Schubert's fingertips

There were numbers with meanings, a crying friend and sounds of irregular heartbeats. Sometimes you open your eyes in bed, noticing that you’ve been holding your breath as if you were under water. I blame the neighbour underneath for listening to horrible electro beats; beats that attempt to overhaul the sound of a heartbeat. You cannot overhaul or change the sound of a heartbeat with a different rhythm and believe it’s the new trend.
I have decided that I’m no longer into electro, unless it’s done professionally by Alec, Trent, Alessandro or Ladytron.

I haven’t mediated for almost two weeks and therefore the panic attacks have returned with some funky eczema on top. Just to let you know that below that layer of skin is nothing to discover except for some dead cells that were once part of me; they used to enable the regeneration process and I was very thankful. If you think about how much of you dies every day in order to give birth to something better, you feel guilty.
There is one part of you trying its best to support these cells as an act of kindness, to return the favour, but the other part of you (, you might want to call it the unconscious which sometimes is engulfed by a certain type of compulsion) wants to kill, to flare things up to the extreme and eventually taste the blood between the teeth. Stuff like that. The core’s hot, it always is. So if you’re not tired, make the most out of it, but not in front of your parents.

My hands are nervous, which is not a good sign. I accidently pierced through my capsule with my nail and the yellow powder scattered all over my hands, although it was supposed to dissolve in my stomach.
I’ve been overwhelming my cells too much and I’m sorry. There is never ever anyone to blame for any misfortune. After all it’s you who let it happen. It’s easy to hate that person or that thing, but it’s easier to transfer that hate onto paper and thus remove it from the soul, piece by piece. It may take years, or your whole life. You can accelerate it if you want.

Everyone knows you differently, looks at you differently – nothing is more confusing than that if you think about it. What everyone has in common is: they know your name, but then again, each one pronounces it differently, exhales it differently. In the end what is in your name that makes you so unique anyway? Nothing, except that once you’ve bitten the dust the name lives on, but for no particular reason. Why not take your name with you?

I recall the first time I was in a room alone with a man. I think I was ten. He was giving me piano lessons. It was dreadful. However, I do not resent my mother for urging me to find a hobby at that time. Tennis was all right for a while, but the piano lessons equalled tearful hours of desperation. My love for the piano had vanished instantly when that man was teaching me. Here they are: an evil female paediatrician and an evil male piano teacher, the first two adults who hated my guts. The feelings were reciprocated and it feels good holding on to them up to this day. I will take their goddamn names with me.
Years later my guitar teacher had made it up to me. At least he was competent and I showed progress, but it took me over six years to realise that I was not made to play music.
Now listening to Schubert singing to a beautiful crow, I wonder what if he had been my piano teacher. Would he have written “good night” at my door? And when listening to Trent singing “something I can never have”, I wonder whether I will experience the exact same sentiment of redemption one day.

After the discovery of writing at the age of eleven I had obviously assigned myself to a therapy for life. But what is writing without the sound of music and someone’s fingertips pressing against my skin? So I put the music down in words that have no meaning to you, but me. I only have one diagnosis, but whatever you have come up with please put “literary” before the word and it will be correct. Whatever you think will be correct. Just don’t ever let me know. Because if you do, I will hurt you.

I hope his fingers haven’t gone numb yet. I still want more.

Love is that which, once it has blinded you, will make you waste a lot of time.

The line

And this is a week gone. It happens. I also don’t remember having seen this wrinkle on you, either. How do you do it? How much energy have you invested in that line of yours?

Repeating one mistake after the other… You may think that’s stupidity, but it’s the unbearable compulsion to stretch beyond that mistake….what more wrong can you do to hurt that person, to prove that you are unworthy of their kindness…
Oh please.

Here is the creator’s third life, yes, a triple life. There is the novel, the blog and the so-called “real life”. And they don’t know, because you’re not telling them. They think they’re all you as one. Maybe you are, maybe you’re not. However, you say, on the literary aspect, all three make you, but they are to be separated, to be separated. It’s for your own good. Tell them.

Yes. Yes you do. You envy all the married, engaged or taken people, but think about it; is your envy irrational if you say you don’t want to be in their place?

If you gaze downward as you speak, then there is error in every word spoken, whereas if you look at them, you might kill them. So there’s nothing wrong with committing errors. People do that all the time.

Squeeze the head of the dead flower, you can still feel the leftover moisture; a sign of some life, or hope that will last a little longer. It dies last they say.

You can’t be you in front of anyone, you can’t share anything with anyone…underneath that grey nimbus, and they won’t ever be able to pierce through the camouflage. And it’s your own fault.

So now this line will forever carry that mistake which you will continue to commit…until they are all gone. You’re walking that line alone, do you know that?
Yes, I know.

What you want is not meant for you

I saw him. He bought himself a cup of coffee and as usual he was gazing at his Blackberry as if dreading all the people around him. I used to do the same thing, pretend that I was busy writing a text message.
Now you wonder why I didn’t walk up to him to say hello. I don’t really know. Well, I thought he was with someone, as he was talking to some woman, but in the end he left the café on his own. Then I realised there was no point.
He has lost a little weight since July. The Tintin figure is coming to show. I was hoping he had cut down on the coffee.
My heart hasn’t beaten like that in a while. No, I’m not referring to coffee…I haven’t drunk coffee since last summer.

I have slightly lost touch with my novel. I’m too exhausted to focus. There are so many things that my brain is currently unable to fathom and yet I can see the incompleteness, unable to fill the many holes.

Did I mention I received about four Christmas gifts? I don’t buy Christmas gifts, but having received some, means I’d have to return the favour. But I no longer have ideas for gifts and I don’t have the time to post them. By the time I have time the post offices are closed. I don’t see the point in gifts. Social conventions and human interactions are becoming more and more complicated than ever. I don’t even have time for myself, how could they expect me to have time for them? Sometimes I wish I could simply tape my fingers shut and not utter a word like the ones I’ve just uttered. They are unforgivable. Like, I’m unworthy of your kindness. I can no longer return the favour.

I now understand what Buk meant when he said that you have to dedicate a day to doing nothing. You simply lie on your bed, toss and turn, stare at the ceiling for no reason and just do nothing. I understand that it was his kind of meditation, his moment of calm. But in moments like these I would fantasize about killing myself, which is why they must be avoided at all costs.
When Stuart sent Ellen on vacation, she didn’t know what to do with herself and in the end her dark faculties had outlived her, engulfed her and dragged her into her worst nightmares. Who has the time to face his demons nowadays? We’re all too busy; too busy being with the wrong people, too busy dying with the wrong people. And when the right person appears, you let him walk by. But it doesn’t matter as you no longer have room to accommodate regrets. You’re full of fiction material that keeps you alive and whatever sentiment you have collected can be utilised and transformed into something more powerful. You might call it a living lie, but all I care about is the recycled sentiment that is half mine and half my creation’s. This is how you share. This is how you understand yourself.

Bleed

If you hold on to the bright, you realise that bright is evident after all. I’m glad there are two sides of me. I didn’t only enjoy the time with my parents; I was being overly perceptive throughout the time when they were here with me. I looked at them with so much more depth than ever. I was observing the very surface of my mother’s skin, each single grey hair on my dad’s head. And I suddenly remembered being three, then five, six, ten, twelve and fifteen. I realised that at those ages I never really observed them. Except that I found my mother exceptionally beautiful and I wanted to look like her. When I was young, I probably never listened carefully to parents, either. Having spent all these years building and enhancing my ego and getting prepared for its trip, I had done nothing but exploit them. And they are the only people who never resented me for it.
Talking about giving I would give them all I have. It’s just that I have nothing.

Now the sound of music has dispelled the sense of sadness that had engulfed me since they’d stepped onto the plane. I’m not alone at all like I thought I was. My boyfriend Art has returned and is now after Ellen. But no one is ever going to have her. She might have you, however. This much, I figured.

When my mother asked me what my book was about, I hesitated. So she thought it was about her. I was glad to say that she was wrong. Although it has nothing to do with my parents whatsoever, it is dedicated to them and that ghost of mine. The only sad thing is that when I talk about books with my parents, they only come up with that “Harry Potter”-writer. They don’t even know her name. Funny that my mother thought it was about her and all her negative sides. I still hope that she didn’t mean it when she said it. If there was ever anyone to blame about any negative outcomes regarding my character, then it will be me obviously and shadows that I was/am involved with, but it will be my fault for letting them shape me and form my face.
Not quite disfigured yet, in spite of the Bacon experience. Bacon, however, portrays a lot more pain; the kind of pain that I am not familiar with, apart from Ellen. The creator and the creation never feel the same way. Just like you and I will never feel the same thing or the same way. We do not understand each other. I can only teleport myself into Ellen’s body in order to experience the same sentiments. There was a moment of writing, where her sentiments exceeded my standards, so I had to change the voice. It was only fair. I know who I am not.

When I watch people talking to each other, sharing personal details, I realise that they all have a reason to talk, but a lot of times it’s for the sake of social conventions. They believe they have a reason to talk, a reason to repeat the same words every day, but in reality they are debasing the centre of their personality by adding more and more insignificant material to their lives. They kept congratulating me without knowing how I little I care about it. The ceremony meant nothing. I used it to lure my parents to come and it worked and the other reason was I wanted to see someone, but he wasn’t there.

I am ashamed to say that I’ve put on 5kg since I started working and none of my jeans fit me any longer. Going to the gym in the evening is not as effective as going in the morning. I also messed up my immune system during New Year’s. The lump on my arm was an infection and the cold lasted for a whole week which is too long for my standards. As mentioned before, I was almost experiencing the same thing from four years ago, except the mid ear infection didn’t occur, luckily.

I shall run ninety minutes tomorrow. The first time since early summer.

I noticed how much I dread the words “We should catch up.” Never have I got anything worth telling.
Another reason why I think I shouldn’t talk is that I found myself lying to a bishop yesterday. He didn’t even mean to be rude. He asked me something that wasn’t any of his business, but instead of saying so, I chose to lie and it wasn’t right. So I decided the next thing he asked me I would tell the truth. Unfortunately the next thing he asked me was “What do you write?” I hesitated. Almost convinced to say romance and drama, I said “dark stuff.” There was silence for a while and I saw how his eyes were digging a deep hole into my forehead. I emphasised it was merely fiction and not horror or any of that sort. After all, I’m not fussed about lying to a bishop, but I realised that’s what I’m like with people nowadays. I cannot look at them sincerely if they ask me things that are none of their business or not of any significance. I continue talking without even looking at them. Therefore the impression you get is could be lying, but very often I am not. I just don’t feel like talking. Don’t you ever feel like that?
I hate talking about writing, particularly with strangers. As writing is the only thing I cannot lie about.

My viewpoint that gynaecologists should be men and men only has been justified. The nurse made my cervix bleed. She had no idea how to insert the speculum correctly and it hurt. It never happened before with my former gynaecologist in Germany and it never hurt, either. Despite her friendliness and attempt to prevent feelings of embarrassment on my side, I must say almost lost it when she started talking about my modesty. Having had 2 male doctors and 2 female nurses doing gynaecological check-ups on me, the two female nurses have, by far, been the most incompetent. The first nurse came up with abnormalities (which weren’t true!) and the second one made me bleed!
Now my smear is covered in blood! Thank you!
Apparently if the blood has covered up too much of the smear, I will have to do another one.
Why are the hands of women so nasty? So nasty…
And why do women have to go to NURSES for smear tests in England?

Women.

There is nothing to say. No more.

When antibiotics talk

When some people feel pain they tend to intensify it by going over the top (this is when it’s driven by anger. Anger and pain make a very powerful couple and they reject any form of control. Although both are a huge part of you, they don’t necessarily care about you like your cells do for instance. Anger and pain are wild, but secretly they are disguised as Despair and you know what she looks like. However, I still have a crush on her brother.).

What is it that my friends think I am naïve and unable to speak for myself anyway? It makes me feel like a zero who is unable to learn and take care of myself.
When friends think you’re incapable of something and they believe they have to push you through it, guide you, lead you, you feel like you know nothing about the world. Aware that they only want the best helps you to keep your mouth shut, but the truth is they have no clue how less you care. I tend to think (but wouldn’t admit to you) that I don’t need anyone, that I don’t need help.
Here, the undeniable truth is, I need my family. I don’t care about the rest – I really do not. I need my family. Not you.
But, I don’t want to need them.
I want them to need me and tell me so.
That dependent wreck speaks.
I want to tell my mother that there is a lump in my arm; I don’t know what it is, but it’s sore. However, I don’t want her to worry.
I want to tell my family how often I cry when I simply think about them. Still, I don’t want them to worry.

Before my parents arrive next week, I need to lose some weight. I don’t want the first thing my mum says to be “You’ve put on weight.” And I will blame work for making a regular gym visit impossible. I also have to work on my facial expression. I no longer look like the me from last summer.

And how much this place is tearing me apart, I will not leave just yet. I will continue the experience just to expand my chances of finding something better in the future…maybe at home (yes, I am talking about job). While this country here is falling apart, I will inevitably fall apart with it, but my motivations will not. These are the only things I care about and my family. Not you, not anyone else.

You understand shit---

When Dick said that people who aren’t in touch with reality are insane, I wondered how many people are actually not insane. There are a lot of them. All of them around me. Even the good actors, who are, in fact, insane on the inside. If a good actor can feign his behaviour on the outside and adapt to all these social conventions, it means that he exactly knows how reality functions and therefore he is not insane.

Again, you understand shit---

When I think about how year after year I have to think of a new solution to save myself, I immediately get a headache. Becoming more and more sensitive on the health front doesn’t make it any easier either in association with my inability to cope with stress. Each time it gets heavy, stress knows its way around. Two years ago it attacked her kidney and last year it brought rosacea upon her face against which she is on antibiotics since September. Additionally green tea had kept her cheerfully alive for three months. But no matter what you consume, it loses effect at one point or another. And she already mentioned that she was running out of ideas. She never thought she’d be capable of meditation which is why she always categorised it as her last resort. (The gym has always helped to de-stress, but due to work, she cannot create a regular time frame for it.) So here she is, reconsidering the last and only option, in order to save herself.

I can’t say I am fully with it, let alone in the mood for it, but it’s not the time yet to touch the sickle. It’s not the time yet.
There is so much to do.
So much to do.

I realised that the reality of Ellen has become more transparent and conceivable than my own being; me sitting here at the computer, consuming my antibiotics (, as I am not as strong as I thought I was. And that’s because I let something bad fall upon me). Here, at the uni library where I am still pretending to be a student who is working on her big project.
I have started viewing people as merely flesh. If our cheeks touch, I feel nothing but skin and flesh. And I used to feel so much more than this. When I see others touch I notice that there is something happening, but I no longer understand it.

That was the worst Christmas and New Year’s. Being alone is good, but not when your creative mind has slipped and you’re left with nothing to produce on the white sea. Eaten by an influx of emptiness that wasn’t even evident. There simply was too much reality to consume – the sound of firecrackers, the flicker of Christmas lights and then coming to realise that you want to be with your family. And for a moment I understood the reality people.
Life is only hard when you are not busy.

There are many friends with needs. And I do not know what there is that I can give. Watching how friends replace me, I don’t seem to encounter any disappointment on my side. When have I ever been there anyway or given them anything? There are a lot more people out there who are similar, people who do not like to be needed. So, maybe this is why you don’t resent your friends for replacing you. Being a bad friend makes rejection easier. Things can be so simple.

Understand shit again---

Since the pills slowed me down so much, I am now able to focus on every thought and breath. Maybe I should succumb to my last resort and save myself. The last time I was surrounded by this calm atmosphere in my head was the first week I started consuming green tea regularly. If there is good in me, then it is speaking now. The sickle needs to wait.

My hero from last year says that I cannot ever transfer wisdom and diagnosis straightforwardly into fiction, but I have to make something great out of them by myself. I only just understood what he meant.
Slowing down the thinking process indeed is the key.

VALIS

From nothing you can become everything. If you look at where we are now, we are about to become everything and some forces out there will not like it.
This might sound very sci-fi, but I believe in it, for I am in a state where I cannot think clearly or speak anything of significance, not to mention, create anything coherent. My creative mind is gone. I hope it’s only temporary, as otherwise there won’t be much of me left.

Like last year, the start of New Year always leaves a very bad taste in my mouth and triggers nausea. The only creature I spoke in the last two days was a dazed ladybird crawling on my Philip K. Dick book. Everybody has had a ladybird on the tip of his finger, right? And as you may know, they tend to fly from the tip of your finger. But when the ladybird reached the edge of my VALIS book, it spread its wings and tried, but it fell backwards down onto my table. It broke my heart.
I felt too guilty to say that I’d accidentally stepped on some of its siblings. So I don’t know what its quest may now be. But its lover is still in the corner of my ceiling.

I don’t know whether I should show him the way. If he believes there is still a reason to fly or crawl for, it will do it.