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This being my very first entry ever, I feel it is legitimate that I make it introductory. I have signed up for this as a 365 project for 2011. It sounds doable. I'm not usually very good with stuff that needs stamina.
I'm not sure what I'm going to turn this into. A continuous story? Little daily rants? A diary? Poems? All of the above? This remains to be seen. Life is full of surprises. I hope 2011 will have pleasant ones!
100 words really isn't very much, uh? Probably a good thing. Well, bring it on as they say!
Same thing, same amount of words, three languages.
I want my life to no longer be dominated by fear. I want to be daring and to experience exciting things! To look back when I'm old and be proud.
Je veux apprendre à vivre sans être dominée par la peur. Je veux être courageuse, faire des expériences excitantes! A 80 ans je veux être fière de moi.
Ich will endlich mein Leben von der Angst befreien. Ich will wagemutig sein und aufregende Dinge erleben! Ich möchte auf mein Leben zurückblicken und stolz sein können.
It was never enough.
I wrote you those cards where I poured out my heart,
I showed you my scars where the blade went too far.
I begged and I pleaded that you please shouldn't leave,
that your love was the greatest gift I'd received.
It was never enough.
I look back on those years I have lost and I wonder,
if I'd done one more thing, begged just one second longer,
would I now be so desperatel'in love with you still?
I was secretly glad when you swallowed that pill.
It was finally enough.
[I don't usually write poems]
Her 21st birthday. As usual, the double celebration, her father reading one of his embarrassing New Year poems, her mum proudly handing her a champagne flute.
The big 3-oh. A small party with friends, the kids finally in bed. The toast by her husband - "to a fabulous decade!" She felt old.
Frantic phonecalls, attempting to locate their youngest, eventually found at a friend's. Too exhausted to celebrate.
Sitting on the porch, holding hands. Parties had long lost their appeal. A whispered "I love you" as they looked at the fireworks.
What can you write about when each one of your days is exactly like the one that came before it, and the one that will follow?
You can draw inspiration from your rich inner landscapes, but where does all that content come from? From art and culture of course - perpetuating the endless cycle of nothing-original-is-ever-written-anymore.
And yet. There is such an abundance of content available, and we have so little time. Even if I read for hours every day and lived to 100, I would die an ignorant old woman.
Isn't that a little overwhelming?
Tonight I am uninspired. I have just written a long blog post about something I care deeply about, and now I'm all out of pretty words.
It's odd though, the power of words. You can make someone cry or laugh just with letters on a page. I'm sure you know that 'shortest story ever' Hemingway anecdote - "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Six words! But what wealth they contain! A whole world within them!
Unsurprisingly, there is a website inspired by it - sixwordstories.net. Perhaps I should write over there instead.
But I would suck at six word stories, really.
Ikea don't do Karlstad in stripey anymore. I keep thinking if I could just sit on that sofa and pretend you'll walk through the door any minute, carrying fresh groceries from the farmer's market and calling out "bonsoir mon petit flan"... I can't help hoping that I could make the illusion so perfect it would dull this constant howling pain within me.
Everyone tells me I should allow myself to grieve, get counselling, try to move on. Don't they understand I don't want to? All I want is to live in that moment forever, endlessly awaiting your return.
Today a crazed man (a boy, really) shot 17 people in Arizona, killing six. Some videos posted on Youtube give a glimpse into his deluded mind, a frightening thing to witness. It makes me wish society could identify and reach out to people like him before it is too late.
Will that ever be feasible? Similarly to high school shooters, only rigourous psychological screening has any chance of catching the perpetrators. But singling out and stigmatising others, harmless misfits, is a real risk. One worth taking?
Our society creates scarily messed up people. We need to take responsibility for them.
Quietly and expectantly everyone found their seats in the pews. Each and every one of them had turned up - even old Freddie Barton, who hadn't set foot in a church since 1874 (this information eagerly disseminated by Mrs Snyder, who knew it from Mrs Jenkins, who kept track of such things).
They had gathered to witness the public shaming of little Margaret Keller, who'd run off with a travelling farm hand in the summer. Her father tracked her down and dragged her back - four months pregnant and already showing, no denying it.
However, they were going to be bitterly disappointed.
I had a motorbike accident today. A tiny one, bike and I are fine, but the other car has a nasty scratch. But I didn't panic or feel anxious and go "OMG what have I done, what do I do next," the way I usually would. I exchanged contact details with the other driver and called my insurance.
I don't know if it means I am finally grown up, or more stable and content, or something else, but it made me feel good about myself. Then I drove straight to my therapist appointment and told her all about it too!
When do you qualify as insane? Should I be worried? Ally McBeal hears voices and she's fine. Of course she's on TV and TV is not real life. People who hear voices in real life go on medication and regularly end up locked away.
I don't always hear voices, just sometimes, sometimes when I become very anxious and all the people get to me, then my head starts getting loud but it's comforting, really, they're not evil, they comfort me. They tell me it ain't so bad and ssshh, don't worry they say.
What would I ever become without them?
I seem to kind of alternate between fictitious and diary-style entries. I hope it's obvious which is which!
I completed my Sketchbook Project tonight, a 30-page booklet with comic-style drawings about finding happiness and stuff. I'm fairly proud of it - definitely proud I completed it in the first place! Tomorrow I will send it off to Brooklyn and then it will go on tour around the US. How scary.
But anyway. This has used up all my creative juices so nothing interesting from me tonight. I don't like what I wrote last night anymore either. Oh well.
Well, where you gonna go? Tell me! No one wants you anyway, you useless sack of flesh!
Oh, here we go again, here come the waterworks. Pathetic, you are! Day in and day out I 'ave to look at yer sorry face, shuffling about the house, fidgeting in the kitchen... you make me SICK! Get up to the bedroom and give me some pleasure at least!
Don't 'oh please' me, wench, or I'll hit you again! Should've just left you with yer conniving bastard of a father, for all the good you've done me. Honestly, why do I even bother...
How many logins do you have? How many sites have you signed up for that you don't even remember? I'm so naturally immersed in the Internet that I tend to forget what a revolutionary development it was, how fundamentally it changed our lives.
Well, not everyone's, there are still people who aren't hugely affected by it, even in the so-called "first" world. But mine, definitely. Without the Internet I wouldn't have the same job, the same friends, I probably wouldn't even live in the same country!
I also would be in bed now instead of wasting my time online.
I never blamed you for her death, I swear. I was angry and resentful, but I never blamed you. Please understand that when my mother died, my world ended. I was 14 years old and I had just lost the only grown up I could trust.
I felt so alone! She had abandoned me, and it felt as if you had abandoned me too. Yes, it took me many years to speak to you again because I was so angry, but I knew it wasn't your fault that she had died. I always knew that.
Please forgive me, God. Amen.
I'm very crap at descriptions. I lack the patience for them. I am also very unobservant in real life, and the two are most likely related. It's probably something I could practise. In fact, this format would be perfect for that.
So I should set myself some tasks. Observe one person at some point during the day, take mental notes, and describe them in 100 words later.
It really sucks though, being unobservant. I can walk through a street and might as well have my eyes closed. I'll remember next to nothing! I wonder if it's too late to learn.
I failed. Not only was I unable to find an opportunity to do any observing and (mental) note-taking for a descriptive passage, but then I was in a rush at night and didn't have time to write an entry at all! And all for a middle-of-the-night Etsy sale I didn't win anyway. Well, that's $98 saved I guess.
But that means I get to write two entries tonight - this one with pointless blabla, and another one with - hopefully - something substantial. First however I'll write three postcards to random strangers about my quirky characteristics. Yay Internet!
Some friendships explode in a big ball of fire. Some fizzle out with a small noise of regret. Some change into something different. Sometimes that's ok, but sometimes it's hard to get used to. The new friendship feels wrong, and then it too fizzles out. Another one lost.
Humans should come with user guides. "Do touch me here, don't ask me to do that." And feelings should come with an off switch.
Is it really that surprising I feel so much more comfortable around
than around people?!
are largely predictable.
Though it mostly still hurts to lose them.
Small and perfect, that's what it was. The size of a plum, but rounder. The colour of the earth after an autumn rain, but shinier.
It felt heavy and important in her hand. She slowly turned it over, pondering the interminable journey this beautiful object had made in the 3000 years since it had been forged.
Now it was hers, and she knew this made her significant somehow, but no one had told her what her role was to be. Could she live up to what was expected of her? What would happen if she messed up?
She was terrified.
She was seven when the Orb first appeared in her life, haunting her in intense and uneasy dreams. But it was to be many more years before it would belong to her.
When she finally found it on her dresser one morning, she was not in the least surprised. All the same, she had no idea what this meant, and she was hoping the Orb would tell her, just as it had told her it would one day be hers.
This was why she was sitting here, in a quiet corner of her garden, turning it over in her hand.
But the Orb remained silent. She considered just putting it back on her dresser, as a glorifed ornament. If it wanted her to do something, then it should speak! But she could sense the urgency of her situation, she knew she was expected to act.
She thought back to her dreams. What did she know about the Orb? Perhaps she could find more information by traditional means. Perhaps others like her had written about their experience, or the Orb had found its way into history books.
After all, if it was this powerful, it might have helped shape the world.
Her dreams had never shown her faces, only places. Places she couldn't possibly have known! She had seen the Egypt of the Pharaohs, the fall of Troy, the birth of Mohammed in Mecca, Aztec glories, Ming dinasty China and so many others!
It seemed the Orb had always gravitated towards critical events, there to leave its mark. But what did that say about her? She was a divorced teacher living in a suburb of London, she was hardly going to change history.
Then again perhaps the Orb only needed proximity to events - making her a mere medium, not an actor.
If the Orb chose minor witnesses as its keepers, then this was as good a way as any to start her research: accounts by unimportant contemporaries of the events from her dreams. She decided to hit the British library right the next morning.
Of course that still gave her no clue as to why the Orb needed to be in London in 2012. Was there a war afoot? Was someone significant about to be born? Perhaps it just wanted to see the Olympics! Like Doctor Who, it had only shown her the significant episodes, not the day trips to Woodstock.
Oh whatever. Let's take a break from the Orb story. For one, I don't know what it will turn into. Secondly, the 100 word limit is pretty goddamn limiting. Thirdly, I just noticed I said "significant" twice in the previous paragraph and that ANNOYS ME!
And finally, I've had a four day break cuz I was spending my evenings drawing an intricate postcard, so I've pretty much lost the plot. And now I'm supposed to catch up, and I'm not sure what I'm going to write about. Luckily January will be over soon and then I can stop this nonsense.
Just got back from watching Black Swan. I wish I could write something about the grace and the weightlessness of ballet, but truth be told, I find it totally unappealing, always have done. It's so forced and restrained, those creepy little scuttling steps and those skinny stick girls who look so very unhappy.
Give me curves and passionate dance moves! Wide flowing dresses and sizzling ecstasy! None of that plié and jeté crap. Aaand I'm sure someone will come along and say "you've not seen
ballet yet! It's
of passion!" Yeah yeah, whatever, I still don't like it.
I am feeling particularly misanthropic today. I'm writing a letter to my Brazilian penfriend where we're discussing things like celebrity culture and economics, and it got me all worked up about the massive amounts of stupidity out there.
I know it's not healthy to have such contempt for your fellow man, but THEY IRK ME. The religious ones, the shallow ones, the proudly uneducated ones, the conservative ones, the vocal ones, the bigoted ones, and those that combine all of the above.
I wish we could put them all on the same continent and build a big wall around them.
I've finally started practising my Italian again - by putting one of the magazines I bought in Rome next to the toilet, along with a little dictionary.
When I was a kid I'd read whole books in one sitting. I'd do my business, then just wouldn't get up until I'd finished the book. This could easily be over an hour. Weird, huh?
I don't remember at what age I stopped doing that, but even now I hate going to the loo without reading material. If there is nothing else around, I read the ingredients on shampoo bottles or similar bathroom items.
Often when I read amateur publications (such as our local newsletter), I want to write in saying "hey, you want a sub-editor? Because geez, you guys make a lot of mistakes!"
Yes, I may be too anal about grammar and spelling, and I can
the argument that you don't need write your language flawlessly as long as you're understood (though I certainly don't agree!).
But if writing is your main occupation? For Christ's sake, learn the rules of your language! How can you expect to use it effectively if you don't know the difference between your and you're?
Pretty people please me. Things too.
You could say I'm an aesthete, but really, what does that mean? Its an entirely subjective matter. Beauty lies, indeed, in the eye of the beholder. What I find beautiful might leave you cold. What you admire might not impress me.
This is desirable of course. Imagine if we all liked the same things! If all our tastes were the same, what a boring, homogeneous place the world would be!
And if we didn't have anything to compare beauty with, would it even exist? If
was pretty, what would we call beautiful then?
January is coming to an end. This is A Good Thing, because I dislike January. It's freezing cold, grey and wet. December is worse though, because it is all those things, plus it has Christmas. I can't stand Christmas.
July is the best month! It has summer, but there's still August ahead with more summer! August is already depressing because it means summer will soon be over. And it's downhill from there.
I like the spring months too with their promise of what's to come, namely summer. I definitely live in the wrong climate. But warmer countries have big spiders!
So this is my last entry... or is it? I'd love to write something meaningful, but I'd also like to use it for some sort of "conclusion".
I'm finding it kinda difficult to let go of this little project, but I also don't wanna keep doing it half-heartedly just so it gets published at the end of each month.
meant as an exercise in writing, not random stream of consciousness blogging. I have my blog for that - yet I don't really use that so much. I should. And abandon this? Or use both? Argh, I hate decisions!
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