! Exciting? Maybe, I do like getting up at 5am; it’s calm, cool, comforting, but the horror begins on the train – you Londonic idiots know.
When I was at the Loafers Café, I didn’t realise that it was an open day. I found myself staring at all the newbies with pure envy. Also I was hoping to bump into a certain someone, catching his Tintin posture. I was kind of testing whether I really couldn’t write in public. However, I ended up writing a good 500 words in two hours. Haven’t I told you that I’m a slow writer? Words don’t just come like that in my head, but a certain emotion, thought or tickle in flesh come almost instantly and they all need expression. It takes time, for me at least. It’s because I don’t use big words like you; you who aim to sound over intellectual and poetic. I’m no native English speaker after all. I do try to be articulate.
Apparently at work I don’t articulate myself clearly enough in my remarks and tour reports. But I have to communicate with Japanese people from sales offices whose English are dreadful and on to of that they use tons of abbreviations (as they all do) thinking that it’s smart. It’s pure LAZINESS. I condemn everyone who’s lazy, especially in the use of words.
And they say I don’t express myself clearly…
For your information, I’m not depressed, just angry, as usual, surrounded by Londonic idiots with nothing good in store; it’s either Londonic idiots or despairing newbies who don’t know their way round. But I like watching the newbies as I can compare myself with them and check who is better at adapting himself to the Londonic environment. I cried a few times, too, until a few months ago I realised that this icky place deserves no tear, neither does any place.
It has been somewhat terrifying reading Houellebecq for the past week. Although the book’s one year old, the contemporary contents were over-contemporary and foreshadowing. Pretty often the opposing image of Jobs and Gates was presented with an emphasis on Jobs’s sad face. Then it took a slight Dorian Gray-turn in terms of art but in conjunction with financial aspects and a lot of relation to Houellebecq’s view on society, customs, religion, apathy/decadence and a dysfunctional love life. I was just interested in the art bit and his of lack of interest regarding unrequited love. It’s the first time I noticed that about him. He longer gives a damn and neither do I. However, what he illustrates in the book is his own murder. And it is not committed by the novel’s protagonist, I wouldn’t have thought so anyway. (The voice switches from third person omniscient to free indirect style.) Although the protagonist is a male artist I had to imagine myself being him when he meets Houellebecq at his house in Dublin. It’s no secret that I am in love with the ideas and attitudes that this man represent, right? I am not in love with him; it’s just that I understand the sentiments behind his words, which his detractors find revolting and obscene.
In terms of other contemporary elements, there is a section where the protagonist’s father chooses to end his life via euthanasia in Switzerland. He thought the artificial anus was getting a little too ridiculous for the continuation of his life. I enjoyed the father and son story and how the protagonist, after the father’s “evaporation”, brutally beats up the Swiss woman who was in charge. I didn’t mean to write “brutally”, it was two hits. I would have smacked her up continuously.
Houellebecq, in the novel, pretty much depicts himself as a wreck, but a wreck that produces great words. Then he writes about maggots popping out of his mouth.
One day we’ll feed our words to maggots because there will be no one else that listens anymore. No detractors, no loved ones.
This makes me believe that even if you have enemies or detractors, no one will hate you more than you already hate yourself. And it feels good that way. I’m not saying that hate is a good thing, but I’m not explaining it to you.
What was I going to say anyway? Yes, Switzerland. Only lately I’ve been playing around with the thought of going there and maybe spend some time there. They say it’s a clean country, calm country, conducive country, but it’s a country where they practise euthanasia and keep anonymous bank accounts. However, I just want to visit the mountains – maybe spend a few days there in a hut and get paranoid. It’s about time to say hi to the monsters of calm. I have to keep them coming in order to get rid of them. This is the course of my life.
To lessen your concern, I’m by no means J.-B. Grenouille. Him I understand, too. These men are not granted love, they just watch it slip and it means nothing. Anymore, anyway.
It’s not quite autumn, yet. I’ll give it a few more days.
If you ask me what I choose between catching up with my friends and writing, I’m going for writing. Catching up with friends would mean depressing them, infuriating them with my current view on things. The weekends are currently mine and mine alone. I spend 45 hours at work during week (-5 hours for lunch) and by the time I get home it’s almost seven and I spend about 2 hours writing before I go to sleep at 9pm. It’s like back at school! Exciting? Maybe, I do like getting up at 5am; it’s calm, cool, comforting, but the horror begins on the train – you Londonic idiots know.
When I was at the Loafers Café, I didn’t realise that it was an open day. I found myself staring at all the newbies with pure envy. Also I was hoping to bump into a certain someone, catching his Tintin posture. I was kind of testing whether I really couldn’t write in public. However, I ended up writing a good 500 words in two hours. Haven’t I told you that I’m a slow writer? Words don’t just come like that in my head, but a certain emotion, thought or tickle in flesh come almost instantly and they all need expression. It takes time, for me at least. It’s because I don’t use big words like you; you who aim to sound over intellectual and poetic. I’m no native English speaker after all. I do try to be articulate.
Apparently at work I don’t articulate myself clearly enough in my remarks and tour reports. But I have to communicate with Japanese people from sales offices whose English are dreadful and on to of that they use tons of abbreviations (as they all do) thinking that it’s smart. It’s pure LAZINESS. I condemn everyone who’s lazy, especially in the use of words.
And they say I don’t express myself clearly…
For your information, I’m not depressed, just angry, as usual, surrounded by Londonic idiots with nothing good in store; it’s either Londonic idiots or despairing newbies who don’t know their way round. But I like watching the newbies as I can compare myself with them and check who is better at adapting himself to the Londonic environment. I cried a few times, too, until a few months ago I realised that this icky place deserves no tear, neither does any place.
It has been somewhat terrifying reading Houellebecq for the past week. Although the book’s one year old, the contemporary contents were over-contemporary and foreshadowing. Pretty often the opposing image of Jobs and Gates was presented with an emphasis on Jobs’s sad face. Then it took a slight Dorian Gray-turn in terms of art but in conjunction with financial aspects and a lot of relation to Houellebecq’s view on society, customs, religion, apathy/decadence and a dysfunctional love life. I was just interested in the art bit and his of lack of interest regarding unrequited love. It’s the first time I noticed that about him. He longer gives a damn and neither do I. However, what he illustrates in the book is his own murder. And it is not committed by the novel’s protagonist, I wouldn’t have thought so anyway. (The voice switches from third person omniscient to free indirect style.) Although the protagonist is a male artist I had to imagine myself being him when he meets Houellebecq at his house in Dublin. It’s no secret that I am in love with the ideas and attitudes that this man represent, right? I am not in love with him; it’s just that I understand the sentiments behind his words, which his detractors find revolting and obscene.
In terms of other contemporary elements, there is a section where the protagonist’s father chooses to end his life via euthanasia in Switzerland. He thought the artificial anus was getting a little too ridiculous for the continuation of his life. I enjoyed the father and son story and how the protagonist, after the father’s “evaporation”, brutally beats up the Swiss woman who was in charge. I didn’t mean to write “brutally”, it was two hits. I would have smacked her up continuously.
Houellebecq, in the novel, pretty much depicts himself as a wreck, but a wreck that produces great words. Then he writes about maggots popping out of his mouth.
One day we’ll feed our words to maggots because there will be no one else that listens anymore. No detractors, no loved ones.
This makes me believe that even if you have enemies or detractors, no one will hate you more than you already hate yourself. And it feels good that way. I’m not saying that hate is a good thing, but I’m not explaining it to you.
What was I going to say anyway? Yes, Switzerland. Only lately I’ve been playing around with the thought of going there and maybe spend some time there. They say it’s a clean country, calm country, conducive country, but it’s a country where they practise euthanasia and keep anonymous bank accounts. However, I just want to visit the mountains – maybe spend a few days there in a hut and get paranoid. It’s about time to say hi to the monsters of calm. I have to keep them coming in order to get rid of them. This is the course of my life.
To lessen your concern, I’m by no means J.-B. Grenouille. Him I understand, too. These men are not granted love, they just watch it slip and it means nothing. Anymore, anyway.
Sonntag, 9. Oktober 2011
Lars
I might as well let people think that I am a delight; it can be easy to blend in without having to tell lies. You just smile and keep your mouth shut. The smile, however, refers to some funny, mischievous thought or picture you have in mind and no one will ever know what it is.
I just ripped out a small article about Lars von Trier joking about being a nazi. You remember when he was at the Cannes Fest sitting next to Kirsten Dunst? Do you remember the look on her face? I know what type of a person Lars is; he doesn’t tell jokes; and unaware of this inappropriate dark comedy approach in front of a conventional crowd with boring moral codes, he was doomed to cause another scandal. And this is why he is brilliant. His remarks are not meant to insult and yet, ‘people’ think otherwise.
This is why introverts don’t talk much.
In the article he claims: “I do not possess the skills to express myself unequivocally…”
Lars, people like us don’t express ourselves with the spoken word; we use art and therefore what we express is stronger than every word spoken.
I also don’t blame him for refraining from giving any more interviews. Who likes interviews anyways? People who seek attention, of course. Unlike them, we seek attention by inspiring the ambitious. We don’t fool them into capitalism and mindless consumerism, not with ulterior motives.
Funny that when telling people that I’m a writer, they instinctively think I write romance for the masses. It’s hilarious. When I mention ‘transgressive fiction’ they don’t get it. So I keep on saying that I write obscene stuff that people don’t talk about. And you can tell how squeamish they get only after hearing the term ‘obscene’.
As you may have noticed, I’ve learnt a lot from Dexter. It does make life a lot easier to blend in occasionally, especially if you have to deal with dozens of people who only care about their own business and all they need from you is a little hint of positive attitude – no matter if feigned or not. They only need to see that you appear to fit in. Most are too blind or too indifferent to check what’s behind your back anyway or what’s lurking beneath the surface. To my luck, not many people are interested anyway, and some don’t even see it. I can’t tell whether it’s a good thing or not. Maybe there are more than two who accept me for who I am.
Whoever enters my room complains of it being cold. I sleep with windows half open and they’re half open throughout the day, unless I’m out. Yes, my room is cold and so are my hands, even if the heating is on. The heat doesn’t reach me. Like the blood never reaches my fingertips. Maybe I’m still boiling up at a certain spot in my body. I don’t know how long the green tea will keep me calm.
And well, I’m still not plagued by a cold because I eat more fruits than you do.
Now that it is autumn, everyone’s ill and whenever I’m on the tube in the morning, I am plagued by people’s morning breaths and farts. The only problem I have with autumn is that people are prone to colds and the last thing I need is people sharing their germs in the underground. I never hold on to anything when on the tube. If it gets shaky I pretend I’m surfing, I try to predict the next shaky movement, so I know where to load my weight. You may call me crazy, but I’m really not keen on your germs, really not. I’d rather you choke on them and burn.
It’s hell jogging in this wind. The smell of the autumn air is wonderful, except for the piercing wind inducing tears and runny nose. Running and crying at the same time makes you look like you’re turning your back on something. When running around the cemetery, I see crying angels, which doesn’t help.
Maybe it’s time to sign up at the gym again.
How I hate not having my own toilet. In the morning I go to the toilet about 5 times, because I drink gallons of water and green tea. So my landlady always sees me walking into the bathroom. She thinks I have chronic diarrhoea.
Someone told me that I shouldn’t expose too much, because there are a lot of people out there who will use the exposure against me, even friends. As I said before, there is no one in your life who wouldn’t use anything against you. Even your best friend would use your negative traits against you in an argument. But it’s only natural, isn’t it? I never know what natural behaviour is to you and what’s not.
Shaking.
It’s not always a sign of fever.
Melancholia left me with certain sentiments:
I feel so attracted to you, you rouse my female parts into action, make my nipples sore, but what’s the point? You’re going to crush me, destroy me anyway with that shimmering light of yours. You eliminate my existence for you cannot control yourself. Me – the only life that you’ve ever known. But I won’t run away, I can’t. Swallow me now and I’ll make your heart burn; the most painful heartburn you’ve ever experienced.
If we were to die today a sense of unfulfillment would forever leave us incomplete, wouldn’t it? Even as particles of the cold, we’d glide and move on until we’ve found a place that has space for hope.
Do you remember the fat man in the red suit with tartan patterns? I still haven’t quite overcome my fear of him. Sometimes in bed, I listen to The Cure’s ‘Lullaby’ on repeat, and that’s when I feel his cold breath behind my ear. I wonder what E. would do. She has nightmares, too, except that I’d class my problem as hypnagogic paranoia.
I still have to figure out who my sweetest friend is. The one to tell me what I have become.
I just ripped out a small article about Lars von Trier joking about being a nazi. You remember when he was at the Cannes Fest sitting next to Kirsten Dunst? Do you remember the look on her face? I know what type of a person Lars is; he doesn’t tell jokes; and unaware of this inappropriate dark comedy approach in front of a conventional crowd with boring moral codes, he was doomed to cause another scandal. And this is why he is brilliant. His remarks are not meant to insult and yet, ‘people’ think otherwise.
This is why introverts don’t talk much.
In the article he claims: “I do not possess the skills to express myself unequivocally…”
Lars, people like us don’t express ourselves with the spoken word; we use art and therefore what we express is stronger than every word spoken.
I also don’t blame him for refraining from giving any more interviews. Who likes interviews anyways? People who seek attention, of course. Unlike them, we seek attention by inspiring the ambitious. We don’t fool them into capitalism and mindless consumerism, not with ulterior motives.
Funny that when telling people that I’m a writer, they instinctively think I write romance for the masses. It’s hilarious. When I mention ‘transgressive fiction’ they don’t get it. So I keep on saying that I write obscene stuff that people don’t talk about. And you can tell how squeamish they get only after hearing the term ‘obscene’.
As you may have noticed, I’ve learnt a lot from Dexter. It does make life a lot easier to blend in occasionally, especially if you have to deal with dozens of people who only care about their own business and all they need from you is a little hint of positive attitude – no matter if feigned or not. They only need to see that you appear to fit in. Most are too blind or too indifferent to check what’s behind your back anyway or what’s lurking beneath the surface. To my luck, not many people are interested anyway, and some don’t even see it. I can’t tell whether it’s a good thing or not. Maybe there are more than two who accept me for who I am.
Whoever enters my room complains of it being cold. I sleep with windows half open and they’re half open throughout the day, unless I’m out. Yes, my room is cold and so are my hands, even if the heating is on. The heat doesn’t reach me. Like the blood never reaches my fingertips. Maybe I’m still boiling up at a certain spot in my body. I don’t know how long the green tea will keep me calm.
And well, I’m still not plagued by a cold because I eat more fruits than you do.
Now that it is autumn, everyone’s ill and whenever I’m on the tube in the morning, I am plagued by people’s morning breaths and farts. The only problem I have with autumn is that people are prone to colds and the last thing I need is people sharing their germs in the underground. I never hold on to anything when on the tube. If it gets shaky I pretend I’m surfing, I try to predict the next shaky movement, so I know where to load my weight. You may call me crazy, but I’m really not keen on your germs, really not. I’d rather you choke on them and burn.
It’s hell jogging in this wind. The smell of the autumn air is wonderful, except for the piercing wind inducing tears and runny nose. Running and crying at the same time makes you look like you’re turning your back on something. When running around the cemetery, I see crying angels, which doesn’t help.
Maybe it’s time to sign up at the gym again.
How I hate not having my own toilet. In the morning I go to the toilet about 5 times, because I drink gallons of water and green tea. So my landlady always sees me walking into the bathroom. She thinks I have chronic diarrhoea.
Someone told me that I shouldn’t expose too much, because there are a lot of people out there who will use the exposure against me, even friends. As I said before, there is no one in your life who wouldn’t use anything against you. Even your best friend would use your negative traits against you in an argument. But it’s only natural, isn’t it? I never know what natural behaviour is to you and what’s not.
Shaking.
It’s not always a sign of fever.
Melancholia left me with certain sentiments:
I feel so attracted to you, you rouse my female parts into action, make my nipples sore, but what’s the point? You’re going to crush me, destroy me anyway with that shimmering light of yours. You eliminate my existence for you cannot control yourself. Me – the only life that you’ve ever known. But I won’t run away, I can’t. Swallow me now and I’ll make your heart burn; the most painful heartburn you’ve ever experienced.
If we were to die today a sense of unfulfillment would forever leave us incomplete, wouldn’t it? Even as particles of the cold, we’d glide and move on until we’ve found a place that has space for hope.
Do you remember the fat man in the red suit with tartan patterns? I still haven’t quite overcome my fear of him. Sometimes in bed, I listen to The Cure’s ‘Lullaby’ on repeat, and that’s when I feel his cold breath behind my ear. I wonder what E. would do. She has nightmares, too, except that I’d class my problem as hypnagogic paranoia.
I still have to figure out who my sweetest friend is. The one to tell me what I have become.
Dienstag, 4. Oktober 2011
Solitary pastime
Do you even know what this means? Do you know how important it is? Normal would be to have 10 hours of it per day. You call me crazy, but in reality you’re just scared of it, you’re scared of yourself. I’m not saying this about everyone, just to those who accuse me of flirting with Houellebecq-ian and Cioran-ian principles. I already told you that I’m different from them, on the outside anyway. What do you care about what really fuels my engine? I’m smiling at you right now, aren’t I? That should be all that counts. After all I have hope, which means I’m no longer scared, just tired, but I cannot afford to be tired. There’s too much to do, still a lot to learn. Too many people to tell that they are not worth it and too many left to kiss. Six kisses in your life just aren’t enough. People get to a point where they lose count and I want to get there, too.
Yes I had a fabulous weekend on my own and I will have it again. I’m not going to call you, unless I’m ok with it. Have you got a problem with it? Then let’s end the friendship right here. At least I’m not saying I’m going to call you when I need something, I said I’m going to call you when I’m ok with it – big difference. I think about my friends all the time, how often do I have to tell you? Once I know I’m due for a “hello”, I will fucking say hello, ok.
I’ve been reading Houellebecq’s latest book as well and I like how he is faithful to his style. It still makes me smile when he separates his protagonist from human-beings. And he loves choosing exceptionally beautiful women to be his girlfriends – there’s nothing wrong with that. I mean I wish I was dating a cardiac surgeon and I wish I was one myself. But Houellebecq, despite his stance towards society and life, he is a delight. He’s wonderful. Come on, we’re talking about a writer who falls asleep during interviews.
I can’t wait to move out and have a place of my own, with my friend and one day – maybe not in this bloodsucking country – on my fucking own. I thought my new room was nice, but I’ve started feeling claustrophobic, I have no proper space to move around, no fan that extracts the steam while cooking, etc. I can hardly do my Pilates on that soft depressing double bed. At the weekends the neighbours are noisy and about twice a week my landlord’s daughter and granddaughter come to visit, which incites me to hold my bladder to avoid going to the downstairs toilet. Sick, I know. But I don’t want to socialise, you see, not even a hello. And when I pee in the bathroom they can hear it in the dining room, because the fucking door doesn’t shut properly. Though, I’m not making it obvious how I despise socialising. My landlord still thinks I’m a delightful person. And the granddaughter looks at me as if I was her favourite doll – but I’m not having this. Talking about kids staring at me – I’ve always thought that it had something to do with my skin colour or my eyes, but it’s not true. The other day on the tube, there was an Oriental baby in the pram. It stared at me as if I was a disease. God, these fucking creatures!
Although things are pretty much settling down, I’m still in such a hurry. I don’t get home from work until about 6 or 7ish and by the time it’s 9, I’m already in bed. This is not life, is it? I have to work on my routine still – how much I hate routines.
Fuck, my room still smells of soy sauce. Cooking my lunch a night before is horrible, but yes, it saves me money. It’s just that re-heated food is not healthy, not just that, it tastes shit once it’s been re-heated in the micro wave. I threw today’s pasta with pesto away. It tasted dry and disgusting.
Well, regarding writing and reading, I only have little space for these activities, but I at least have the space just not always on a regular basis. Therefore weekends have become MY days. And if I don’t want to see you, take it personally, I don’t care. It means you know shit about me and right now I seriously don’t have the nerves to explain who I am to you. There are a lot of things that I do on my own: I travel, I go to the opera / cinema / gym / park / etc. on my own. If I want to invite you along I will tell you. By all means, I haven’t forgotten about you. But you’re offended, you don’t care and honestly, I don’t care about you feeling this way. As I said it’s up to you to put an end to it, I’m done with explaining. Sincerely, it doesn’t mean I don’t care about you as a person. But it’s time for you to believe what you want.
This may be hard to understand, but I know it makes sense to you in a way, although we have different ideas about friendship, human interaction and communication. Just fucking let me go to bed now.
Yes I had a fabulous weekend on my own and I will have it again. I’m not going to call you, unless I’m ok with it. Have you got a problem with it? Then let’s end the friendship right here. At least I’m not saying I’m going to call you when I need something, I said I’m going to call you when I’m ok with it – big difference. I think about my friends all the time, how often do I have to tell you? Once I know I’m due for a “hello”, I will fucking say hello, ok.
I’ve been reading Houellebecq’s latest book as well and I like how he is faithful to his style. It still makes me smile when he separates his protagonist from human-beings. And he loves choosing exceptionally beautiful women to be his girlfriends – there’s nothing wrong with that. I mean I wish I was dating a cardiac surgeon and I wish I was one myself. But Houellebecq, despite his stance towards society and life, he is a delight. He’s wonderful. Come on, we’re talking about a writer who falls asleep during interviews.
I can’t wait to move out and have a place of my own, with my friend and one day – maybe not in this bloodsucking country – on my fucking own. I thought my new room was nice, but I’ve started feeling claustrophobic, I have no proper space to move around, no fan that extracts the steam while cooking, etc. I can hardly do my Pilates on that soft depressing double bed. At the weekends the neighbours are noisy and about twice a week my landlord’s daughter and granddaughter come to visit, which incites me to hold my bladder to avoid going to the downstairs toilet. Sick, I know. But I don’t want to socialise, you see, not even a hello. And when I pee in the bathroom they can hear it in the dining room, because the fucking door doesn’t shut properly. Though, I’m not making it obvious how I despise socialising. My landlord still thinks I’m a delightful person. And the granddaughter looks at me as if I was her favourite doll – but I’m not having this. Talking about kids staring at me – I’ve always thought that it had something to do with my skin colour or my eyes, but it’s not true. The other day on the tube, there was an Oriental baby in the pram. It stared at me as if I was a disease. God, these fucking creatures!
Although things are pretty much settling down, I’m still in such a hurry. I don’t get home from work until about 6 or 7ish and by the time it’s 9, I’m already in bed. This is not life, is it? I have to work on my routine still – how much I hate routines.
Fuck, my room still smells of soy sauce. Cooking my lunch a night before is horrible, but yes, it saves me money. It’s just that re-heated food is not healthy, not just that, it tastes shit once it’s been re-heated in the micro wave. I threw today’s pasta with pesto away. It tasted dry and disgusting.
Well, regarding writing and reading, I only have little space for these activities, but I at least have the space just not always on a regular basis. Therefore weekends have become MY days. And if I don’t want to see you, take it personally, I don’t care. It means you know shit about me and right now I seriously don’t have the nerves to explain who I am to you. There are a lot of things that I do on my own: I travel, I go to the opera / cinema / gym / park / etc. on my own. If I want to invite you along I will tell you. By all means, I haven’t forgotten about you. But you’re offended, you don’t care and honestly, I don’t care about you feeling this way. As I said it’s up to you to put an end to it, I’m done with explaining. Sincerely, it doesn’t mean I don’t care about you as a person. But it’s time for you to believe what you want.
This may be hard to understand, but I know it makes sense to you in a way, although we have different ideas about friendship, human interaction and communication. Just fucking let me go to bed now.
Montag, 26. September 2011
First day
The first day at work – a lot of information given, therefore a lot to learn and to digest, but I am making the effort. I will tell you exactly why in a bit.
The people are very nice, helpful and always in a good mood. As usual, I am nervous, surrounded by a sense of intimidation on the first few days. I don’t quite know yet how each of them ticks, how each one works and what’s required and expected from me. But a lot of you may know I am a team player; I just need time to make myself fit in. The work is sincere and you are being fully trained. There is a hell of a lot of detail that needs attention. But I’m sure it’s a rhythm/routine that I can get straight into after maybe two or three weeks. How I hate the beginning of things, I know that I need to get through this carefully. I am surrounded by left brainers with limited rooms for a right brainer, which is one reason why I feel slightly left out. So I’ll have to poke my left side a bit to ask for a little help. This is my way to boost my self-reliance. The work consists of a lot of abbreviations, general knowledge (which I need to expand a lot more) and patience. I know what my friends think while reading this. Just keep your mouth shut, please.
I’m making my own decisions here, I know what’s good for me. Though, I am still careful; after what I’ve been through in the last 3 weeks (you know) I have to. I’m keeping my composure, despite exhaustion and nausea. I have to make sure to learn all the necessary information in order to fit in and I will. Things need to begin to settle, come into place and lift me up.
Hard work.
This is why I’m here.
In spite of the hard work, I overheard something when I was in the lift, coming back from my lunch break. The lift was packed and I could see one of my supervisors entering the lift with some other girls. I wanted to shout “hi”, but she didn’t see me, so I didn’t bother. One of the girls said:
“So you found someone for Germany?”
The supervisor then said “Yeah, she was born in Germany…”
I was about to shout that I was right there.
But she continued: “But she isn’t good enough…”
That was that. I was supposed to get off with them on the 6th floor, but I waited until I arrived at the 7th floor, hiding my face behind all my starter’s pack notes.
A lot of questions arose in my mind. I knew that it had been difficult for them to find a suitable applicant – so what exactly made me pass the two interviews that I attended the other week? I proved that I can do percentage calculation, I knew where the Brandenburger Gate is and I introduced some common sense on a business related level (I was quite fascinated about myself actually). So basically, what makes me not good enough? Maybe I’m not good enough because I answered that tricky question about the multiplying anemones wrong. It had required a greater depth of focus and thinking.
Anyway, I didn’t face the supervisor, because I know better. I prejudge people myself. All I can say is that she surely isn’t writing a novel. And she would never spend 8-10 hours writing a story.
However, it was the first time of me travelling through this horrible town during peak time in the morning. I nearly fainted on the tube, because it was so packed and stuffy. You have to plan to leave the house at least 90min before your work starts, in order not to panic about getting there late.
I keep telling everyone how much I hate this town. But you can imagine how hard-working New Yorker heart surgeons are.
The people are very nice, helpful and always in a good mood. As usual, I am nervous, surrounded by a sense of intimidation on the first few days. I don’t quite know yet how each of them ticks, how each one works and what’s required and expected from me. But a lot of you may know I am a team player; I just need time to make myself fit in. The work is sincere and you are being fully trained. There is a hell of a lot of detail that needs attention. But I’m sure it’s a rhythm/routine that I can get straight into after maybe two or three weeks. How I hate the beginning of things, I know that I need to get through this carefully. I am surrounded by left brainers with limited rooms for a right brainer, which is one reason why I feel slightly left out. So I’ll have to poke my left side a bit to ask for a little help. This is my way to boost my self-reliance. The work consists of a lot of abbreviations, general knowledge (which I need to expand a lot more) and patience. I know what my friends think while reading this. Just keep your mouth shut, please.
I’m making my own decisions here, I know what’s good for me. Though, I am still careful; after what I’ve been through in the last 3 weeks (you know) I have to. I’m keeping my composure, despite exhaustion and nausea. I have to make sure to learn all the necessary information in order to fit in and I will. Things need to begin to settle, come into place and lift me up.
Hard work.
This is why I’m here.
In spite of the hard work, I overheard something when I was in the lift, coming back from my lunch break. The lift was packed and I could see one of my supervisors entering the lift with some other girls. I wanted to shout “hi”, but she didn’t see me, so I didn’t bother. One of the girls said:
“So you found someone for Germany?”
The supervisor then said “Yeah, she was born in Germany…”
I was about to shout that I was right there.
But she continued: “But she isn’t good enough…”
That was that. I was supposed to get off with them on the 6th floor, but I waited until I arrived at the 7th floor, hiding my face behind all my starter’s pack notes.
A lot of questions arose in my mind. I knew that it had been difficult for them to find a suitable applicant – so what exactly made me pass the two interviews that I attended the other week? I proved that I can do percentage calculation, I knew where the Brandenburger Gate is and I introduced some common sense on a business related level (I was quite fascinated about myself actually). So basically, what makes me not good enough? Maybe I’m not good enough because I answered that tricky question about the multiplying anemones wrong. It had required a greater depth of focus and thinking.
Anyway, I didn’t face the supervisor, because I know better. I prejudge people myself. All I can say is that she surely isn’t writing a novel. And she would never spend 8-10 hours writing a story.
However, it was the first time of me travelling through this horrible town during peak time in the morning. I nearly fainted on the tube, because it was so packed and stuffy. You have to plan to leave the house at least 90min before your work starts, in order not to panic about getting there late.
I keep telling everyone how much I hate this town. But you can imagine how hard-working New Yorker heart surgeons are.
Sonntag, 25. September 2011
The value you produce
It’s about time to consider giving up. It’s the second time within four days that people call me naïve. I hate this word, it sounds childish and I refer it to being gullible. I’m too sceptic to be gullible, too cynical to believe that people are genuinely good. You think I believe what certain employers say to me, but I don’t. What I do is I immediately think about my dreams and goals and I believe I can reach them. So if an employer says that I can earn 100k in a year, I only have in mind the debt that I can pay back to my parents – that’s all. It’s not simply the money, but also the challenge involved. I can never learn enough.
At least now I know that London is full of hungry wolves – you have to be ruthless if you want to survive and I noticed that I’ve not been ruthless enough. I’ve been hiding in my room, writing. I enjoyed it, it has been the best year of writing and I just can’t accept the fact that it’s over. I don’t want to take the next step into something that I don’t want to be involved in.
But there is no other way.
I chose to live in a town where it is impossible to save money; where people are unavoidable and looking to take you for granted.
I thought I found a one bed flat to myself for a fair price, but it turned out to be a double room in a house. I took it because there was only little time left.
I have a nice landlady who taught me about survival, but I don’t really have my space; I’m renting a room after all, which includes shower and a kitchenette, even a TV that I don’t use. To use the toilet, which is next to the dining room, I have to run downstairs and my landlord’s usually in the dining room every late afternoon till late, working. So whenever I go downstairs, she’d stop me for a chat. It’s ok every now and then, but I’ve been finding myself holding my bladder more often lately. There are days where I just don’t want to open my mouth and utter a word. This is a difficult thing to make people understand, so I don’t bother.
Today my landlady has her granddaughter around. She looked at me like every child would – as though I was an alien. After a fucking “Ni hao”, I felt like slapping her mouth. She’s screaming and laughing like a witch. I can’t stand this any longer. Envious of children because they are who I never was. As a child I’d kept my mouth shut most of the time. A monster used to tell me to keep my mouth shut. It had even outlived the child that I was.
I wish my mum remembered whether or not I cried at my birth. All I remember is the blue medical clamp…
Here’s my mask, does it make me look I’ve aged? I have aged.
I wish I had meine eigenen vier Wände.
I’m sick of telling friends about my life, but what else do you talk about with friends? How come I manage to feign enthusiasm? In Germany, it was a lot easier, we just went dancing, but I’ve forgotten how to dance.
I’m so tired. But I grant myself no day off, there is no time. I’m proud to say that within 6 days I produced 7000 words. I’m getting further and further with Somewhat Damaged; I still need more time but I can’t afford to take the time. I wish. During the studies, I should have dedicated more time to writing rather than only 8-10 hours a day. For a slow writer like me, I NEED MORE TIME. More time, more fucking time.
I’m accused of being naïve, biased, cynical and not knowing what I want. I’m none of that. Think what you want. I’m just fucking tired!!! But there is no time to be tired, no time to wait. There are wolves out there; I have to take care of things and myself. I have to face so many people, deal with so many people, so how dare you describe me like that? Be lucky if you have the opportunity to choose people that you want to interact with. In the big city you cannot do that. And it just happens that you bump into arseholes every day.
The only reason why I let the brainwash process occur was that it had put me into a good mood; it had indirectly made me believe that quick success was possible. It was too good to be true, so I dwelt in it for a while.
You don’t even know why I do what I do. I am a mistake machine. My life builds on mistakes, miserable, menacing, mortifying mistakes. Do you ever believe that you don’t deserve certain things? But you know you can make yourself deserve them by working hard? To work hard on something takes time; it always does. But as an artist you always have to work twice as hard. People with life numbers 2, 4 and 8 are the fuckers who know exactly how to get their way round the business world. Am I being biased again? Probably, but common, it’s nothing to be taken seriously, you know. It’s only a way to explain the inexplicable. I LIKE MAKING THINGS UP. You should know by now…
Due to certain medication, I’ve lacked appetite, which was good, because I no longer go to the gym, but now feeling all hungry again, I wonder how I’ll survive this.
Maybe I should jog around the cemetery.
Sometimes I think about the best year of my life so far and it was between the ages of 16-17. Millennium – that was it. I made my first proper friends; I went to Poland for an exchange and it was the first time I got drunk. Everyone loved me. And then a stupid realisation occurred: I didn’t like myself.
First day at work tomorrow, I no longer care. I sold myself for a low price because it never occurred to me that I was in any way valuable. Not yet.
At least now I know that London is full of hungry wolves – you have to be ruthless if you want to survive and I noticed that I’ve not been ruthless enough. I’ve been hiding in my room, writing. I enjoyed it, it has been the best year of writing and I just can’t accept the fact that it’s over. I don’t want to take the next step into something that I don’t want to be involved in.
But there is no other way.
I chose to live in a town where it is impossible to save money; where people are unavoidable and looking to take you for granted.
I thought I found a one bed flat to myself for a fair price, but it turned out to be a double room in a house. I took it because there was only little time left.
I have a nice landlady who taught me about survival, but I don’t really have my space; I’m renting a room after all, which includes shower and a kitchenette, even a TV that I don’t use. To use the toilet, which is next to the dining room, I have to run downstairs and my landlord’s usually in the dining room every late afternoon till late, working. So whenever I go downstairs, she’d stop me for a chat. It’s ok every now and then, but I’ve been finding myself holding my bladder more often lately. There are days where I just don’t want to open my mouth and utter a word. This is a difficult thing to make people understand, so I don’t bother.
Today my landlady has her granddaughter around. She looked at me like every child would – as though I was an alien. After a fucking “Ni hao”, I felt like slapping her mouth. She’s screaming and laughing like a witch. I can’t stand this any longer. Envious of children because they are who I never was. As a child I’d kept my mouth shut most of the time. A monster used to tell me to keep my mouth shut. It had even outlived the child that I was.
I wish my mum remembered whether or not I cried at my birth. All I remember is the blue medical clamp…
Here’s my mask, does it make me look I’ve aged? I have aged.
I wish I had meine eigenen vier Wände.
I’m sick of telling friends about my life, but what else do you talk about with friends? How come I manage to feign enthusiasm? In Germany, it was a lot easier, we just went dancing, but I’ve forgotten how to dance.
I’m so tired. But I grant myself no day off, there is no time. I’m proud to say that within 6 days I produced 7000 words. I’m getting further and further with Somewhat Damaged; I still need more time but I can’t afford to take the time. I wish. During the studies, I should have dedicated more time to writing rather than only 8-10 hours a day. For a slow writer like me, I NEED MORE TIME. More time, more fucking time.
I’m accused of being naïve, biased, cynical and not knowing what I want. I’m none of that. Think what you want. I’m just fucking tired!!! But there is no time to be tired, no time to wait. There are wolves out there; I have to take care of things and myself. I have to face so many people, deal with so many people, so how dare you describe me like that? Be lucky if you have the opportunity to choose people that you want to interact with. In the big city you cannot do that. And it just happens that you bump into arseholes every day.
The only reason why I let the brainwash process occur was that it had put me into a good mood; it had indirectly made me believe that quick success was possible. It was too good to be true, so I dwelt in it for a while.
You don’t even know why I do what I do. I am a mistake machine. My life builds on mistakes, miserable, menacing, mortifying mistakes. Do you ever believe that you don’t deserve certain things? But you know you can make yourself deserve them by working hard? To work hard on something takes time; it always does. But as an artist you always have to work twice as hard. People with life numbers 2, 4 and 8 are the fuckers who know exactly how to get their way round the business world. Am I being biased again? Probably, but common, it’s nothing to be taken seriously, you know. It’s only a way to explain the inexplicable. I LIKE MAKING THINGS UP. You should know by now…
Due to certain medication, I’ve lacked appetite, which was good, because I no longer go to the gym, but now feeling all hungry again, I wonder how I’ll survive this.
Maybe I should jog around the cemetery.
Sometimes I think about the best year of my life so far and it was between the ages of 16-17. Millennium – that was it. I made my first proper friends; I went to Poland for an exchange and it was the first time I got drunk. Everyone loved me. And then a stupid realisation occurred: I didn’t like myself.
First day at work tomorrow, I no longer care. I sold myself for a low price because it never occurred to me that I was in any way valuable. Not yet.
Donnerstag, 15. September 2011
8 days
For some reason the last 8 days happened so quick, but there is just one thing that I have realised. And it’s not having written. I’m already out of rhythm; I’ve lost the vibe for a chapter, and I also noticed how ridiculous I’ve been acting in the last eight days. I haven’t spent a day on my own in the last eight days. In the last eight days I have been pretending what I’m not. And I tried to convince myself that it was a good thing; showing the ambition to succeed in business, creating another part of me that would make the real me look dumb.
Maybe I’m trying to escape into multiple characters, but I am not, I love and hate myself too much and the balance is always perfect.
My decision to live for my family and to work my arse off has come to a crisis. If I want to pay off my debts, I’ll firstly have to deal with a change of attitude. I thought I had adopted that particular attitude required, but I realised that it was a denial of who I really am. There are so many people in this town who are trying to fuck me over.
It all makes me want to lie to everyone. I’m getting tired of telling any of you the truth. You don’t deserve it.
Looking after my family is the next task and I will have to abandon more than half of my precious time to make it happen.
I’m not sure whether the adaptation of positive thinking has caused these incredibly ecstatic moments in the last eight days. Maybe it was part of that brainwash that I got, but at least it made me happy and ambitious for a while, but all that was not for a sincere purpose. Anyway the positive mental attitude has gone. Just now. It felt strange anyway, but I have been hopeful in the last eight days. I actually believed that I could get somewhere…anywhere. Don’t get me wrong, I still believe in hard-work. Saturday children are hard workers.
Then I told my mother about my second interview at that agency today and that they hadn’t got back to me, yet. Then she said ‘You probably didn’t get it, then…”
That was it pretty much.
I suddenly froze inside and my hopes were gone.
As if she believed that she and dad will always have to look after me until I’m on my death bed or something.
What am I if my parents really think that way?
I’m not sure how much they actually believe in me to be honest. They don’t even know me except my volcanic anger and yet I live for them.
I’m confused.
I want to be alone.
Why are people so fucking clingy and want to be my best friend? I don’t want to be your best friend. I just want you to count on, because you can count on me. That’s all I want and it’s fair. You know me, I play fair, I always do, but you don’t.
I just want to be alone.
Alone and do all the stupid things that I do on my own without having anyone knowing. I’m tired of you pointing out my mistakes. Don’t you understand that the only reason why I repeat those mistakes is to piss you off?
You worry about me.
That’s nice and sweet.
But it makes me feel like a little kid incapable of looking after itself.
Me of all people.
Me - the most reliable person you’ll ever meet. Mentally more independent than you. I think twice as far ahead as you.
Or maybe I have become an unruly liar. I’ve met so many of that kind in the last few years that I only just realised that my written exposure is the only truth left; the only truth that I can hold on to, but what is it to you?
I no longer fear employers reading this. They are supposed to judge me by my abilities and not my personality. Why should I be scared to admit that ‘A short history of decay’ has become my bible? And believing that the reason of me being alive is because I believe that Sisyphus is doing the right thing?
How much I love Buk, he said that you need several days of doing nothing, just lie in bed, stare at the ceiling, toss and turn and do nothing. With my OCD and discipline, I cannot do that. Every day has a task and you NEED to fulfil it. You need to work.
If you say you are ‘bored’, it’s because you’re boring as fuck, you don’t know who you are and why you are here. You have no purpose, just kill yourself.
You don’t even have to make up your own task…there always IS something that you NEED to do, urgently, even if it’s to save a snail from the pathway.
How bad has my English become? I haven’t been reading for weeks…I haven’t been writing for eight days.
I think I wouldn’t have survived the eight days without the green tea; the green tea has saved my life, it has kept me focussed and removed all anxieties and nervousness. I’ve been looking London straight in the eye in the last eight days. And London, you are fucking ugly, but you have charisma. Unfortunately you use it for evil purposes. Before I leave, I have to teach you a fucking lesson, you son of a bitch.
Maybe I’m trying to escape into multiple characters, but I am not, I love and hate myself too much and the balance is always perfect.
My decision to live for my family and to work my arse off has come to a crisis. If I want to pay off my debts, I’ll firstly have to deal with a change of attitude. I thought I had adopted that particular attitude required, but I realised that it was a denial of who I really am. There are so many people in this town who are trying to fuck me over.
It all makes me want to lie to everyone. I’m getting tired of telling any of you the truth. You don’t deserve it.
Looking after my family is the next task and I will have to abandon more than half of my precious time to make it happen.
I’m not sure whether the adaptation of positive thinking has caused these incredibly ecstatic moments in the last eight days. Maybe it was part of that brainwash that I got, but at least it made me happy and ambitious for a while, but all that was not for a sincere purpose. Anyway the positive mental attitude has gone. Just now. It felt strange anyway, but I have been hopeful in the last eight days. I actually believed that I could get somewhere…anywhere. Don’t get me wrong, I still believe in hard-work. Saturday children are hard workers.
Then I told my mother about my second interview at that agency today and that they hadn’t got back to me, yet. Then she said ‘You probably didn’t get it, then…”
That was it pretty much.
I suddenly froze inside and my hopes were gone.
As if she believed that she and dad will always have to look after me until I’m on my death bed or something.
What am I if my parents really think that way?
I’m not sure how much they actually believe in me to be honest. They don’t even know me except my volcanic anger and yet I live for them.
I’m confused.
I want to be alone.
Why are people so fucking clingy and want to be my best friend? I don’t want to be your best friend. I just want you to count on, because you can count on me. That’s all I want and it’s fair. You know me, I play fair, I always do, but you don’t.
I just want to be alone.
Alone and do all the stupid things that I do on my own without having anyone knowing. I’m tired of you pointing out my mistakes. Don’t you understand that the only reason why I repeat those mistakes is to piss you off?
You worry about me.
That’s nice and sweet.
But it makes me feel like a little kid incapable of looking after itself.
Me of all people.
Me - the most reliable person you’ll ever meet. Mentally more independent than you. I think twice as far ahead as you.
Or maybe I have become an unruly liar. I’ve met so many of that kind in the last few years that I only just realised that my written exposure is the only truth left; the only truth that I can hold on to, but what is it to you?
I no longer fear employers reading this. They are supposed to judge me by my abilities and not my personality. Why should I be scared to admit that ‘A short history of decay’ has become my bible? And believing that the reason of me being alive is because I believe that Sisyphus is doing the right thing?
How much I love Buk, he said that you need several days of doing nothing, just lie in bed, stare at the ceiling, toss and turn and do nothing. With my OCD and discipline, I cannot do that. Every day has a task and you NEED to fulfil it. You need to work.
If you say you are ‘bored’, it’s because you’re boring as fuck, you don’t know who you are and why you are here. You have no purpose, just kill yourself.
You don’t even have to make up your own task…there always IS something that you NEED to do, urgently, even if it’s to save a snail from the pathway.
How bad has my English become? I haven’t been reading for weeks…I haven’t been writing for eight days.
I think I wouldn’t have survived the eight days without the green tea; the green tea has saved my life, it has kept me focussed and removed all anxieties and nervousness. I’ve been looking London straight in the eye in the last eight days. And London, you are fucking ugly, but you have charisma. Unfortunately you use it for evil purposes. Before I leave, I have to teach you a fucking lesson, you son of a bitch.
Donnerstag, 1. September 2011
Stress, mental scars and other realizations
I miss my gynaecologist, I miss my dermatologist, I miss my urologist and I miss my general practitioner. They are the only men that can save me from falling apart.
Some physical examination.
And no, I am not a hypochondriac. I just think the doctors in the UK aren’t capable.
For the past month I thought I was having seasonal asthma, but it has been an on-going panic attack like never before in my life. Now possible rosacea on my face and again a sensitive kidney. How did that happen? Or did I have it coming? I can’t even leave my room without tons of make-up. I don’t know what the doctor has just prescribed me. But it will be the first time to take oral medication for skin treatment. If it’s so bad now, I wonder what my skin will look like in ten years.
I can smell autumn; it’s been a year since I’ve felt these shivers. And they feel good.
People still won’t shut the fuck up: How are you how are you how are you how are you how are you???
God I don’t want to lie to you, I wish I could. Devil, I wish I could. How about I keep my mouth shut?
It’s so typical for the British to apologise for every fucking thing. Or maybe I just don’t understand the word “sorry”, but to me, it has only got one meaning in this country and that’s pity.
“Sorry”, as a word itself, is usually one of the hardest things to say (among “I love you” or “help me” or “thank you”). Here, “sorry” is used to express pity.
Whenever I feel someone pities me, I just want to smack their gob, especially if I know they don’t even care.
Germans would simply say “Tja” as in “get over it.” I hate it as well, but it’s much more effective, it’s almost like a slap in the face, no pretence.
Wow, the last time I remember feeling this way was January 1st. And then I got absorbed in writing. I could continue doing the same now, if it wasn’t the future. I’ve been putting the future on hold for a year and now it’s seeking double attention. Fucker.
There are creative people who don’t know what to do with their lives. If ever their artistic abilities are required in marketing or advertising, the artist’s art becomes a victim of exploitation; the piece of art is used to make the audience throw its money out of the window, but it doesn’t go to the artist, because he has sold his soul to the firm that he works for.
But isn’t it inevitable nowadays? Mr Hicks, please come and save us!
I have realised a lot of things, but most of all, I’ve realised how stupid I am. I just can’t relax my shoulders, you know.
I think we’re in the exact same era again like in Dos Passos’s book, except I’d call it ‘London City Transfer’. I remember that man saying on the bridge: “What’s the point?”
There are a lot of points. And I haven’t run out of them, yet.
You see, I’m stupid. All I’ve got is a creative mind that keeps me going. I think my I.Q. is just a little over 110, which is low, right? However, my E.I. outweighs yours. And yet, I’ve always wished to be free of emotions.
But I can read your body language, I see the twitch at the corner of your mouth, I see the fake smile, I see your dilated pupils; I can sense almost everything that your body emits. Most of the time, it’s making me sick, because I understand you too much, your emotions become part of me. I can even tell whether or not you need a therapist.
I’m still stupid, because I’m not doing anything about your emotions, like, I wouldn’t send you to a therapist. Do I care?
There are so many people who can’t think for themselves.
I’ve also realised that friends are not there to be relied on. You can’t rely on anybody. But you can rely on me and that’s my greatest burden; a weakness that too many have discovered. Besides, I think about everyone every day, but a lot of people out there only think about you when they need something. Once you’ve helped out, they forget that they have a favour to return, or they are being plagued by laziness. Everyone fucking lacks gratitude.
I personally never ask for favours, no major ones anyway. There is no one to rely on.
I also realised that I need to make another big change – health-wise. Three years ago I replaced my actual breakfast (corn flakes, bread) with fruits and I noticed a positive change. I’ve been eating fruits for breakfast ever since. I haven’t drunk cola for two years and generally I avoid soda drinks. I haven’t chewed gum for years, either, because the idea of aspartame turning into scum that settles in my body puts me off. Scum is harder to get rid of, whereas fat you can burn.
Coffee and black tea have been deteriorating my skin, so I will replace them with green tea from now on, just one cup a day, because one cup of green tea can, in a worst case scenario, keep me up all night. I will stay away from contaminated Chinese snacks (they ALL include preservatives and therefore glutamate).
Do you fucking think I’m exaggerating? Well, you don’t even know that your metabolism’s fucked up and that your body’s intoxicated. You will soon see.
I’m teaching myself patience, it’s all coming too soon – the illness.
When I first had eczema at the age of 13, I didn’t understand what it was. How stressed must I have been at that age? It went away a year later. Then seborrhoeic eczema evolved on my scalp when I was 16 – it’s even here now. In my early twenties facial eczema returned and worsened, panic attack introduced itself, etc. I remember going to the GP twice to make sure I didn’t have asthma. Of course I didn’t.
Yes, stress-induced. Lovesickness-induced, deadline pressure…
There was a lot more to it: gluttony, weight gain, and weak immune system leading to flus, migraines and mid-ear infection. But those times are over.
Then, stress had another idea…
It would make me forget about thirst, so my kidney started poking.
Over the years I’ve learnt to control emotions, and sometimes they aren’t even there. I just find it hard to control anger. Though, it’s an energy that I find advantageous sometimes for creative purposes. There are so many people to be angry with. They are ruining your life, as simple as.
You think I have loved? I can assure you I haven’t.
I only realised a while ago that I’ve never loved my ex. Throughout the years of dating (on/off) it was just the “idea” of being in love; the “idea” of first love being precious…apparently. The truth was that I hadn’t been happy, not for a minute. There was never a sense of security, trust or whatever, but the “idea” and imagination of it. I started lying to myself which wasn’t fun, it’s still not fun. I never used to lie to myself.
In the end I was just used to being with him. He still stalks me on social networks. On my blog he is my top visitor. I think that every time he visits this site, he looks for a hint of him in my words. Here are the words. Empty words.
Nothing left but paralysis, numbness and nausea and a bad bitter taste in my mouth whenever I waste a thought about the past. Other guys left a sweeter taste on my tongue. It’s because they care about health. I think that says a lot.
Now I understand why I’ve been dreading love so much – that chemical reaction. Even my feelings for Nick were stronger, they are still vivid, it’s because nothing ever happened. I have kept the feelings in my Jil Sander bottle. If you ever smell Jil Sander on me, it’s because I like you.
That chemical reaction is fictional – that’s the saddest thing about love. I wouldn’t recommend anyone to think that way. I’m just too Houellebecq-ian and Cioran-ian, except that I believe in hope.
Well, there was no second I didn’t suspect him of cheating. That, first of all, triggered me to start lying to myself, which was worse than hearing his lies. This explains why I even lie to myself today. What does this say about me? That I have become an obsessive dick myself?
I was thinking that because my protagonist (OCD, Narcissistic Personality Disorder and Post-traumatic Stress Disorder) sees a link between her and her obsessive admirer. At least it’s an obsessive admirer capable of making decisions, able to think for himself and able to let go in the end, let go.
For four years I had cherished an “idea”, the “idea” that later unfolded in self-destruction and it’s still in progress, but I’m making my protagonist the victim…
…because I’m selfish.
In German we have a saying…if you dig grave for someone, you’ll fall in it yourself. Yes, I know.
Anyway, the feelings for Nick are kept in my Jil Sander bottle. If you smell Jil Sander on me, you’ll know I like you. You can enhance those feelings, so please do, before I fall in that hole and crumble away.
Some physical examination.
And no, I am not a hypochondriac. I just think the doctors in the UK aren’t capable.
For the past month I thought I was having seasonal asthma, but it has been an on-going panic attack like never before in my life. Now possible rosacea on my face and again a sensitive kidney. How did that happen? Or did I have it coming? I can’t even leave my room without tons of make-up. I don’t know what the doctor has just prescribed me. But it will be the first time to take oral medication for skin treatment. If it’s so bad now, I wonder what my skin will look like in ten years.
I can smell autumn; it’s been a year since I’ve felt these shivers. And they feel good.
People still won’t shut the fuck up: How are you how are you how are you how are you how are you???
God I don’t want to lie to you, I wish I could. Devil, I wish I could. How about I keep my mouth shut?
It’s so typical for the British to apologise for every fucking thing. Or maybe I just don’t understand the word “sorry”, but to me, it has only got one meaning in this country and that’s pity.
“Sorry”, as a word itself, is usually one of the hardest things to say (among “I love you” or “help me” or “thank you”). Here, “sorry” is used to express pity.
Whenever I feel someone pities me, I just want to smack their gob, especially if I know they don’t even care.
Germans would simply say “Tja” as in “get over it.” I hate it as well, but it’s much more effective, it’s almost like a slap in the face, no pretence.
Wow, the last time I remember feeling this way was January 1st. And then I got absorbed in writing. I could continue doing the same now, if it wasn’t the future. I’ve been putting the future on hold for a year and now it’s seeking double attention. Fucker.
There are creative people who don’t know what to do with their lives. If ever their artistic abilities are required in marketing or advertising, the artist’s art becomes a victim of exploitation; the piece of art is used to make the audience throw its money out of the window, but it doesn’t go to the artist, because he has sold his soul to the firm that he works for.
But isn’t it inevitable nowadays? Mr Hicks, please come and save us!
I have realised a lot of things, but most of all, I’ve realised how stupid I am. I just can’t relax my shoulders, you know.
I think we’re in the exact same era again like in Dos Passos’s book, except I’d call it ‘London City Transfer’. I remember that man saying on the bridge: “What’s the point?”
There are a lot of points. And I haven’t run out of them, yet.
You see, I’m stupid. All I’ve got is a creative mind that keeps me going. I think my I.Q. is just a little over 110, which is low, right? However, my E.I. outweighs yours. And yet, I’ve always wished to be free of emotions.
But I can read your body language, I see the twitch at the corner of your mouth, I see the fake smile, I see your dilated pupils; I can sense almost everything that your body emits. Most of the time, it’s making me sick, because I understand you too much, your emotions become part of me. I can even tell whether or not you need a therapist.
I’m still stupid, because I’m not doing anything about your emotions, like, I wouldn’t send you to a therapist. Do I care?
There are so many people who can’t think for themselves.
I’ve also realised that friends are not there to be relied on. You can’t rely on anybody. But you can rely on me and that’s my greatest burden; a weakness that too many have discovered. Besides, I think about everyone every day, but a lot of people out there only think about you when they need something. Once you’ve helped out, they forget that they have a favour to return, or they are being plagued by laziness. Everyone fucking lacks gratitude.
I personally never ask for favours, no major ones anyway. There is no one to rely on.
I also realised that I need to make another big change – health-wise. Three years ago I replaced my actual breakfast (corn flakes, bread) with fruits and I noticed a positive change. I’ve been eating fruits for breakfast ever since. I haven’t drunk cola for two years and generally I avoid soda drinks. I haven’t chewed gum for years, either, because the idea of aspartame turning into scum that settles in my body puts me off. Scum is harder to get rid of, whereas fat you can burn.
Coffee and black tea have been deteriorating my skin, so I will replace them with green tea from now on, just one cup a day, because one cup of green tea can, in a worst case scenario, keep me up all night. I will stay away from contaminated Chinese snacks (they ALL include preservatives and therefore glutamate).
Do you fucking think I’m exaggerating? Well, you don’t even know that your metabolism’s fucked up and that your body’s intoxicated. You will soon see.
I’m teaching myself patience, it’s all coming too soon – the illness.
When I first had eczema at the age of 13, I didn’t understand what it was. How stressed must I have been at that age? It went away a year later. Then seborrhoeic eczema evolved on my scalp when I was 16 – it’s even here now. In my early twenties facial eczema returned and worsened, panic attack introduced itself, etc. I remember going to the GP twice to make sure I didn’t have asthma. Of course I didn’t.
Yes, stress-induced. Lovesickness-induced, deadline pressure…
There was a lot more to it: gluttony, weight gain, and weak immune system leading to flus, migraines and mid-ear infection. But those times are over.
Then, stress had another idea…
It would make me forget about thirst, so my kidney started poking.
Over the years I’ve learnt to control emotions, and sometimes they aren’t even there. I just find it hard to control anger. Though, it’s an energy that I find advantageous sometimes for creative purposes. There are so many people to be angry with. They are ruining your life, as simple as.
You think I have loved? I can assure you I haven’t.
I only realised a while ago that I’ve never loved my ex. Throughout the years of dating (on/off) it was just the “idea” of being in love; the “idea” of first love being precious…apparently. The truth was that I hadn’t been happy, not for a minute. There was never a sense of security, trust or whatever, but the “idea” and imagination of it. I started lying to myself which wasn’t fun, it’s still not fun. I never used to lie to myself.
In the end I was just used to being with him. He still stalks me on social networks. On my blog he is my top visitor. I think that every time he visits this site, he looks for a hint of him in my words. Here are the words. Empty words.
Nothing left but paralysis, numbness and nausea and a bad bitter taste in my mouth whenever I waste a thought about the past. Other guys left a sweeter taste on my tongue. It’s because they care about health. I think that says a lot.
Now I understand why I’ve been dreading love so much – that chemical reaction. Even my feelings for Nick were stronger, they are still vivid, it’s because nothing ever happened. I have kept the feelings in my Jil Sander bottle. If you ever smell Jil Sander on me, it’s because I like you.
That chemical reaction is fictional – that’s the saddest thing about love. I wouldn’t recommend anyone to think that way. I’m just too Houellebecq-ian and Cioran-ian, except that I believe in hope.
Well, there was no second I didn’t suspect him of cheating. That, first of all, triggered me to start lying to myself, which was worse than hearing his lies. This explains why I even lie to myself today. What does this say about me? That I have become an obsessive dick myself?
I was thinking that because my protagonist (OCD, Narcissistic Personality Disorder and Post-traumatic Stress Disorder) sees a link between her and her obsessive admirer. At least it’s an obsessive admirer capable of making decisions, able to think for himself and able to let go in the end, let go.
For four years I had cherished an “idea”, the “idea” that later unfolded in self-destruction and it’s still in progress, but I’m making my protagonist the victim…
…because I’m selfish.
In German we have a saying…if you dig grave for someone, you’ll fall in it yourself. Yes, I know.
Anyway, the feelings for Nick are kept in my Jil Sander bottle. If you smell Jil Sander on me, you’ll know I like you. You can enhance those feelings, so please do, before I fall in that hole and crumble away.
Donnerstag, 25. August 2011
Narcissus Street
I have a habit of sleeping on my stomach; they say it’s not good for your neck and back. But I cannot help thinking that one day there’ll be a demon or a monster watching me from the ceiling. He’ll fall down on me; stick his hand through my chest and rip my heart out. And I will think: “I have no use of it anyway.”
You remember when DeNiro did that to Helena in Frankenstein? After that scene a very unnerving and cold feeling had engulfed me. It felt like a part of me had died and I was only ten or eleven when I watched it.
But I’m not ready yet to have my heart stolen by the beast.
Sometimes when I feel brave, I do lie on my back, I stare at the ceiling, through the ceiling.
If there was someone sleeping next to me, I wouldn’t really care that much; I wouldn’t rack my brains over the face of the beast. The body next to me would distract me. He would run his finger down my spine; arouse an exciting traumatic chill and say: “I’ll help you face it.”
The two of us would lie on our backs, hold each other’s hands and stare at the ceiling together. I would no longer feel fear.
Just pretend he’s real.
At least this is what I think, but I doubt that I’m that kind of person in reality. As a writer I simply conjure up voices, invisible beings and then I pretend that my life depends on them and if others like them as well – fine. Otherwise I don’t see any other way to contribute to the world, not with that little power of mine. There is only a small voice evident in me and its words just don’t come out of the mouth.
The more alone you feel when with people the more you have drifted away from them – I know. I felt that way when we were in bed. I had wanted you for so long. But knowing that it was only a transitory moment like everything else, I just didn’t know how to behave, how to feel, how to make it last. So I just stayed awake that night. Staring fearlessly at the ceiling.
Do scars have an influence on your sensory system?
Something in me deadened, and feelings had no access to my body or nervous system like I wasn’t permitting them to flow naturally. But there was a reason of course.
There was this street called Narcissus Street. I wanted to live there. But instead I placed my protagonist there; the synonym of the street, however, is Fifth Avenue.
She made me realise that my feelings are only evident in my writing and not in interactions with people. It’s because, on the emotional front, I decided to add a big chunk of myself to her.
People have been calling her crazy, obsessed, weird, and fucked up.
Well, thank you very much.
I can’t help it. I believe that true emotions only flow through a certain arrangement of written words, sometimes enriched by alliterations.
Then there is music. E-minor touches a certain nerve in me that activates sadness whereas G-major unfolds a page of inspirations and hope.
Scars turn you into a robot on the outside. People either think you have Aperger’s or they think you’re a cold-blooded person.
And cold-blooded is correct. I have placed my protagonist in a world that she cannot comprehend; I have fuelled her with determination, hope and obsession that correspond with her creative acts – the only way to remain sane. She doesn’t know that I’ve put her in a maze where there is no way to get out of alive, even if you’re a successful surgeon living in Manhattan.
I am not successful in any way. And I’m too disoriented to even look for a way out of the maze.
I only pretend that I can open up a thorax. I lie to you about dissecting a pig’s heart, about attempting to extract a bullet that’s lodged in the heart, blood splashing onto my gown and mouth mask. I failed. The smell of blood is strong and rusty once it has gone dry. On your tongue it tastes salty like sweat.
I think when staring at his reflection, Narcissus wished he could have devoured himself.
Maybe love is merely a chemical reaction and you have to find the right person who carries the suitable chemical substance that corresponds with yours. You know you’re in love when you cannot control the motion of electrons in your body. And then, boom – you’re screwed.
Their chemical substance has a huge impact on you, but it doesn’t mean that they feel the same about your substance.
But you no longer care. It’s just a reaction.
You remember when DeNiro did that to Helena in Frankenstein? After that scene a very unnerving and cold feeling had engulfed me. It felt like a part of me had died and I was only ten or eleven when I watched it.
But I’m not ready yet to have my heart stolen by the beast.
Sometimes when I feel brave, I do lie on my back, I stare at the ceiling, through the ceiling.
If there was someone sleeping next to me, I wouldn’t really care that much; I wouldn’t rack my brains over the face of the beast. The body next to me would distract me. He would run his finger down my spine; arouse an exciting traumatic chill and say: “I’ll help you face it.”
The two of us would lie on our backs, hold each other’s hands and stare at the ceiling together. I would no longer feel fear.
Just pretend he’s real.
At least this is what I think, but I doubt that I’m that kind of person in reality. As a writer I simply conjure up voices, invisible beings and then I pretend that my life depends on them and if others like them as well – fine. Otherwise I don’t see any other way to contribute to the world, not with that little power of mine. There is only a small voice evident in me and its words just don’t come out of the mouth.
The more alone you feel when with people the more you have drifted away from them – I know. I felt that way when we were in bed. I had wanted you for so long. But knowing that it was only a transitory moment like everything else, I just didn’t know how to behave, how to feel, how to make it last. So I just stayed awake that night. Staring fearlessly at the ceiling.
Do scars have an influence on your sensory system?
Something in me deadened, and feelings had no access to my body or nervous system like I wasn’t permitting them to flow naturally. But there was a reason of course.
There was this street called Narcissus Street. I wanted to live there. But instead I placed my protagonist there; the synonym of the street, however, is Fifth Avenue.
She made me realise that my feelings are only evident in my writing and not in interactions with people. It’s because, on the emotional front, I decided to add a big chunk of myself to her.
People have been calling her crazy, obsessed, weird, and fucked up.
Well, thank you very much.
I can’t help it. I believe that true emotions only flow through a certain arrangement of written words, sometimes enriched by alliterations.
Then there is music. E-minor touches a certain nerve in me that activates sadness whereas G-major unfolds a page of inspirations and hope.
Scars turn you into a robot on the outside. People either think you have Aperger’s or they think you’re a cold-blooded person.
And cold-blooded is correct. I have placed my protagonist in a world that she cannot comprehend; I have fuelled her with determination, hope and obsession that correspond with her creative acts – the only way to remain sane. She doesn’t know that I’ve put her in a maze where there is no way to get out of alive, even if you’re a successful surgeon living in Manhattan.
I am not successful in any way. And I’m too disoriented to even look for a way out of the maze.
I only pretend that I can open up a thorax. I lie to you about dissecting a pig’s heart, about attempting to extract a bullet that’s lodged in the heart, blood splashing onto my gown and mouth mask. I failed. The smell of blood is strong and rusty once it has gone dry. On your tongue it tastes salty like sweat.
I think when staring at his reflection, Narcissus wished he could have devoured himself.
Maybe love is merely a chemical reaction and you have to find the right person who carries the suitable chemical substance that corresponds with yours. You know you’re in love when you cannot control the motion of electrons in your body. And then, boom – you’re screwed.
Their chemical substance has a huge impact on you, but it doesn’t mean that they feel the same about your substance.
But you no longer care. It’s just a reaction.
Samstag, 13. August 2011
Why you should hire me
I dreamt I had a criminal record. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but I knew that I had committed something very bad. The sense of guilt was going a bit too far there. I actually felt paranoid – anxious of getting caught. When I woke up I realised the ludicrousness of the dream, but I didn’t understand the meaning of it.
Weeks later I listened to Alkaline Trio’s ‘Radio’ and immediately remembered the one and only short story I wrote which involved murder. And not just any murder. It was a ‘first person perspective’-murder. I haven’t read that story in years. I remember receiving an ok-mark for it, although I think I must have made my tutor nervous. The story is pretty much based on the Trio song. Lastly I just have no desire to re-acquaint with my former English. I think I would crouch in shame.
Job hunt has been hell, especially because I’ve been postponing the flat hunt – ideally would be not having to travel to my future work place. Ah, Hamburg, Hamburg – meine Perle.
It’s quite daunting when companies or agencies ask you “Why should we hire you?”
Depending on the position that you’ve applied for, you start to think…The only answer you can come up with is “This is the question.” And then you freeze.
Anyway, my attempt to disappear from social networks’ surface this month failed. I wouldn’t have signed in on facebook, if the riots hadn’t got me so wound up. I suddenly felt necessary to communicate. Initially it was Alec Empire who came up with points that I undoubtedly shared with, but I didn’t want to worry about that shit, because I have a thesis to complete. Thankfully I’m less under pressure now. It should be finished in two weeks, I hope. The last two months have been a walking madness. Every step I took I sweated like a pig. My daily run is just not enough. There’s still this bursting energy that I need to release. I don’t know what it is.
So I’ve spent a year as a reclusive writer. I need to enjoy it to the very last day of being a student.
Don’t you hate it when diary keepers call their diary content secrets? Who says that the content of a diary is based on your secrets at all? Once it’s written, it’s been told. At very young age I understood that the purpose of writing was exposure – a signed agreement to unload the mind and a devoted commitment to keep your readers’ interest in high regard.
I never cared about the reader until now.
Then I realised that writing was the best thing ever invented. Now if you want to make money with your writing, for instance as a copywriter, they will all say you need to “SELL! WRITE PERSUASIVE COPY THAT SELLS!”
This kind of upsets me. Using words to coax people into things; persuading people to spend the money they don’t have. I think it’s more provocative than effective. You do aim at rich people, but don’t you hate them and their decadence? And then you’re told to enrich this decadence.
As a writer, I don’t want to trick people, and yet – unreliable narration is all I can offer. I can’t trick you in the way Nabokov tricked me, for instance. I don’t think I am THAT unreliable.
They all wonder why I stay in every weekend. Even if it wasn’t the thesis, I would stay home. I would only go out if I was back in Hamburg, though – where people are familiar and less intrusive, less persistent. I feel a lot freer in Germany, yes. But what’s freedom without challenge anyway? And this is why I am here. I’m doing something constructive, creative to revolt against boredom – the absurd, the meaninglessness of life. Do I care? To a certain extent I guess I do, yes, but overall no, I don’t care. But if I didn’t, I’d be doomed, right?
Think what you want. I know what I am doing, but you are right, I should get out more. I haven’t experienced another Londoner night life since New Year’s Eve. After that I told myself I wouldn’t again, but well, who knows? The experience I had about Londoner night life is that British guys want me for the night; Indian guys want me as their wife, Chinese guys think I understand mandarin, Austrian blokes refusing to speak standard German, etc. What all these men have in common is that they are DRUNK. There is nothing more off-turning than drunk people. I pretend I find them funny at times, but they are not, not one little bit. If you are not Bukowski, then don’t talk to me when you’re drunk. This is all what night life is about, I figured – no matter where you go in the UK. Only in Germany I can cope, despite my friends drinking stupid amounts sometimes, but at least I have a dance floor all to myself with decent music ringing in my ears. Germans give you space any time. Night life never meant socialising to me; it’s always been about music and dancing – and only my friends in Germany understand this. And here you can’t even dance without suddenly feeling a dirty hand on your waist or bum. Why are Londoner men so desperate? I’m desperate myself, but I am picky. Busy wanting those I can’t have. The emotions are always stronger then, aren’t they? Useful stuff…
A friend just called, asking ‘What’re you doing?’ – “I’m making the most out of the last month of being a full-time writer,” and trying to understand this agonizing energy.
You should hire me because I’m a cardiac surgeon. I’ll make sure that all four chambers in your heart are air-conditioned, I’ll help you accommodate whatever you want, suture each bleeding hole, unclog the coronary pipe, but most importantly, I’m good at lying in my writing – but in defence, you have to let me call it fiction.
Weeks later I listened to Alkaline Trio’s ‘Radio’ and immediately remembered the one and only short story I wrote which involved murder. And not just any murder. It was a ‘first person perspective’-murder. I haven’t read that story in years. I remember receiving an ok-mark for it, although I think I must have made my tutor nervous. The story is pretty much based on the Trio song. Lastly I just have no desire to re-acquaint with my former English. I think I would crouch in shame.
Job hunt has been hell, especially because I’ve been postponing the flat hunt – ideally would be not having to travel to my future work place. Ah, Hamburg, Hamburg – meine Perle.
It’s quite daunting when companies or agencies ask you “Why should we hire you?”
Depending on the position that you’ve applied for, you start to think…The only answer you can come up with is “This is the question.” And then you freeze.
Anyway, my attempt to disappear from social networks’ surface this month failed. I wouldn’t have signed in on facebook, if the riots hadn’t got me so wound up. I suddenly felt necessary to communicate. Initially it was Alec Empire who came up with points that I undoubtedly shared with, but I didn’t want to worry about that shit, because I have a thesis to complete. Thankfully I’m less under pressure now. It should be finished in two weeks, I hope. The last two months have been a walking madness. Every step I took I sweated like a pig. My daily run is just not enough. There’s still this bursting energy that I need to release. I don’t know what it is.
So I’ve spent a year as a reclusive writer. I need to enjoy it to the very last day of being a student.
Don’t you hate it when diary keepers call their diary content secrets? Who says that the content of a diary is based on your secrets at all? Once it’s written, it’s been told. At very young age I understood that the purpose of writing was exposure – a signed agreement to unload the mind and a devoted commitment to keep your readers’ interest in high regard.
I never cared about the reader until now.
Then I realised that writing was the best thing ever invented. Now if you want to make money with your writing, for instance as a copywriter, they will all say you need to “SELL! WRITE PERSUASIVE COPY THAT SELLS!”
This kind of upsets me. Using words to coax people into things; persuading people to spend the money they don’t have. I think it’s more provocative than effective. You do aim at rich people, but don’t you hate them and their decadence? And then you’re told to enrich this decadence.
As a writer, I don’t want to trick people, and yet – unreliable narration is all I can offer. I can’t trick you in the way Nabokov tricked me, for instance. I don’t think I am THAT unreliable.
They all wonder why I stay in every weekend. Even if it wasn’t the thesis, I would stay home. I would only go out if I was back in Hamburg, though – where people are familiar and less intrusive, less persistent. I feel a lot freer in Germany, yes. But what’s freedom without challenge anyway? And this is why I am here. I’m doing something constructive, creative to revolt against boredom – the absurd, the meaninglessness of life. Do I care? To a certain extent I guess I do, yes, but overall no, I don’t care. But if I didn’t, I’d be doomed, right?
Think what you want. I know what I am doing, but you are right, I should get out more. I haven’t experienced another Londoner night life since New Year’s Eve. After that I told myself I wouldn’t again, but well, who knows? The experience I had about Londoner night life is that British guys want me for the night; Indian guys want me as their wife, Chinese guys think I understand mandarin, Austrian blokes refusing to speak standard German, etc. What all these men have in common is that they are DRUNK. There is nothing more off-turning than drunk people. I pretend I find them funny at times, but they are not, not one little bit. If you are not Bukowski, then don’t talk to me when you’re drunk. This is all what night life is about, I figured – no matter where you go in the UK. Only in Germany I can cope, despite my friends drinking stupid amounts sometimes, but at least I have a dance floor all to myself with decent music ringing in my ears. Germans give you space any time. Night life never meant socialising to me; it’s always been about music and dancing – and only my friends in Germany understand this. And here you can’t even dance without suddenly feeling a dirty hand on your waist or bum. Why are Londoner men so desperate? I’m desperate myself, but I am picky. Busy wanting those I can’t have. The emotions are always stronger then, aren’t they? Useful stuff…
A friend just called, asking ‘What’re you doing?’ – “I’m making the most out of the last month of being a full-time writer,” and trying to understand this agonizing energy.
You should hire me because I’m a cardiac surgeon. I’ll make sure that all four chambers in your heart are air-conditioned, I’ll help you accommodate whatever you want, suture each bleeding hole, unclog the coronary pipe, but most importantly, I’m good at lying in my writing – but in defence, you have to let me call it fiction.
Dienstag, 2. August 2011
Somewhat Damaged rewrite
Opening redrafted
So I have my head deep in a world where I do not belong. But we all love to draw certain parallels. And we love observing things that we will never have.
I'm sorry I haven't been putting up decent blogs these days. The heat has got me exhausted and emotionally drained. 'I'm only happy when it rains' Shirley Manson used to sing.
What exists is my thesis. My critical eye needs to be further developed; solipsistic tendencies need to be better handled. Character, plot and desire... - that's all there is. As far as non-fiction reading goes, I've had a lot of fun adapting fact to emotional metaphor.
Is a character's motivation best portrayed if it's based on his obsessions?
(Video blog in progress)
So I have my head deep in a world where I do not belong. But we all love to draw certain parallels. And we love observing things that we will never have.
I'm sorry I haven't been putting up decent blogs these days. The heat has got me exhausted and emotionally drained. 'I'm only happy when it rains' Shirley Manson used to sing.
What exists is my thesis. My critical eye needs to be further developed; solipsistic tendencies need to be better handled. Character, plot and desire... - that's all there is. As far as non-fiction reading goes, I've had a lot of fun adapting fact to emotional metaphor.
Is a character's motivation best portrayed if it's based on his obsessions?
(Video blog in progress)
Sonntag, 17. Juli 2011
Nabokovian
A busy life. I think. The signs manifest themselves in a series of events to which you’re not given enough time to react.
I have my thoughts elsewhere.
I’ve been embellishing my protagonist’s sex life, for it’s time to concentrate on the whole concept of desire. Where does it come from and where do you want it to go? The hilarious aspect of it is that she is dominant – a massive control freak who only values her own satisfaction. I don’t, so don’t even think that she’s based on me. I guess my motto would be „Satisfy as much as possible. “ Maybe it’s unusual for a girl to say that.
All these guys that I want are looking for everything that I am not. I can’t impress the one guy with my words, and I can’t impress the other one with my poor picking and strumming skills on string instruments. Maybe I’m too cruel to myself. We’re not even meant for each other. One usually feels it on the spot. Well, you can’t help yourself sometimes from immersing in this creative journey.
However, I believe that this certain spark only exists in the air, in some frequency. You hear it in a song or in a voice. It talks to you and dispels all uncertainty, except that it leaves you longing. Or maybe songs are false promises in disguise.
I no longer enjoy telling friends and acquaintances about my life; that same old story…it feels obsolete, unlike talking to someone new which gives me a chance of reinventing myself in a much brighter way. I’d like them to focus on that, but that undermines my own belief in who I really am. I figured (again) that it’d be best to simply shut up. In fact, it has taken me all my life to realize that all my inner faculties are nobody’s business. For instance, what I love and what I hate is nobody’s business. For instance, I have to hide how much I love this year’s summer with its fluctuating temperature, cool breeze and fresh smell after the rain. I hate how everyone’s complaining. It’s like autumn, and it’s beautiful.
If I can’t be honest with you, then let me be – with myself.
I had an illusory dream in which I was running through the rain in an unknown town; first unable to distinguish that from reality. And then I almost stepped into a big puddle. Sometimes before hypnagogia I try not to slip on the slippery ground. And when I do, a hypnic jerk wakes me, just so I know I am only simulating a fall in my bed.
In another dream I found myself searching through an unknown house, unsure of what I was looking for, but certain that I was scared. And eventually I ran into the arms of my sister and a sense of familiarity unbound itself.
I have discovered a new sound that I sometimes need for writing; it’s the sound of silence – never would I have thought that emptiness would embed into a shield of self-protection. Now I’ve finally realized that it’s possible to suck up the sound of society without stupidly worrying about whether or not I fit in. The truth is it doesn’t matter.
This town takes everything and everyone for granted; a lot of opportunists and sycophants out and about. If this is how you get around, then I don’t want to be here.
When Ted Baker had me participating in their writing challenge I was surprised and I was happy because someone out of 30 paid my CV some attention. I was wondering what it would be like writing for fashion. Writing based on clothes could help me step into my protagonist’s Prada shoes. Maybe I could learn what it feels like.
But I didn’t pass the challenge. My writing was probably not funny enough. Too dark? Too sexual? I didn’t use the term ‘nymphet’ to describe little girls’ underwear, which I’m sure would have been scandalous. But today’s youth is full of Nabokovian girls. You get ten year olds bragging about their first French kiss. Disgusting.
I wonder what got that Ted Baker associate interested in first place. I have offered multimedia and SEO agencies to visit it, but only because they were asking. Writing for media always involves topics that are beyond your field of interests. Writing that puts a smile on your reader’s face. Why do marketing and advertising have to be so fucking manipulative? Anyway who to write for? - Someone who can put up with a dirty mind.
I have my thoughts elsewhere.
I’ve been embellishing my protagonist’s sex life, for it’s time to concentrate on the whole concept of desire. Where does it come from and where do you want it to go? The hilarious aspect of it is that she is dominant – a massive control freak who only values her own satisfaction. I don’t, so don’t even think that she’s based on me. I guess my motto would be „Satisfy as much as possible. “ Maybe it’s unusual for a girl to say that.
All these guys that I want are looking for everything that I am not. I can’t impress the one guy with my words, and I can’t impress the other one with my poor picking and strumming skills on string instruments. Maybe I’m too cruel to myself. We’re not even meant for each other. One usually feels it on the spot. Well, you can’t help yourself sometimes from immersing in this creative journey.
However, I believe that this certain spark only exists in the air, in some frequency. You hear it in a song or in a voice. It talks to you and dispels all uncertainty, except that it leaves you longing. Or maybe songs are false promises in disguise.
I no longer enjoy telling friends and acquaintances about my life; that same old story…it feels obsolete, unlike talking to someone new which gives me a chance of reinventing myself in a much brighter way. I’d like them to focus on that, but that undermines my own belief in who I really am. I figured (again) that it’d be best to simply shut up. In fact, it has taken me all my life to realize that all my inner faculties are nobody’s business. For instance, what I love and what I hate is nobody’s business. For instance, I have to hide how much I love this year’s summer with its fluctuating temperature, cool breeze and fresh smell after the rain. I hate how everyone’s complaining. It’s like autumn, and it’s beautiful.
If I can’t be honest with you, then let me be – with myself.
I had an illusory dream in which I was running through the rain in an unknown town; first unable to distinguish that from reality. And then I almost stepped into a big puddle. Sometimes before hypnagogia I try not to slip on the slippery ground. And when I do, a hypnic jerk wakes me, just so I know I am only simulating a fall in my bed.
In another dream I found myself searching through an unknown house, unsure of what I was looking for, but certain that I was scared. And eventually I ran into the arms of my sister and a sense of familiarity unbound itself.
I have discovered a new sound that I sometimes need for writing; it’s the sound of silence – never would I have thought that emptiness would embed into a shield of self-protection. Now I’ve finally realized that it’s possible to suck up the sound of society without stupidly worrying about whether or not I fit in. The truth is it doesn’t matter.
This town takes everything and everyone for granted; a lot of opportunists and sycophants out and about. If this is how you get around, then I don’t want to be here.
When Ted Baker had me participating in their writing challenge I was surprised and I was happy because someone out of 30 paid my CV some attention. I was wondering what it would be like writing for fashion. Writing based on clothes could help me step into my protagonist’s Prada shoes. Maybe I could learn what it feels like.
But I didn’t pass the challenge. My writing was probably not funny enough. Too dark? Too sexual? I didn’t use the term ‘nymphet’ to describe little girls’ underwear, which I’m sure would have been scandalous. But today’s youth is full of Nabokovian girls. You get ten year olds bragging about their first French kiss. Disgusting.
I wonder what got that Ted Baker associate interested in first place. I have offered multimedia and SEO agencies to visit it, but only because they were asking. Writing for media always involves topics that are beyond your field of interests. Writing that puts a smile on your reader’s face. Why do marketing and advertising have to be so fucking manipulative? Anyway who to write for? - Someone who can put up with a dirty mind.
Freitag, 15. Juli 2011
The sloping hole (extract from chapter 4)
I tighten the tourniquet around my arm. My median cubital vein is always visible which makes blood tests easy. What I like about needles and syringes are the sloping holes; they look menacing and remind me of daddy’s bamboo stick sword.
He used to keep it in the living room as a piece of decoration. One day when I was very young I drew the sword from its sheath, so I could survey the blade made of carbon steel. I remember feeling vehemently attracted to the tip of the sword and like Princess Helen I pricked my finger on the spindle, except that I didn’t die, instead I had an epiphany. I knew then what that sting in later years would feel like. It gave me a rough idea of what love might be. I was prepared for the pain as well as for the blood.
He used to keep it in the living room as a piece of decoration. One day when I was very young I drew the sword from its sheath, so I could survey the blade made of carbon steel. I remember feeling vehemently attracted to the tip of the sword and like Princess Helen I pricked my finger on the spindle, except that I didn’t die, instead I had an epiphany. I knew then what that sting in later years would feel like. It gave me a rough idea of what love might be. I was prepared for the pain as well as for the blood.
Montag, 4. Juli 2011
The chambers
In reality I am an American surgeon from New York. I'm a general surgeon specializing in cardiothoracic surgery. If I can't mend my own heart, I shall mend those of others. Maybe then I will feel a little bit better.
Surgery is a form of healing that you can grasp; there's a body that you can hold on to. You talk to flesh and blood and they listen. They hold a disease that you remove for them and they are ever so grateful.
You believe that doing good will make you feel good, too, but whether or not you care is another issue that you need to tackle.
What you do has to come from the heart, they say. It's like a foreign language that I've never learnt to speak and yet I speak to flesh and blood.
Each chamber of the heart is occupied by a purpose, which is the dealing with oxygen - four air-conditioned apartments for you to accommodate happiness, sorrow or whatever floats your boat.
And it's love that takes your breath away.
And it's love that has the ability to trigger a malfunction.
It's all in the physical heart.
Excuse me, I have some homes to fix.
Surgery is a form of healing that you can grasp; there's a body that you can hold on to. You talk to flesh and blood and they listen. They hold a disease that you remove for them and they are ever so grateful.
You believe that doing good will make you feel good, too, but whether or not you care is another issue that you need to tackle.
What you do has to come from the heart, they say. It's like a foreign language that I've never learnt to speak and yet I speak to flesh and blood.
Each chamber of the heart is occupied by a purpose, which is the dealing with oxygen - four air-conditioned apartments for you to accommodate happiness, sorrow or whatever floats your boat.
And it's love that takes your breath away.
And it's love that has the ability to trigger a malfunction.
It's all in the physical heart.
Excuse me, I have some homes to fix.
Freitag, 1. Juli 2011
Lucid daylight and blurry night
I even write in my dreams, just to give myself little indicators of where I am and what is real and physical. When my room got flooded with dirty rain water I realized that it wasn’t real; it was the inner struggle to resist temptation – a sense of foreboding about unpleasant mistakes that I will commit. Those kinds of mistakes that make you feel alive and less isolated. But by succumbing to them I know I’ll be jeopardizing something of value. And not just that, I will be placing myself to the centre of past mishaps from which I've not learnt anything.
Well, as far as the dirty opaque rainwater is concerned, they only reached foot anyway and then I woke up. Too chicken to face the real part of what matters – as always.
I felt angry, angry for running away from another lucid afternoon nap. It seems that my cerebral functioning is most active during daylight, but I can’t say that it’s less operative during night. The production of rod cells in my eyes provides me with night vision within my dreams even. It’s all been darker and more blurry than ever lately. Does it have anything to do with hemispheric control? They say males are primarily dominated by the left hemisphere which is driven by aggression and desire whereas females are right-sided, meaning that the balance and stability of their mood, perception and movement are at stake.
Either the waves that my lobes submit are all over the place or I’m merely a ghost doing things my way.
The fun thing about self-therapy is that you can tell yourself everything – no matter how wrong or right you are. You can be full of shit and it doesn’t matter. Discipline will come by itself once determination is evident. You'll stop feeling scared.
You want someone who is not like you. If they don’t understand you, the better it’ll be for your own wellbeing, because there is no need to talk about these things. I think this is the key to happiness for which I am due. This must be why I hate my friend. I thought I hated her for having changed towards me, but the truth is I hate (envy) her for the life that she is leading; a life I don’t intend to live in the next ten years. I have this life to live first before even considering settling down.
This virgin in me is still lusting after other types of emptiness that she feels need feeding. You feed emptiness with the right words – they have to be served slowly and they have to be warm. The temperature is the equivalent of the immediacy of the mind. Once cooled down they are less effective, like the vividness of a dream fades away when you stop believing it’s real. It’s a shame that dreams don’t dispel guilty conscience; they rub it in your face by projecting an image onto your mind’s screen.
I’m finding it difficult not to rest my eyes during daylight. And yet, I have to control the anger and think about the consequence, I have to think about it. I mean it worked fine with my mother. I controlled myself successfully and thus I’m without regrets. The reason is because I love her and I know she’ll do anything for me. It’s just not easy applying this strategy to everything else because not everyone will do everything for me. And if they do, I won’t want them.
I have decided to talk less about it. I still have time to confront it. Do you know why fictional serial killers like Dexter or Pat Bateman are incredible? – They don’t feel a thing. And no matter what I do, I just can’t create a character that is like them, because I can’t be what I’m not. And I’ve been longing for that sort of disconnection.
And despite the tendency to fantasize about retaliation, I don’t use people like I should. In addition I don’t ask for favours, but I do favours reluctantly. What is it that people really see in kindness? Kindness is a mask.
I’ve been so involved with my novel and my protagonist, I seem to be unable to step into my own shoes and write a simple blog these days. Allegories and metaphors have overflowed into my days and the rest is still the same.
Well, as far as the dirty opaque rainwater is concerned, they only reached foot anyway and then I woke up. Too chicken to face the real part of what matters – as always.
I felt angry, angry for running away from another lucid afternoon nap. It seems that my cerebral functioning is most active during daylight, but I can’t say that it’s less operative during night. The production of rod cells in my eyes provides me with night vision within my dreams even. It’s all been darker and more blurry than ever lately. Does it have anything to do with hemispheric control? They say males are primarily dominated by the left hemisphere which is driven by aggression and desire whereas females are right-sided, meaning that the balance and stability of their mood, perception and movement are at stake.
Either the waves that my lobes submit are all over the place or I’m merely a ghost doing things my way.
The fun thing about self-therapy is that you can tell yourself everything – no matter how wrong or right you are. You can be full of shit and it doesn’t matter. Discipline will come by itself once determination is evident. You'll stop feeling scared.
You want someone who is not like you. If they don’t understand you, the better it’ll be for your own wellbeing, because there is no need to talk about these things. I think this is the key to happiness for which I am due. This must be why I hate my friend. I thought I hated her for having changed towards me, but the truth is I hate (envy) her for the life that she is leading; a life I don’t intend to live in the next ten years. I have this life to live first before even considering settling down.
This virgin in me is still lusting after other types of emptiness that she feels need feeding. You feed emptiness with the right words – they have to be served slowly and they have to be warm. The temperature is the equivalent of the immediacy of the mind. Once cooled down they are less effective, like the vividness of a dream fades away when you stop believing it’s real. It’s a shame that dreams don’t dispel guilty conscience; they rub it in your face by projecting an image onto your mind’s screen.
I’m finding it difficult not to rest my eyes during daylight. And yet, I have to control the anger and think about the consequence, I have to think about it. I mean it worked fine with my mother. I controlled myself successfully and thus I’m without regrets. The reason is because I love her and I know she’ll do anything for me. It’s just not easy applying this strategy to everything else because not everyone will do everything for me. And if they do, I won’t want them.
I have decided to talk less about it. I still have time to confront it. Do you know why fictional serial killers like Dexter or Pat Bateman are incredible? – They don’t feel a thing. And no matter what I do, I just can’t create a character that is like them, because I can’t be what I’m not. And I’ve been longing for that sort of disconnection.
And despite the tendency to fantasize about retaliation, I don’t use people like I should. In addition I don’t ask for favours, but I do favours reluctantly. What is it that people really see in kindness? Kindness is a mask.
I’ve been so involved with my novel and my protagonist, I seem to be unable to step into my own shoes and write a simple blog these days. Allegories and metaphors have overflowed into my days and the rest is still the same.
Mittwoch, 29. Juni 2011
An overheated organism
Sometimes when she speaks, her voice reflects the agony that has been eating her up on the inside. The signs of despair and the amount of sorrow accumulating in the heart… How much and for how long can one’s body and mind accommodate such an adverse invasion?
And I can’t change or comfort her. I just watch her like an autistic; unable to comprehend.
I only snapped at her once during my stay and I instantly regretted it. But it was just the once, despite the cabin fever.
Watching people who suffer from stress is as bad as any chronic disease. Stress factors deteriorate your body’s functions – sometimes gradually, sometimes quickly. It may start with growth of skin diseases, hair loss, rapid aging, sensitive kidney or inner suffocation (panic attack). I’ve seen those.
In the next stage one would begin to injure himself, because he hates everyone and himself so vehemently. The inner is like a radical force hiding in a cave or temple, planning on how to inflict its pain on others. But I wish it would inflict its agony, anger and sorrow on itself. These stress factors are testing your endurance level. You must not fail.
As options people would consume depressants such as alcohol or drugs. This makes me believe that the world’s intrinsic journey is based upon finding oblivion. And while dwelling in remembrance or nostalgia, you deliberately lie to yourself.
What am I after discovering the novelty of telling lies? Although this is just another expansion of the line on which my guilty conscience balances.
How do you treat a person’s thinning hairline effectively? Reach out for drugs maybe. Therapy. Make-believe solutions. To sustain the balance of health is no longer crucial to those who rack their brains over job and money.
How do you encourage a person to believe in something that you don’t give a shit about?
Why is it so hard to comfort people? Why is it so hard to be a friend…
You’ve been through the exact same thing. You lost your innocence, been through cleansing and now you’ve started anew.
Maybe it’s the reminders that make you go numb – a sudden recap on all those things that had gone wrong in the past.
What have I lost on memory lane, anyway?
This must be where lucid perception fucks up.
Though, I like being surrounded by perceptive people. I’ve realized that I wasn’t as perceptive as I had thought.
Whatever you find, it’s never what you had in mind. You are then unprepared for what is yet to come, uncertain of how your life will continue or how you want it to continue.
I couldn’t give a damn about faith, but I will give it a try.
And I can’t change or comfort her. I just watch her like an autistic; unable to comprehend.
I only snapped at her once during my stay and I instantly regretted it. But it was just the once, despite the cabin fever.
Watching people who suffer from stress is as bad as any chronic disease. Stress factors deteriorate your body’s functions – sometimes gradually, sometimes quickly. It may start with growth of skin diseases, hair loss, rapid aging, sensitive kidney or inner suffocation (panic attack). I’ve seen those.
In the next stage one would begin to injure himself, because he hates everyone and himself so vehemently. The inner is like a radical force hiding in a cave or temple, planning on how to inflict its pain on others. But I wish it would inflict its agony, anger and sorrow on itself. These stress factors are testing your endurance level. You must not fail.
As options people would consume depressants such as alcohol or drugs. This makes me believe that the world’s intrinsic journey is based upon finding oblivion. And while dwelling in remembrance or nostalgia, you deliberately lie to yourself.
What am I after discovering the novelty of telling lies? Although this is just another expansion of the line on which my guilty conscience balances.
How do you treat a person’s thinning hairline effectively? Reach out for drugs maybe. Therapy. Make-believe solutions. To sustain the balance of health is no longer crucial to those who rack their brains over job and money.
How do you encourage a person to believe in something that you don’t give a shit about?
Why is it so hard to comfort people? Why is it so hard to be a friend…
You’ve been through the exact same thing. You lost your innocence, been through cleansing and now you’ve started anew.
Maybe it’s the reminders that make you go numb – a sudden recap on all those things that had gone wrong in the past.
What have I lost on memory lane, anyway?
This must be where lucid perception fucks up.
Though, I like being surrounded by perceptive people. I’ve realized that I wasn’t as perceptive as I had thought.
Whatever you find, it’s never what you had in mind. You are then unprepared for what is yet to come, uncertain of how your life will continue or how you want it to continue.
I couldn’t give a damn about faith, but I will give it a try.
Montag, 20. Juni 2011
Psychology Test
This is a psychology test that I did in 2002. Those who went to school with me at Wardle High in Rochdale may remember the English lessons with the fabulous Miss Chance. Don’t you guys miss Mr. Burns as well? Those were fun times.
I found this sheet of paper earlier while browsing through and re-reading my dreamy yearnings for an unforgettable first love encounter. I wrote over thousand hand-written pages from 1994-2002 – why can’t I be like that now?
While reconnecting with my former self, I remember how I had felt back then; the associated risk of losing my mental balance. Now all that is emerging to the surface again, smiling. I remember how that identity crisis had led me to immerse in writing intensively like there was nothing else that a child could do. My feelings haven’t changed – there still is nothing else.
The psychology test is the last piece of evidence that I have which reflects a trace of innocence or purity, whatever you call it nowadays. Show me something from today that isn’t tainted and I will let the truth go.
Do the test, too, if you like.
The symbolic meanings are at the bottom.
1) Imagine you’re standing on a path. Visualise it as good as possible.
The path is narrow and looks endless
2) Visualise the trees.
The trees are all grey, covered in fog.
3) You suddenly see a bear after entering the woods. What do you do?
It’s a brown bear. He’s looking deeply into my eyes and then it minds its own business.
4) You see a house. Describe the outside appearance of the house.
It’s made of wood; it’s old and looks vacant on the outside.
5) You go inside and enter a room, describe it.
There’s an unmade bed, a desk with sheets of paper, biros, CDs, but no CD player. Windows are broken, you can’t shut them properly.
6) Go to the back of the house. You look out of the window and see water. Describe the water.
It’s a canal with clean water.
7) You step outside. There is a wall on your right. Describe the wall.
It’s a brick wall. Some kind of vehicle has crashed into it before.
8) Climb up the ladder. What is behind the wall?
The path continues.
1) The PATH is your future.
2) The TREES are your friends.
3) The BEAR symbolises the way you deal with problems.
4) The OUTSIDE describes what you are really like.
5) The INSIDE is the image of yourself.
6) The WATER symbolises your sex life.
7) The WALL is death.
8) Beyond the WALL is your life after death.
I found this sheet of paper earlier while browsing through and re-reading my dreamy yearnings for an unforgettable first love encounter. I wrote over thousand hand-written pages from 1994-2002 – why can’t I be like that now?
While reconnecting with my former self, I remember how I had felt back then; the associated risk of losing my mental balance. Now all that is emerging to the surface again, smiling. I remember how that identity crisis had led me to immerse in writing intensively like there was nothing else that a child could do. My feelings haven’t changed – there still is nothing else.
The psychology test is the last piece of evidence that I have which reflects a trace of innocence or purity, whatever you call it nowadays. Show me something from today that isn’t tainted and I will let the truth go.
Do the test, too, if you like.
The symbolic meanings are at the bottom.
1) Imagine you’re standing on a path. Visualise it as good as possible.
The path is narrow and looks endless
2) Visualise the trees.
The trees are all grey, covered in fog.
3) You suddenly see a bear after entering the woods. What do you do?
It’s a brown bear. He’s looking deeply into my eyes and then it minds its own business.
4) You see a house. Describe the outside appearance of the house.
It’s made of wood; it’s old and looks vacant on the outside.
5) You go inside and enter a room, describe it.
There’s an unmade bed, a desk with sheets of paper, biros, CDs, but no CD player. Windows are broken, you can’t shut them properly.
6) Go to the back of the house. You look out of the window and see water. Describe the water.
It’s a canal with clean water.
7) You step outside. There is a wall on your right. Describe the wall.
It’s a brick wall. Some kind of vehicle has crashed into it before.
8) Climb up the ladder. What is behind the wall?
The path continues.
1) The PATH is your future.
2) The TREES are your friends.
3) The BEAR symbolises the way you deal with problems.
4) The OUTSIDE describes what you are really like.
5) The INSIDE is the image of yourself.
6) The WATER symbolises your sex life.
7) The WALL is death.
8) Beyond the WALL is your life after death.
Dienstag, 14. Juni 2011
Raison d'être
Where am I again?
This recurring question after awakening, after registering this defamiliarized surrounding which is triggered by inexplicable dreams in which my perception of normality is merely fabricated, but it felt like I had never known anything else.
I see a life which is simple, because I’m young. I’m closer to my family and relatives. We have our occasional festivities together like we used to back in those days.
There were no fall-outs or hardly any; no troubles or dilemmas. It doesn’t mean that life was easy then. It was only easy in terms of the absence of worrying about the future. The grown-ups would deal with those worries while you would dwell in your own world of bizarre perceptions; still pricking your finger on the world’s infectious spindle.
You were curious. You believed in everything, you believed you could be everything.
The truth is that year after year you become more and more confounded by a reality-induced anaesthetic. Your mind continually divulges previously buried images that are no longer valid or significant. They are present, but you feel nothing. No more paralysis indicating any disruption of equilibrium, just indifference.
The anaesthetic is manufactured by repeated disappointments – an accumulation of stupid infatuations that you can no longer understand and yet they feed your imagination. Despite the hopelessness you won’t forget what they feel like, that little tingling feeling of electricity. Together they form the perfect lie – the necessary immanent lie that each of us strive to live up to just to distract ourselves from this...
This slumberous state is just another extension of...
Who cares?
I give no hugs of comfort and I speak no word of comfort. That’s why the stoic type is easier to deal with. The less they talk, the more you want them; you want to hurt them real bad, but in the end you accidentally hurt yourself. It feels wrong, but good. And this is where the anaesthetic comes from; produced by healthy adrenal function and fucked up hemispheric control.
What you need is something to transfuse you with the right amount of perseverance. There are different types of perseverance; depending on what it’s fuelled with – there’s curiosity, anger, obsession, etc.
Once drugged with those you start to live. But like each drug, it loses its effect after a while.
I don’t mean to make ‘perseverance’ sound negative, after all it’s a good character trait which I wish everyone had; the ability and will to finish something you have commenced, because if you give up, you’ll be accepting the inner void’s invitation to a suicide party. The original sound of emptiness will creep up inside your ears, and that’ll be it.
Your choice. Not that I give a shit. I’m just saying.
We’re ignoring the fact that we’re “vertical carrions extinguishing ourselves in verse, having love hold us prisoner…” (Cioran).
It feels good.
This recurring question after awakening, after registering this defamiliarized surrounding which is triggered by inexplicable dreams in which my perception of normality is merely fabricated, but it felt like I had never known anything else.
I see a life which is simple, because I’m young. I’m closer to my family and relatives. We have our occasional festivities together like we used to back in those days.
There were no fall-outs or hardly any; no troubles or dilemmas. It doesn’t mean that life was easy then. It was only easy in terms of the absence of worrying about the future. The grown-ups would deal with those worries while you would dwell in your own world of bizarre perceptions; still pricking your finger on the world’s infectious spindle.
You were curious. You believed in everything, you believed you could be everything.
The truth is that year after year you become more and more confounded by a reality-induced anaesthetic. Your mind continually divulges previously buried images that are no longer valid or significant. They are present, but you feel nothing. No more paralysis indicating any disruption of equilibrium, just indifference.
The anaesthetic is manufactured by repeated disappointments – an accumulation of stupid infatuations that you can no longer understand and yet they feed your imagination. Despite the hopelessness you won’t forget what they feel like, that little tingling feeling of electricity. Together they form the perfect lie – the necessary immanent lie that each of us strive to live up to just to distract ourselves from this...
This slumberous state is just another extension of...
Who cares?
I give no hugs of comfort and I speak no word of comfort. That’s why the stoic type is easier to deal with. The less they talk, the more you want them; you want to hurt them real bad, but in the end you accidentally hurt yourself. It feels wrong, but good. And this is where the anaesthetic comes from; produced by healthy adrenal function and fucked up hemispheric control.
What you need is something to transfuse you with the right amount of perseverance. There are different types of perseverance; depending on what it’s fuelled with – there’s curiosity, anger, obsession, etc.
Once drugged with those you start to live. But like each drug, it loses its effect after a while.
I don’t mean to make ‘perseverance’ sound negative, after all it’s a good character trait which I wish everyone had; the ability and will to finish something you have commenced, because if you give up, you’ll be accepting the inner void’s invitation to a suicide party. The original sound of emptiness will creep up inside your ears, and that’ll be it.
Your choice. Not that I give a shit. I’m just saying.
We’re ignoring the fact that we’re “vertical carrions extinguishing ourselves in verse, having love hold us prisoner…” (Cioran).
It feels good.
Samstag, 4. Juni 2011
London - you slag
There is no medical cure for neurodermatitis, you can only control it the best you can. If you’re lucky it’ll disappear via intense meditation, happiness and other make-believe techniques. After thirteen years of coping with this stressed-induced chronic nuisance, I would say I’ve been controlling it well, although Londoner water has deteriorated my aquagenic pruritus. There are cetirizine tablets, hydrocortisone cream, urea cream, etc.
When I was suffering severely from dust mite allergy I underwent a so-called desensitization, meaning I received monthly injections at the dermatologist. That process took three years – now I’m no longer heavily allergic to dust mites. Should I go through the same process again to get rid of my allergy against dander and summer (alias pollen)? I really liked the injections, except that the swellings were a little bit sore. I wonder whether they do the same for latex. Latex could probably kill me like a wasp’s sting could kill others.
They say the reason why my skin and blood are so unfortunate is because, as a child I didn’t infect myself enough with nature – a type of love-making I failed to immerse in.
It isn’t true. My sister and I had spent a lot of time outside cycling in the backyard, hiding under cherry trees, taunting ants…
I may have inherited hay fever from my mum, but no one else in the family is allergic to dust or latex apart from me. According to my latest allergy test from last summer I’m also allergic to guinea pigs.
I should have pursued the career as a dermatologist.
I read a brilliant book called ‘Direct Red’, which tells the story of a female surgeon. I got anxious, because on the emotional level my novel is kind of similar except that my protagonist is insane (apparently). I needed to gather scenes of surgeries, hospital lives and doctor & patient relationships. I’ve been spreading myself thin with secondary readings. I would like to return to fiction now.
Overall my protagonist is coping well for now and so am I. After rewriting the entire opening, I feel that she and I are both in balance. For some reason the parallels evoke morbid images at the back of my head. I assume they are reminders of what is yet to come.
After all, a sense of determination and confidence engulfed me today. It could have been the influence of the olive green Thames; watching beautiful flats reminding me of my wish to buy my family a beautiful house by the sea.
I felt smitten.
Ah, Wong Kar Wai movies – his ideas of unrequited love suck me in every time!
In the movies females cry genuinely, whereas men have their apartments flooded instead – just another way of shedding tears.
Internal monologues are to be heard, but whichever word that I utter in my heart – it seems to fall on deaf ears.
A stupid infatuation occurs just once a year and if I’m unlucky, it lasts for twelve months. And like Trent I wonder about all the might-have- could-have-beens. In the end you can only write a little tale about it and keep it to yourself. I express love in a soliloquy and then it continues dwelling in the shadows of oblivion. It’s easiest that way. You want something you can never have.
I’m still not keen on Londoners; many of them take a lot for granted.
But hey London, you slag – we’re almost one.
When I was suffering severely from dust mite allergy I underwent a so-called desensitization, meaning I received monthly injections at the dermatologist. That process took three years – now I’m no longer heavily allergic to dust mites. Should I go through the same process again to get rid of my allergy against dander and summer (alias pollen)? I really liked the injections, except that the swellings were a little bit sore. I wonder whether they do the same for latex. Latex could probably kill me like a wasp’s sting could kill others.
They say the reason why my skin and blood are so unfortunate is because, as a child I didn’t infect myself enough with nature – a type of love-making I failed to immerse in.
It isn’t true. My sister and I had spent a lot of time outside cycling in the backyard, hiding under cherry trees, taunting ants…
I may have inherited hay fever from my mum, but no one else in the family is allergic to dust or latex apart from me. According to my latest allergy test from last summer I’m also allergic to guinea pigs.
I should have pursued the career as a dermatologist.
I read a brilliant book called ‘Direct Red’, which tells the story of a female surgeon. I got anxious, because on the emotional level my novel is kind of similar except that my protagonist is insane (apparently). I needed to gather scenes of surgeries, hospital lives and doctor & patient relationships. I’ve been spreading myself thin with secondary readings. I would like to return to fiction now.
Overall my protagonist is coping well for now and so am I. After rewriting the entire opening, I feel that she and I are both in balance. For some reason the parallels evoke morbid images at the back of my head. I assume they are reminders of what is yet to come.
After all, a sense of determination and confidence engulfed me today. It could have been the influence of the olive green Thames; watching beautiful flats reminding me of my wish to buy my family a beautiful house by the sea.
I felt smitten.
Ah, Wong Kar Wai movies – his ideas of unrequited love suck me in every time!
In the movies females cry genuinely, whereas men have their apartments flooded instead – just another way of shedding tears.
Internal monologues are to be heard, but whichever word that I utter in my heart – it seems to fall on deaf ears.
A stupid infatuation occurs just once a year and if I’m unlucky, it lasts for twelve months. And like Trent I wonder about all the might-have- could-have-beens. In the end you can only write a little tale about it and keep it to yourself. I express love in a soliloquy and then it continues dwelling in the shadows of oblivion. It’s easiest that way. You want something you can never have.
I’m still not keen on Londoners; many of them take a lot for granted.
But hey London, you slag – we’re almost one.
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