oh, and discussion: i mean, between donna tartt and neil gaiman, i’ve actually gotten to see and meet some of my absolute favorite (and i mean favorite) authors, and only very recently. i have to say that the experience is unlike anything else. a good writer bares a part of themself that lies deep inside while writing a book. woven into the fiction is the absolute truth about the person writing it. so only getting a writer’s work allows you to get to know them on a level that’s indescribable, and quite private, while having no direct interaction whatsoever. loving the work and, in extension, that part of the author, allows for a very substantial experience when seeing and/or meeting them in real life. the connection you’ve formed with their words becomes solidified in the physical meeting. and it’s most likely that the soul of the literature corresponds with that of the author; if you resonate with the first, then of course you’ll love the second as well. that combined with the pure gratification and appreciation you feel for the writer for writing this book that you’ve fallen in love with – how can you not have stars in your eyes?
p i g e o n s, by sergey neamoscou
just now, i found myself thinking about languages. more specifically, i was thinking about how the way i express things, and, indirectly, my general mode of speaking, and even my “personality”, varies depending on which language i am speaking. four different languages, four different egos. and i asked myself, which one is the real me?
i guess you could make arguments for each language-me, and eventually come to the conclusion that they’re all me, but i have to say that the split first place would go to swedish-me and english-me. why? because i have mastered these languages well, and at pretty much an equal level. this might seem like the most obvious thing in the world, but think about it for a second. i feel most comfortable expressing myself in these language because i know them. i can fully* verbally exercise my acts toward self-actualization only through these two languages because they give me the biggest playground. as opposed to the spanish-me, for example, in whom i can’t even hear my own personality at times, due to my linguistic limitations. imagine if spanish-me was the only me i had. my view of myself would be so small, i’d be nearly no one.
now, you can expand this theory, look at other aspects in the world like, oh, say, everything ever. the more you know about something, the more you can move around in said something, and the more you can find yourself in said something. feel your way through the negative space. this applies to anything. to be able to find yourself truly being something, you have to understand and, to an extent, be everything that isn’t that something.
sometimes, experiencing the alternatives to that something you were set on going to at first leads you to not find your way back. sometimes, you learn that you weren’t that doctor, or buddhist, or heterosexual, or poet, or pessimist that you thought you were at the beginning. you’ll find out just how selfish you can be, how cold the world is sometimes, and how everything is really really hard. it’ll hurt. it’ll hurt a lot. but you’re closer to the truth.
the truth is what really matters. you have to try things, all the things, to know the whole you. paint the picture bigger and bigger and strive to get the whole thing, even though you’ll most certainly die before you get there**. the more you do it, the bigger your self will become. that’s why experienced people have that certain something. you can see the sureness glistening in their eyes, it’s solid. like a rock amidst a stormy ocean. they know themselves. a bit jaded, broken, but so beautifully real.
*well you know, relatively.
**who knows, the search might transcend mortality.
(… ein meinem herzen.)
i finally saw the grand budapest hotel yesterday (enjoyed it, needed more women, will do a visual study once the hd stills come out) and i figured it was just a matter of time so i might as well do this now. jason schwartzman is one of my favorite people. i don’t know why. why him out of all people? i mean, i don’t think he’s the most attractive man, but i really love the way he looks. i don’t think he’s the most amazing actor, but i love him in every movie. i don’t think he’s the most incredible musician, but i could listen to his albums all day. i just kind of really like him. it’s just a thing. jason schwartzman is one of my favorite people, and this is me saying “hey man, i think you’re really great”.
i mean, he’s a total stud in that weird sort of way, if that’s what you’re into. ( i am.)
i. fourteen days ago, i went and had a vein tapped. a blood donation. three days ago, i received a text message from the hospital thanking me. telling me that the blood i gave was given to a patient. tears fell down my cheeks. ever since those fourteen days ago, i’ve felt this warmth inside. as if the blood was replaced with light.
ii. a woman flirted with me today. i was flustered. a person flirted with me today. i was flustered.
iii. we sat outside, preparing for our visit at the kindergarten. i closed my eyes and faced the sun, turning like a leaf, yearning for the rays. it was a regular day at school, expected to be mundane. it was bliss.
iv. down on the west coast, they got a saying.
v. i’ve applied for courses. plural. three. black holes & cosmic explosions, astronomy, creative writing. i keep my eggs in baskets. plural. x.
(play and then read, yeah?)
i want to be as unapologetically me as possible. i want to be the me that i am in my head. i just want to say what i think without that tremble in my voice, without that flicker. i want to wear a leather jacket and have dyed hair and not say sorry a single time in the whole goddamned day. i want to look at a guy without thinking that he’d never be interested in me anyways. i want to wear clothes that cling without worrying about which rolls are showing where. i want to make that one mistake that’d be awful but such a good story in the end. i want to ask what the fuck are you looking at and have the evening end with me having punched someone in the throat. i want to make out with strangers and get tattoos just because i feel like it in that particular moment. i want to flirt in languages i don’t speak. i want to walk in that certain way without thinking about it, saunter. i want to do things that make me question who i am, shake my foundation. i want to scream, and laugh into the dead of night. i want people to hate me, and i want people to love me. i want to knock them down. i want to blow them away. i have a cyclone within me, but i want to be in the eye.
when your head’s been running for a while and you’re entrenched in the deepest hours of the night, the part of your brain that stops you from going too crazy grows a bit tired. the barrier appears to get lower and lower. you become more creative, find yourself coming up with ideas and wanting to do and do and do. of course, it also allows you to think and think and think. you think yourself into wanting everything and anything, and suddenly you’ve stumbled upon that damn feeling again. loneliness. as the years go by, so much changes, but the only thing that changes about that feeling is that you understand more and more about that one thing that you’re missing. or really that you understand more and more about what you don’t understand about that thing that you’re missing. it’s not really nice to want so much and find yourself in the darkest hours, thinking about it. frankly, it blows.
i’m in the sky when i’m on the floor
the world’s a mess and you’re my only cure
there’s no time for me to act mature
the only words i know are “more, more” and “more”
so the concept of the other with a capital o. the third part, constantly being looked to; watching, discerning, judging. seeking validation, not from other people, don’t flatter yourselves, randoms, but from the most important entity in the world, the center of the universe – yourself. but… not. the perfect you. the you that you almost lust for, perpetually long to be, but never will become. nietzsche saw the übermensch as a goal for humanity to set for itself. he was a little arrogant, to pin his view of the other with a capital o, his manifestation of the perfect self, as the goal for every single person that has ever and will ever live. god, the state, whatever shape you want it to be – isn’t it just the ultimate you? perfection is a concept defined by each individual, there are no set quotas. we constantly seek confirmation, claim that it can only be given by others, get frustrated when we don’t get it. really, we can only give it to ourselves. the power is with us. we separate ourselves, se us as both self and other. we surround ourselves with our own realities. is it a free will if we’re keeping ourselves from our wills? we tie our own knots.
when i returned to psych after two and a half weeks and realized i was completely uninterested in him, i found myself wondering: what’s the point? when something can go from being an actual thing to nothing at all, without anything happening. when it’s not even time that makes you move on, but mere circumstance. was it even something to begin with, wasn’t it anything at all? i was, once again, struck by the finality of impermanence. but just now i remembered this post, and realized that there it was. there was the point of it. the experience itself, and the remnant of it, is what makes something worth it. there is solid proof that it was something, right there. because i never could have written that if it hadn’t happened, if i hadn’t really felt it. the reality of it is what makes it so inspired, and it’s only life itself which can breathe life into art. so live – let things begin, let them end – and see the world surge through your creations.
my father called a while ago. i missed it. we’ve been doing this cat-and-mouse chase since my birthday. he calls my main cell, i can’t answer because the mic doesn’t work. i call with my other cell, he doesn’t answer because it’s an unknown number. or so i assume. he calls back anyways, maybe because he realizes it might be me. he says we should meet and i say sure. we can’t figure out a date so i say that we could just do it later. he calls again later and i miss it. he calls once more and i don’t miss it. he suggests a date and i say sure. i don’t have the energy to figure out a time and place so i suggest that we could just do it later.
he called again an hour ago, and i missed it. i called back just now, but he didn’t answer. we’re supposed to meet tomorrow. to be honest, i think i’m the one chasing myself, and i think i’m finally tired of it. i’m tired of holding grudges and asking why. i’m tired of feeling incomplete. what’s the point? it is what it is, and weighing myself down won’t do me any good. i think i’m ready to let go of the resentment and move on. i can’t help but think that i’ll look back at all this further down the road with regret if i don’t. life’s just too short, you know? it’s too short.
the air nibbles callously at my cheeks as i walk, coat flapping in the wind. my shadow spreads its wings, ready to fly as my feet stomp their way forward. shards of glass lie scattered on the ground, stars fallen from way up high, shattered by the impact. they shimmer in pieces, catching light artificial, releasing beauty more than natural. ready to cross the street, a car whizzes past. my eyes meet the drivers’, time slowing, stretching into the thickest of honeys. as it drips, the music echoes in my ears, words seeping into my mind. now she’s gone, love burns inside me. i enter the bus, scrambling to find my foundation. equilibrium is hard-earned here. people stumble in one by one, together we stagger towards our destination. no one presses the stop button. we may be shaken, but we’re sharp. my mind ambles, remembering when i dropped my keys down the elevator shaft. one slim slit, deep magnetic. they were swallowed, devoured in the blink of an eye. i peered down into the darkness, wondering what lay there. i imagined an abyss, a portal into a different dimension. i felt its stare, saw, in my mind’s eye, my keys being crushed, pressed together into a singularity. one phone call and an instant later, the keys were in my hand again. the bailiff got them for me, fished them out like it was nothing. the master of the abyss, i guess. can the abyss even be mastered, or can it only ever master?
yayoi kusama, kusama’s peep show or endless love show (1966)
every now and then, i get a little (or a lot) un-aligned with myself. i let myself get carried away with things in life, and dragged along paths that i don’t really want to be on. they’re things that distract me, things that start out small but blow up and take more place than they deserve. petty things. and then i need to stop and think, and realize how small the blown-up things really are. how it doesn’t matter, and what does. i re-direct the camera lens and see myself shift into focus. it’s funny how i never notice myself blurring until i’m gone. but i always come back. i’m always reminded of my main agenda and it all becomes clear again. be a rockstar. whitehotbrilliant. re-aligned. centered. calibration complete.
first drunken post text it. i just came home, and everything is spinning and i am extremely frustrated. what i ask is not much, so why must the universe be so stubborn and insist that you ask nothing at all? life is about restraint: you can’t come off like this, you can’t show that… well life, grow up. and by life, i mean boys… and men. pince-nez are those kind of glasses that don’t have earpieces. i can write that because i’m in a state of inebriation. i can say and do all kinds of things under the excuse of inebriation. is beauty really terror? do we quiver before it? i think yes, in cases when beauty has a heartbeat. christmas is coming up, and i might as well bring up the fact that i turned 20, and that i went to london, as well. comme ci, comme ça. life is strange these days. i’m really priding myself in my ability to write coherent sentences right now, as the letters are spinning around and around. i think alcohol contains an amount of lead, because my limbs feel extremely heavy at this point. so do my eyelids. love you, bye.
i often claim that i’ve never been in love, but in reality, i fall in love quite easily. i fall in love with people’s appearances all the time. their smiles, their eyes, their everything. physical attraction strikes me hard, and i’m often left lying on the ground, dazed. but not confused.
does it make me superficial? am i vain for getting so affected by something that is merely on the surface? a picture can stir something deep inside of me. it can make me feel such joy, or sorrow. it can make me shiver, or smile. it can move me. i’m visually inclined, and how is that any different from any other sense? is it any less valid than being brought to tears by a song? than being brought to the past because of a smell?
the appearance of objects, and the compositions of them, affect me. maybe it works the same way with humans. maybe a person is just an object, until i find out what’s inside. is it only when that which lays underneath the surface is brought out, that an object becomes a subject? or is the subject an ever-present fact? maybe it’s in the clothes, the scars and the gaze. maybe the subjective permeates us. maybe it’s what makes us different.
but i mistake the subject for an object. i fall in love with the way someone looks, and ignore the fact that there’s a perspective behind it. i imagine that it’s static, when it’s, in fact, very fluid. and then, when i eventually find out that what i’m feeling such an attraction to isn’t a what, but a who – it ends. the who has never been a who that i’ve fallen in love with. not yet.
i am eating corn flakes and the sound of them being crushed by my teeth is so loud that i can’t hear the dialogue coming from my computer screen, even though it’s going directly through a chord and through two shells into my ears. up and down my jaw goes.
i think that i have to get into psych to be able to get my tattoos, because to be able to get my tattoos, i have to feel like i’m on my way to getting my shit together and becoming who i want to be. to do that, i have to drop myself into the position of future psych. cause see, if i just get my tattoos, it’ll be like skipping a step. what if i keep going and just look like the person i want to be but there’s this huge piece missing? i can’t just skip a dream. i’ll feel like a phony. i want to go and get what i want. i want
my life my the universe to be mine. and then i want the universe stuck into my skin with a needle.
there were so many cartons to throw away. i pressed them together with my hands, made them flat. then i pressed them into the trash can, cramming them in. trying to make them fit in with the other garbage. then i slammed the cabinet door, and left.
there are some people whose beauty strikes you. it’s instant. their air tastes like magic and for a second, you wonder if it’s real. if any of it is real. then you come closer and you see the flaws. the ugly. the rotten. the shadows under their eyes. the nicotine stains on their lips. and you realize what not resting for weeks and smoking to think really means. you look into their eyes and see what wandering is. what living does to you. some people wouldn’t be beautiful if they weren’t broken. but they are, and it’s breathtaking.
the corn flakes are soggy and gross now and i can hear everything. there’s no dialogue left.
crimson sweet, escaping through a crack and swelling over. waves, calm and sinister. it intrudes. flooding. devouring. the lens is red and you’re drowning. you’re drowning. in the end, thoughts do not die. they go on and on, ghosting through you. names cut deep. they do. packages contain. restrain, keep safe. labeling. liebling. the warmth shooting from a chest, a core, and enveloping you. arms envelope you. warmth that has never been experienced, yet is felt in gusts. a ghost memory. a phantom life. a premonition, maybe. it’s something that isn’t right yet, but can be. and all will be well. digits run on and on, coding the entangled chaos that is life. structures are poetry. prediction is meaning. that’s the way that it’s supposed to be. pieces falling – not scattering, but slotting. it brings peace. like the stilling of an ocean. the quiet of a nighttime. quiet. quiet.
i am listening to welcome to night vale. the twin peaks of the digital age. it’s amusing, but not in the “laughing out loud” sort of way, but in the sense that it makes my soul smile and occasionally chuckle. it’s comfort too. listening to the clear, matter-of-fact voice. a simple narrative, free from clutter and loud impressions. the one single voice that demands all my attention and lets me escape. it’s not brash, but it’s impactful. plus, the weather segment is always – kick. ass.
i’m listening to lana del rey and also goat at the same time. switching after every song. alternating between a dreamy haze and a gravelly daze.
i saw foals live two days ago. they were really good live. really good. it wasn’t until i was standing there – trying to move along to the music, but having a really hard time figuring out the patterns to some of the songs – that i realized it’s a little like math rock. which made me think about… math rock. asymmetrical time signatures, atypical rhythmical structures, counterpoints (“voices that are harmonically interdependent, but independent rhythmically and in contour”), extended chords etc. math rock is really neat.
i bought two black shirts today. well, one thin black shirt, that’s covered but a little see-through and comfortable but still clings in all the right places. the other black thing is is what you’d get if you let a cardigan and a bomber make sweet, sweet love. knitted, a little fuzzy, really soft, with a silver zipper going down the front. i’m going to wear it tomorrow. with the red lipstick. i hope he likes it. a part of me is a little over myself, asking “is this what i’ve come to?”. but the bigger part of me is more reasonable and realizes that, well, i like the attention and that’s fine. great even. it doesn’t happen very often, so why not make the most of it? he does seem to like the lipstick.
i like the phase i’m in right now, fashion wise. i don’t think i’ve ever been this comfortable and happy with my appearance at the same time. i’ve had phases where i felt really happy with the way i looked, but could barely move without having to twist or pull or tuck in anything. i’ve also had phases where i felt like i could do anything in what i was wearing without feeling uncomfortable… except look in a mirror because then i’d feel horrible. so that wasn’t good either. but i’m really good now. of course it has to do with the way i view myself, i realize that, but i think it’s more that this gained self-assuredness is helping me find the right balance between things in every aspect of my life. and plus – a lot of black. oh, how i feel at home in black.
i’m reading again. this isn’t at all surprising considering it’s fall and school has started up again and of course, that works as the most effective alarm clock to my escapelust. it has awoken from its slumber, big time. i’m working my way through spaceman, which is really interesting and intriguing but also a little headache-inducing because it starts in the middle of the story and it has fictional dialects that are a little hard to interpret – two very classical literary tools that together, as mentioned before, induce a headache. i’m hoping and thinking things will get easier as i delve deeper into it, because it really is interesting (not to mention, intriguing).
a friend once asked me: “well what if you just don’t take it that hard? what if there just isn’t anything to grieve about? does it really have to be a big deal?”
it’s easy to fall into thinking about a thing of nature as a thing of society. it’s easier to wonder why we should do something than why we would do something. it’s easier to question rules, to think that they’re manufactured by us, than to question what really can’t be proved. it’s easier to claim something is fake, than to accept how real it actually is.
sure, we expect people to mourn a loved one who has passed, and yeah, we have twisted it into some sort of norm, but it’s not really about that. grief is defined as “a multi-faceted response to loss, particularly to the loss of someone or something to which a bond was formed.” it’s multi-faceted, and the important part is that it is a response. it doesn’t really matter in which way, if someone comes into your life, they will make some space; and when they leave, that space will remain. empty. the presence of someone and the following absence of that same someone makes the same amount of impact. sure, it’s in/out, positive/negative, but the claimed energy has the same mass.
energy cannot be either created or destroyed, it can only change form. when you have someone in your life that can be categorized as a “loved” one, the departure of that person will change things. so even though you can’t really say that mourning is obligatory, an emotional shift can be expected to occur and that’s okay. in fact, it’s perfectly reasonable.
i have an exam tomorrow, a first of sorts, and i feel nothing. i’m floating. hours before, and i’m light-years away. light-years. everything feels light here. i look around, search for hidden smog, suppressed negativity, but i find nothing. no nooks or crevices. everything is straightened out, in fact, there are no planes. only a void. no pressure. it’s not confidence, it’s sureness. it doesn’t matter. a grade doesn’t matter. everything i can give, i can give. everything i can take, i can take. but nothing can be taken from me. nothing. i’m safe here. my existence is unconditional, and so, i’m content.
a 10 (and a little more) hour span’s worth of virtually jotted down thoughts.
oct 1, 2:37 pm
“swear on us.” it was the most beautiful and the most disgusting thing i had heard all day.
oct 1, 2:44 pm
the thought of buying flowers always breaks my heart. they’re so pretty, but they’ll just die. and who are we to take beautiful matters that are alive and then kill them – only to claim that they’re owned by us?
oct 1, 3:45 pm
“i’m right over here, why can’t you see me.” the frustrated longing. hopeless.
oct 1, 3:46 pm
it smells like church in here.
oct 1, 4:47 pm
franny and zooey makes me think of ivory knits, bitingly cold air with little breath clouds all around and cigarette ashes. it makes me think of luggage, wistfulness and lanky boys with dark, heavy, wavy bangs who think they know what it’s about – life “and all that jazz”. and girls who try to cover up how lost they feel with darling smiles and “lovely!” at everything. it makes me think of forest green, savants and a complex kind of warmth. it makes me think of letters that are falling apart and charming nicknames. of unspoken thoughts and changes. of friction. of love. of loving with no love.
oct 1, 5:42 pm
passion is a funny thing.
oct 1, 7:43 pm
oct 1, 8:56 pm
it amuses me when my psych book is comparing humans and “other animals”. like it’s so proud to be making a scientific statement like the big boys. like it’s saying: “hey guys, look! i know we’re animals too! look guys, i’m smart and sciencey like you!” i imagine the natural sciences not giving even the slightest semblance of a fuck. it freaks me out to think about the fact that we’re animals though. evolution, what the fuck are you? what kind of twisted shit went down for us to start painting our
claws nails, dropping from the sky for fun and questioning our own existence? and somehow, we turned out to be the ultimate predators. really, what happened between “ape” and “human”? and how will evolution top this? it scares me a bit. things have really spun out of control. gone haywire. we’re monsters. it’s still pretty cool though.
oct 1, 9:16 pm
there is a part of me that is really attracted to the ideas of aggression, violence and pain.
oct 1, 11:32 pm
tessellations, sparks, voids.
oct 2, 12:18 am
there are rainbows everywhere.
When I look back on my life, it’s not that I don’t want to see things exactly as they happened. It’s just that i prefer to remember them in an artistic way. And truthfully, the lie of it all is much more honest, because I invented it. Clinical psychology tells us arguably that trauma is the ultimate killer. Memories are not recycled like atoms and particles in quantum physics. They can be lost forever. It’s sort of like my past is an unfinished painting; and as the artist of that painting, I must fill in all the ugly holes and make it beautiful again.
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
Frequently, our only truth is narrative truth, the stories we tell each other, and ourselves—the stories we continually recategorize and refine. Such subjectivity is built into the very nature of memory, and follows from its basis and mechanisms in the human brain.
memories are dependent on us. memories are created by us. it has happened so many times that someone has described an occurrence so vividly that i’d be able to recollect and retell it as if i was there. so many times that i’ve read a story, seen a picture or heard a song, and just let it simmer in my mind. and really, if you let it set enough, what’s to say it’s any different from anything that’s happened to you physically? because that’s the real difference anyways, isn’t it? that some things happen to your body, and others to your mind. and it’s a fact that you manipulate even the memories of things that you’ve actually experienced. the remembering part is all the same. it’ll show the same on a brain scan, your body will react the same. you will feel it all the same. there is no objectivity, everything is created through you, and therefore, it’s created by you.