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.

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.

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.

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.