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.
Samstag, 15. Oktober 2011
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.
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