First day of Script Frenzy and I haven't written a single word on my script. I still have no idea what to write and I am far too busy having visitors. Perhaps soon things will clear up. Perhaps soon my life will return to normal again, for bad or for worse?

There is music. Hesitant and cautious music. Like a wild and nervous animal out of the forest. I play and I sing, carefully, ready to stop and withdraw at any moment and frequently doing so. Fleeing, but not very far away.

Fleeing, hiding temporarily and then returning once more.

Today I introduced my dear K to my psychologist. I have now introduced her to him, my female and Mothersister. I joked a bit and said - turned to him - that I hadn't got the heart to tell her that I only had three friends and that he would have to wear a wig next time.

K showed me some really sad but beautiful poetry. I have to ask him to tell me who it was by at some point. It made me feel a great urge to write poetry again.

I can probably combine it successfully with Script Frenzy, somehow.

I never feel as poor as I do when I cannot afford interesting books. I usually never feel poor even when I have to choose between (necessary) clothes and (just as necessary) food. I usually never feel poor when I can't buy other things I would like to have, like technology or games or a new pot or frying pan.

But when I cannot buy a book I would like to read even when I think it may be good for me, I feel poor.

And I get another reminder why I never want to demand money for my words.

Still not a word on my script, but I have had a rather interesting day all in all, despite the fact that I am rather pissed off at my Helpers for another thing they have failed to do.

Today I bandaged my breasts in again; a habit I had when I was younger but that faded when my breasts got too big and heavy. I tried again today, and it kind of worked, but it's a bit uncomfortable and stiff and nothing I can do for long periods of time.

It's still pleasant to know that I can at all.

Folt natha zhas, raeh'li aterruce.

Phuul dos jal nauxxizzna atsus? Jal nauxxizzna atsus.. waela marrana?

Folt natha rath'arghne, waela marrana..  folt natha lassrinnus, numl marrana..  vel'bol zhal doera del natha aterruce saph ilta?

Brou ilta, brou ilta, whol il zhal neitar ul'plyr ilta imail, lueth ilta alti'uin zhal neitar mir ilta pholor lil su'aco...

Il zhahus folt natha zhas, raeh'li murrpau. D'anthe siltrin, dos h'ros thir'ku jalbol!

(Dos fridj sut ussa, lueth usstan orn jous dos!)

Dos phuul jal nauxxizzna atsus. Jal nauxxizzna atsus.. waela marrana.

Brou ilta, brou ilta, whol ilta alti'uin zhal neitar mir ilta phor.

She ran off to a new life. She changed her name and stopped talking to all her friends, moved around for two years between second-hand, ready-furnished apartments on short term contracts before she got her first own one again.

She never got any new friends. She had begun anew with an empty phonebook in a new place, but her slate was not clean. Old memories had been scrawled so hard into the stone that polishing it down to erase the words were more effort than she could manage.

She sat in her new life, reliving her past ones.

Some random quotes, thus far, from my script.

*

"The thunder is coming; the thunder that will crack open the sky and blind every living, seeing creature. The storm will plunge you into darkness and burn you all to ash in an unseen fire and wash you all away."

*

MAN: I did not write this! Why would I write this!?

(The MAN runs off to the coffee pot and pours the hot coffee over his arm, rubbing at it frantically with his sleeve to get the text off.)

*

COWORKER: L'g˙˙m; have you heard of it? I have heard it's great!

pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain
pain pain pain pain pain pain pain eep pain pain

I have tidied a bit, trying to reclaim my workroom from the orangey creatures and the chaos of stored objects. Now I'm in pain, due to multiple reasons. It's levels of pain even I have trouble dealing with. It is a lot of pain. So much pain.

pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain
aaaaaaaaaaaaah! pain pain pain pain pain pain

Gnrf.

Perhaps I ought to just call it a day and curl up into a ball.

(trigger warning. you should probably not read this...)

the stone drill core hit the side of his head he should not have turned his back to her when she was feeling like that he fell forward she screamed as she let herself fall down to land over him swinging the heavy stone cylinder down again pretty red splatter as it hit again he tried to turn around she hit again until he fell still her hands covered in blood as she grabbed his hair and pulled his head back and bashed in his face and then the rest of him

the cage still closed; pretend anyway that the cage is not there; never forget the freedom once known, never forget the feeling of the unrestrained life, no matter how bitter its taste in the muzzled mouth; never forget, because one day…

one day the door will open; one day the cage will disintegrate and all the playful pouncing, all the pretended chases will come to an end, their lessons taught; all the bitterness of being caged and walled in will fade away in a leap and a pounce and a dash for real freedom that will finally be within reach.

It's sad when one forget the names of old friends. I remember the love and affection I used to feel towards them, how we used to play together, explore strange and new and lost worlds together. The stories we shared, the stories we told. The stories we lost.
The secret names, the secret history, the secrets in general which we shared. The things I confessed to them, the things I told them, voice breaking, crying.

But I have forgotten their names now. I found my old toys and remembered the love and affection, but could no longer remember their names.

Going to my father's mother tomorrow. I should be back on Monday, but I have no idea when I'll be able to put my entries up. I will not have internet out there, and I'm going to Catlair now so that my father can come and get me there. We'll take the north road this time, which will be an interesting change.

I've got /Neverwhere/ with me, which I am looking forward to reading. I haven't read much Gaiman before; just /Good Omens/ which he wrote with Pratchett and some comic book containing /A Dream of a Thousand Cats/. Excitement!

And so we went once more to the woods, only that this time we were invited over to some friends of my father's for dinner. He had helped their sister with something and she wanted to give us some food. I did not particularly enjoy the food, although the salmon was tasty and the coffee great. I then asked if I could borrow the piano while people talked in the kitchen and I played the kyrie. Then I played the kyrie on the recorder.

Also, I now know that recorders can confuse dogs.
"Noes! This stick makes /sounds/! OMG SCARY! :(("

Today I saw two cranes on a field. The cat that lives in the mansion nearby came and paid us a visit as well. An elegant male, dark grey of fur, cautious of step and mind. He was fed sausage and cheese by my father's mother. I spent some time watching the birds that come to eat, hoping to see one of the squirrels, but they did not come by.

We went to visit one of my father's brothers. It was not very fun, but I got to see the ducks again. They have pretty ducks.
I want hens again.

Wow. /Neverwhere/ is a delicious book. It is one of the few books that can make me both giggle and shiver, and never lets me know what it will throw at me next. It has the tendency to suddenly get very unpleasant, without any warning, in just the ways I love. The two assassins are made out of pure paoporn, in two very different ways, both really enjoyable for me. The main protagonist is no hero in an utterly believable way. He's confused and sad and scared, just like a real person.

I think I'm probably hooked on Gaiman now.

Finished reading /Neverwhere/ in the car on the way home. Nothing at all happened until we came to the city. My father dropped me off at home and then he waited while I cared for the rats. One of the old females had died and I took her with me, then my father dropped me off at Catlair. I will have to go home again tomorrow.

I loved /Neverwhere/. I loved the ending. I loved almost every part of it, but it did not teach me much. I would've liked to give it bible status, but I can't. A pity.

(for a dead rat)

where do rats go when they die
and where does that thing go -
that thing deep inside them?
not the green, wobbly bit
but the thing behind their eyes?
that part of them that knows that
they are separate from the shadows
outside of the candle light?

is there a Big Rat underground
ruling endless tunnels of night?
is there a Big Rat underground
with a burrow where all rats go?

after the ears have grown pale
and the pink nose twitch no more
is there a Big Rat underground
with a burrow where all rats go?

Today I visited the National Library of Sweden, and I think I might be in love with it. One day I must go there when it rains; they have a part with a sloping glass ceiling, and I think that sitting there reading in a heavy rain would be wonderful, or just sitting in the stairs watching the water run down the slope. Or watch a thunderstorm from there.

It is a wonderful place. Most of the collection is kept down in archives though and must be ordered up in advance, but I don't think it matters much for me.

My mother is coming on Monday. I hope it will work out well, but I am making plans in case it doesn't. I don't feel safe presuming it will go well, considering the history of our relationship. But it's just over the night; what could possibly go wrong?

Oh, so many things can go wrong, but it really seems like she's trying to change. Should I not let her try? Should I just keep on living in the past and let nothing new grow? She's my mother and she might never be my mom.

Perhaps I can forgive her. Eventually.

Today I got the Benign Kingdom art-book I have been waiting for; I got Evan Dahm's, which made me very happy. It was the one I was hoping for, although Yuko Ota's would have been awesome as well. The postcards have been put on the door to the fridge.

I have had some ginger tea. I have eighty-eight pages to write in nine days. I ought to get to it, but the script I was writing scared me and had no respect for me or my wishes.

Music from friends and Deus Ex: Human revolution in the room..

I wrote six pages for Script Frenzy today. I can't seem to put my heart into it, despite having begun on another script due to the last one scaring me. It's still there, trying to get me to return. I can feel it moving, shifting. Perhaps it's waiting. At least it doesn't talk to me. I wrote a bit on it earlier but stopped when the storm-girl dissolved into a puddle of water, leaving me with a feeling of an utter lack of surprise and a thought of: /well, she always do that when people touch her/...

All right.

You are confusing a could-have-been with a would-have-been. They are not the same, you know. No living thing knows the future and most living creatures forget almost their entire pasts. We cannot undo choices once made; nothing could have been different. We did what we did and we do what we do.

A friend said; "All we are is what we were. There is no yet-to-be." And what we are is ever moving; a tiny bubble of being, of existence moving ever forward, turning could-have-beens into never-weres and would-not-bes.

Today I have done some writing and some heraldry. I had forgotten how I drew the griffin last time, although I have been reminded now. There are a lot of griffins in this weapon. A griffin on the shield, a griffin on the helmet holding another shield with a griffin on it... I just think that's too many griffins.

Two of them might disappear soon, though. I have a request for beer and a snake now. Oh well. Its strange drawing heraldry, because sometimes one must draw really odd stuff in a very simplified way.

I live canting heraldry most.

I keep a sword beside my sleeping-place while I sleep, in case someone would break in and try to harm me. I keep a sword beside my sleeping-place, because the world is a dangerous and frequently unkind place. The sword is sharp and short, and well suited for fighting in a small space.

I think that perhaps I should keep the recorder beside my bed as well, so that when I wake up in the middle of the night, I could reach for it and play something. Something sad, straight from the heart, to the darkness around me.

Shadows have a will of their own, you know. They are capable of independent movements. They try to do that only when you are not looking or when you are out walking on a cloudy day when their edges are not very well defined.

They can not talk to you, but they try to influence your decisions in small ways. Shadows can fall in love too, you know. Shadows talk to other shadows in the sounds your feet make when they move over a surface. They meet and then they want to meet again, and they pull you along silently.

She collected dust. Not in the way that she was sitting still and using her own body to store the dust, but she had a lot of small, empty jars and she would always bring some with her when she went somewhere new. Some people collect rubber ducks, bottle caps or lost loves; she collected dust. Her favourite kind was the dust from behind hotel beds, because that dust were usually as old as the walls of the place.

She never labelled the bottles; just put them up on a shelf somewhere and looked at them before going to bed.

The first day of Nätrot12. I got a bag with some magazines and a travel coffee mug. And some comic from some people who don't like the monarchy if I recall correctly. I also received a book just because I don't have Facebook (whooo!) and a book about the people who held the conference. There are a lot of people here; most seems to be from the social democrats or the left or the worker's union. The food is not that good. Actually, I don't like the food at all.

The talks are interesting; much better than the food.

I was on a talk today that was almost pure linguist porn. It was about the importance and role of words in political debates and dialogues. About how words influence our thoughts and feelings and make us choose different patterns. It was really interesting. I also bought two books for some reason; one of them is about how a lot of religions are used as a justification to beat up women. Not sure if I would recommend it or not yet. We'll see.

The pretty cat is here. He's not at all annoying company, and actually a rather pleasant one.

Stayed home again and officially gave up on my script. I feel a bit sad, but there was nothing I could have done. The month has been life happening to me over and over and throwing thing after thing at me. I could not do it. I might try to finish one of the scripts eventually, though, because it is a rather good one. Another script I wrote on has been to a lot of help figuring some things out about myself.

Still, I wrote about forty pages. How many page of script do most people write in a month?

Today I bought some socks and stuff that I needed, failed to get mice for my snake, talked to my psychologist about fundamentalist, religious people and narrow-minded atheists, ate yakiniku at a new place and bought new, red nail polish.

The cat went home and I miss him a bit. But it's my New Year and I lit a fire and I burned things and I have a lot fewer regrets now. I will rest for a while now. I have deserved it. Perhaps I'll miss him more in a few days when things (and I) have calmed down.