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# Tired, but pleasantly so. Went for a long walk today from Neuwaldegg up the Sophienalpe, after which I temporarily lost my way & sense of direction (Note to self: buy a damn map. It's kind of embarrassing getting lost in the woods practically within the city limits of Vienna), found it again with the help of a woman walking her dog, who asked me for directions, but at least knew where she was coming from, and finally ended up in Sievering. Sat for a while under the oak trees overlooking the old quarry, enjoying the evening sun on my face. Half of the time spring depresses me because of its connotations of new life and growth and shiny happy people in love, all of which I more often than not feel completely out of tune with, but it was lovely. The trees are still very bare with the buds only just opening, occasional faint shades of green over the brown of the hills, but the ground is dotted with bright colours, lots of Leberblümchen, violets, some kind of white flower I don't know the name of, as well as a few others, and whole stretches of it covered in bright green Bärlauch. Sunny and warm, a T-shirt was enough. It's strange, I always thought of myself as more of a city-person, but recently I have this need to get out as often as possible. Maybe the winter has been too long, but today I almost felt a hunger for fresh air and sunlight, to feel the wind on my bare arms again.

# Does this happen to anyone else, that when you've finished something you spent a (comparatively) long time writing your head feels strangely (and somewhat unpleasantly) empty after you finally post it? I noticed this after the last big post, and again today, because I usually take a notebook with me and use these walk to shuffle around the thoughts in my mind, and there was... nothing. A blank. It felt like my brain was fumbling around for something that wasn't there any longer. Or is this me being weird again? In any case, that only lasted for about half an hour until, probably out of sheer horror vacui, my brain came up with something I could write about. It seemed a better idea then than it does now, but I guess I'll see.

# On a related note, watched the Miracle Day trailer [ profile] elisi linked about five times in a row with a huge, probably inane, grin on my face yesterday. I hadn't realised that I was looking forward to it so much. (OTOH... a 35 second trailer, and I already foresee meta writing. *facepalms so hard*)

# Had a rather productive Saturday, too, where I updated the old laptop I got from my sister, so that I can practice my newly acquired Excel skills on an Office version that isn't eight years old. And then did a backup and finally tried to update my iMac to Snow Leopard (finally, because I bought it sometime last autumn and had it lying around ever since; don't ask), found out that it hadn't enough RAM, went to the store, and then did the scary thing where I actually unscrewed the computer and took something out & put something else in. Works fine now, although not without some complications and another trip to the store because if I put anything into the lower slot the computer won't start. They said to bring it in, but I think I'll be happy with the 2 GB (instead of 512 MB) and either keep or try to sell the other 2, because paying them even more money to try to figure out the problem so that I can have another GB (which is all the computer can actually use, or so I was told) that I don't actually need that desperately doesn't really seem worth it.

# Again on a somewhat related note, I met with a couple of people partly from work, partly not, Friday afternoon, and one of them showed off her iPhone (complete with a gazillion pictures of her not-really-boyfriend's tattoos) and, wow, does my mobile phone look archaic in comparison. The thing is, though... I hate mobile phones, use mine almost never, and as much as I love and wouldn't want to miss the internet, I don't want to take it with me when I leave the house. I don't know why, but my minds wants these things compartmetalised.

# Woke up yesterday from a dream where I was writing my diss again, except it was about something completely different, although I don't remember what. I just remember a table covered with books, and the feeling of ideas clicking in my mind. *sigh* This is what comes from all the meta writing, delusions of academia.

# For the first time in my life I'm watching Dancing Stars (*facepalm* ad infinitum), and now I can't decide whether I want him to win, if only because of all the thinly veiled homophobic comments I'm hearing at work from customers all the time, since we're selling off his autobiography, or her, because she's such a sweetie, not to mention smoking hot in that dress. (Realistically, neither will win because they simply aren't the best dancers.)

# I think I mentioned I read Alex Ross's The Rest is Noise over my holiday? Sooo much inspiration for non-musical me. For now Shostakovich and Britten, but I'm happily clicking around on YouTube checking out new things all the time...

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If you'd told me a week ago I'd say this, I'd have laughed loudly and sarcastically, but I actually miss the epic meta post. In my head, that is.

Writing that took over my life so completely for the last six months that even now, when I'm walking, or driving, my thoughts still automatically drift in that direction, but there's nothing there any longer; finished, posted, gone. It's like walking into a room and finding it unexpectedly empty, and all you see is white walls, and all you hear is the echo of your own steps.

Actually—and, I guess, pathetically—the last time I invested this much time and energy in writing something I got an academic degree out of it. Granted, the page count was higher there, but I don't remember struggling this much, probably because I knew what I was doing from the beginning and at least wasn't flailing and fumbling around in a completely unfamiliar field. And I don't think I've ever experienced writing and thinking as a process like that. The TW parts are not that far removed from what I've written before, although there are also new thoughts there, but the DW parts are entirely new, and there I had absolutely no idea where this would go when I started rewatching and making notes. Watching it all come together, piece by piece, moving paragraphs around, fighting for the right words, was absolutely fascinating for someone like me who isn't much of a writer. Things started to connect in ways that surprised even me, and especially once I decided on a single chronological sequence for both shows it suddenly became one single story, or two sides of the same story, and you could see how the themes criss-crossed back and forth, developing across both shows...

I miss idly shuffling around all those thoughts in my head, and being surprised by new ones.

And what really depresses me is that this is probably the best thing I'll ever write, fandom-wise. At least at the moment there isn't a show that even remotely inspires me to write something on this scale again, one that I love completely, but with just the right degree of frustration to keep me thinking about it...

(And the thing that makes me want to bang my head against the nearest wall is that my brain doesn't seem to be capable of generating this kind of enthusiasm for something that might actually be productive in the real-life sense. I keep thinking, if I'd at least spent all that time learning Russian, I'd probably be reading Dostojewski by now. Gah. Stupid, stupid brain.)

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Another quote from RTD's book —

To be honest, I have trouble with 'escapism' full stop. It's usually a derogatory term. Or condescending. At best, cute. [...] It makes the pastime, whether it's a hobby or a job, seem tiny and silly, when it's a vital part of your life. [...] Writing is actually my way of engaging with the world, not escaping from it.

Now admittedly unlike him I'm not making a living out of my (not-)escapism, so maybe I have something less of an argument there, but I do agree with this on several levels.

Reality (or not), art, writing; TV, storytelling and metaphysics; Andromeda, Smallville, Firefly and Bush-ite America. Broadly generalising and meandering without really going anywhere. )

Also... The Surinam toad and its reproductive habits. The things you learn on the internetz...
Half an hour later. Um. Note to self. Don't start watching animal videos on YouTube.

solitary_summer: (tulpen)
Epiphany while walking to the store to get groceries, write more.

I've been guilt-tripping myself most of last week for spending so much of my free time staying home watching & writing about TW, but going out today and actually feeling good, and having some new ideas what I might do with photography (be a bit more spontaneous, mostly) I realised that on some level I'd needed that. I don't know why, but there have always been these two distinct parts of my brain, the artistic/visual/emotional and the intellectual/verbal/analysing part, and the problem throughout university was that I just couldn't ignore either of them, much as I wanted to. I tend to believe the artistic side is more me in a sense, and something that would be harder and more painful to give up, but what I realised is that the other part is not just something I enjoy doing, but something that is necessary to me too. Verbalising, thinking through things; it does help me to sort myself out. Maybe I need to learn to connect both sides better instead of seeing them as opposites between which I have to (and can't) decide? Be more aware of them, even if I go through phases where one of them is more dominant than the other?

Write. Not necessarily always, because there are times when I can be perfectly content with who I am without analysing everything and anything, but when in depression, write, write, write. Even if you don't feel like it. About tv shows, if you can't write about yourself, doesn't matter. Write.

[A big Thank You goes to [ profile] carose59. :) I really should listen to the people on my friendslist more often.]
solitary_summer: (baum & schatten)
I've come to the conclusion that my brain cannot think visually and verbally at the same time. Last year I had a period where I only ever posted pictures on livejournal, not even feeling the need for any kind of verbal expression, but since I've started to writing so much again, even if the greatest part of it is TW related, my interest in photography has dropped sharply, and I hardly ever catch myself thinking, "This would have been I great photo, I wish I had my camera with me". These days instead of a camera I carry I small notebook & pen in my bag to scribble down thoughts so that I don't forget them. I took the bike and the camera out yesterday evening, but instead of looking for motives I ended up mentally composing livejournal entries.

And to be honest, I'd feel better about that if at least I came to any profound philosophical conclusions about myself or the world, or if it resulted in funny and smart blog entries instead of, well, TW analysis. Because as much as I enjoy this (and I really do) the guilt-tripping part of my brain keeps nagging about getting a life and doing something useful, and, see, photography was at least creative, and who cares about two fictional people screwing and then whens & whys & wherefores thereof.

Maybe I'd feel better about this if I were at least writing fanfic, but I'm under no delusions about my fiction writing skills. And Torchwood especially... I've been scribbling a bit and keep adding bits here and there, and on some level I'm incredibly pleased that I can think up anything fictitious at all (This pretty much how I feel about belly-dancing. I know I'm never going to be super graceful, but I'm constantly astounded that I can do this at all, remember steps and a choreography and have my hand and feet in almost the right places in the end.), but I rather suspect in the end I'l lose interest and it'll remain half finished on my HD forever, and I kind of thought maybe giving it up for adoption, because some of the ideas perhaps aren't utter shite and someone else might be doing them more justice.

Part of the problem of course is that I'm so embarrassingly vanilla that I can't write anything really kinky to save my life. Issues of style and execution aside, I can do the angsty part about dealing with trauma and death and immortality and maybe building some sort of a relationship regardless, and maybe some vague fade-to-black sex that hopefully drives home the right emotional points, but the all the kinkier, sex-loving aspects of Torchwood and Jack... I can't write that, because that's something I don't really get. And I'd need at least one scene that's a little on the BDSMish side. ::throws hands up in frustration::

In conclusion, fanfic writing, not so much. ::sigh::

I should really get back to photogrpahy.

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What's been vaguely frustrating for me about all that Torchwood metaing is that I keep thinking that in all this character analysis there should be enough material for fanfic, and why am I so absolutely incapable of writing it?

Sometimes my utter lack of imagination really irritates me. I love the products of other people's imaginations, I enjoy really colourful, out-there stuff, but every time the therapist asks me to even imagine myself in a different situation or something I hit a wall, and I just can't. In all that Torchwood writing I treat the show like I used treat any archaeological or historic source, look at the evidence and see what conclusions can be drawn from it. I can't get into characters' heads from the inside, I can't come up with plots; the only exception to this rule ever was Andromeda, which started with such an intriguing premise and then fell so very short of its promise, and somehow this mixture made the plot bunnies breed even in my head, not that anything except a very short piece ever got finished. And Torchwood intimidates me, because it's just too good, none of those annoying blanks there. I'd really love to be able to write for this show, though. ::sigh::

On a totally unrelated note -- does anyone know a good free program to split mp3s that works with Mac?

I'm probably the last to see this, but it really amused me...

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This? Is me being my usual lazy, disorganised self.

Because I'm really, really not much of an writer; I'd like to blame it on a lack of fluency in English, but I know I'd be even worse in German. Frankly it amazes me that I've managed to stick around on livejournal for (and where did that time go?) almost five years already; I've never managed to keep a paperjounal with any kind of regularity for anything close to that amount of time before I got tired of it. Even so, what I do most of the time is open the update page, start writing about one thing or the other--

(Parenthesis: I don't write particularly fluently either; a sentence here, half a sentence there, never mind about style & grammar for the moment, skip forward a bit because there's this other idea that I don't want to forget, back again, because there's something that needed to be added, and in the end, when I've got all the ideas at least roughly sketched out, they're basically a mess that I have to force into coherent sentences, paragraphs, a sequence that actually makes sense, edit, often think of something else to add in the process, spell-check, and read over several times more till I'm mostly satisfied.)

-- and then halfway through the process get bored, get tired, lose motivation, lose enthusiasm for the subject, find something shiny to distract me and just copy the whole thing to one of those yellow post-its, close the window and forget about it. Um. When I bought the new computer one and a half years ago I went through an endless number of them, deleted or copied what ideas seemed worth saving to a text-document that of course I haven't looked at since. Thank god I didn't know that I could in fact have transferred them. And they're already accumulating again, personal thoughts, book reviews, tv reviews, Smallville, Doctor Who, Hornblower, etc., and so on.

All of which is of interest to precisely no one, but maybe if I make a very public resolution to go through and either post or delete them I'll actually do it? *sigh*

[Better come to an end, because we're definitely getting to *yawn*, what's that in the other browser window stage of things...]

So it's probably not really surprising that it was sometime past 2 am when I hit the 'save entry' button last night, after which I couldn't fall asleep for a while and woke up proportionally tired when the alarm rang about five hours later because I had a date for breakfast & movie with some people from work. We saw Les Temps Qui Changent, which was mostly okay-ish, if not exactly compelling. It does this French movie thing where almost nothing changes or is resolved throughout the movie (which no doubt is truer to life, but doesn't really appeal to me very much when it comes to movies and books), except they gave it a sort-of kind-of comparatively happy ending which I could have done without, because I found Depardieu's character's behaviour equally sad and creepy and don't really believe it should pay off in the end. And half-way through I got a little nauseous (Coffee for breakfast? Still not a good idea.), a lot tired, lost the concentration to even try to follow the French dialogue and mostly stuck to the subtitles.

Rest of the day was uneventful except that there seems to be something wrong with my bike again and emails I wanted to write were not written again, which brings us full circle, and I think I'm going to bed now.
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Massive writer's block, or more precisely, livejournaling block, which, I think, has mostly to do with the fact that lately the more I think about myself the less I like myself. The temporary solution seems to be to watch DVDs and play stupid computer games to drown out/silence/ignore the voice in my head.

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Because [ profile] soavezefiretto made me think about my photography-killed-writing dilemma.

"Do you agree?" asked Margaret. "Do you think music is so different to pictures?"

"I--I should have thought so, kind of," he said.

"So should I. Now, my sister declares they're just the same. We have great arguments over it. She says I'm dense; I say she's sloppy." Getting under way, she cried: "Now, doesn't it seem absurd to you? What is the good of the Arts if they are interchangeable? What is the good of the ear if it tells you the same as the eye? Helen's one aim is to translate tunes into the language of painting, and pictures into the language of music. It's very ingenious, and she says several pretty things in the process, but what's gained, I'd like to know? Oh, it's all rubbish, radically false. If Monet's really Debussy, and Debussy's really Monet, neither gentleman is worth his salt--that's my opinion."

[E.M.Forster, Howard's End]

True or false, even when I read the novel for the first time some fifteen or more years ago, without much thought I instinctively knew I agreed with Margaret here. I don't really translate from one medium to another in my mind, either; I even slowly ceased immediately analysing any work of art I looked at, movie I saw or book I read once I'd ditched my ph.d. aspirations and academia, and found it actually liberated me and widened my horizon when I didn't feel obliged to file everything in neat categories, or even find words and descriptions for everything. I'm probably being unfair, because in all likelihood the fault was mine, not having the right words at my disposal, or enough of them, not enough intelligence or imagination to make them suit my own needs. (Then again, it was a brilliant writer who played devil's advocate here: "Was aber das >Wort< betrifft, so handelt es sich da vielleicht weniger um eine Erlösung als um ein Kaltstellen und Aufs-Eis-Legen der Empfindung? Im Ernst, es hat eine eisige und empörend anmaßliche Bewandtnis mit dieser prompten und oberflächlichen Erledigung des Gefühls durch die literarische Sprache." )

Writing and photography, even in the context of livejournal, are two very separate things for me; not because of some profound, deeply thought about principle, perhaps (and more likely) it's just lack of imagination: my mind works in very direct, literal ways most of the time. My pictures don't replace what I might have expressed in words otherwise. It's an entirely different way of thinking, of feeling, of looking at the world when I'm out with my camera. And at the moment, It's the more satisfying, easier one for me, the one that comes more natural, in a way. But it has reminded me to write more, too; to look at the world not only through a camera, because that's limiting myself, too. Different modes of expression are a good thing.

On a somewhat related note - I remember sitting on [ profile] soavezefiretto's balcony last May and watching the swallows swoop in the evening sky and over the roof of the house across the street, and I thought how wonderful, how exotic, and how there weren't any swallows in Vienna. Yesterday, waiting for the bus home after a four hour walk-with-camera I happened to look up, and there they were. Not as many, but certainly swallows, in the sky above central Vienna. How have I missed them until now? Chalk it up to living on the first floor?

(Also, flight to Madrid for August booked! whee!)

solitary_summer: (Default)
I think photography has killed what little ability to write I used to have.

solitary_summer: (Default)

In the process of cleaning and sorting I noticed the amount of barely-written-in note-books and blank-books I own. I regularly buy them before vacations when I'll be away from my computer and livejournal, in the hope that this time they'll be filled with profound thoughts, poetic descriptions, insights, &c., and so on. They never are. I do write, occasionally, but it's boring, bland and whiney, and not full of the pretty, poetic, angsty kind of pain, either. When I'm feeling good, I mostly don't write at all.

And when I return home, whatever I wrote may get condensed and edited for livejournal, or it may not; the journal is put aside until the next vacation, or it's forgotten, and a new one is bought.

I wish I could fill page after page with a beautiful (personal; a little eccentric?) handwriting. I've always wanted that, but even when I kept a paper journal it never worked like that. My thoughts never were brilliant or poetic or particularly intelligent, not like I'd wish them to be; most of my writing makes me cringe when I re-read it. I wrote sporadically, then stopped entirely, re-starting with another journal sometimes only years later. My handwriting doesn't flow smoothly; It has no real character. It's uneven, and years of taking notes during university lectures got me into the habit of dropping letters and word endings.

It's all rather symptomatic of my life.

But perhaps words just aren't what comes most readily to me as a means of expression...
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Picture spam aside, I've been awfully (uncharacteristically?) quiet & uncommunicative recently.

I came back from holidays feeling strangely not-quite-there, somehow non-existent. I'd read a lot, but written nothing, and, or at least that's how it felt, thought nothing. Sometimes I suspect I have this tendency to flee into novels to avoid... myself?

No urge to write at all, an unpleasant chore trying to think up words and sentences, and when I'm forcing myself to do it, like now, the results are unconvincing to me, as if what I write does not represent me adequately or truthfully, however much I try.

It makes me wonder if this unwillingness and/or inability to write means that after years of introspection & public navel-gazing I've become simply tired of it, or if there's something I'm trying very hard not to look at too closely. Somehow the brush with depression during summer suggests the latter... Or perhaps there is nothing to find anymore, looking inside, nothing to say about me that I haven't already said? Perhaps I should simply start to reach out into life. The ever-elusive life. ::sigh:: Simply. Ha.

I'm so uncertain recently, unsure of myself, confused.

Further reasons for radio journal silence, sort of.

* Work, work, work. Urlaubsvertretung (M.'s holiday), four weeks of having only half of Saturday off. Sundays spent driving out to check on Ch.'s horse, she being also on a short holiday, and watching a kids' movie I didn't particularly care for respectively, and, last Sunday, for a pleasant change, spending the morning taking photographs and meeting U. and R. in the afternoon to see Volver, which I really liked - perhaps not my favourite movie ever, but it had some very touching scenes, and it lingers in your memory. Or at least continues to linger in mine. Must check out more Almodóvar films...

* Plus: One dentist appointment, one appointment for the control gastroscopy. Several morning runs. Getting up early for taking photographs before work twice since the weather was so beautifully sunny, and the sun is setting so early already...

* Most of all, flickr has taken over my life, although it also kind of depresses me, because there are so many amazing photographers there. Like I said to [ profile] soavezefiretto a while ago, I love the process of taking pictures, even if the process still consists mainly of seeing potential motives and selecting perspectives, and only a little more experimental than purposeful messing with aperture, exposure and ISOs, but the results more often than not depress me. Some of my photos I love quite irrationally, but are they any good? I do take care about choosing motives and selecting what to post, I would like to believe I exercise a certain amount of self-criticism, but does it show in the results? In a way, my photos reflect my personality, my striving for order, for simplicity; and they're always very quiet, not flashy, not glamorous, not even picturesque urban decay. Quiet, pretty, probably boring. The only thing that surprised me when I browsed through them is that how bright and undepressed they are. Even my cemetery pictures are almost inappropriately cheerful. Strange.

It probably shouldn't matter, it's only a hobby, after all, but it does. I left a rating community, removed the picture and deleted the comments when I got two 'miss' on a photo I loved and couldn't deal with it at all. Am I the equivalent of the fangirl who writes horribly OOC Mary Sue fic and throws a hissy fit when someone calls her on it? And why does it still matter so much to get recognition? But it does. It always did, in every respect of my life, even if I try to hide it.

I hope that I'm learning. I wish I were more sure. Regardless, I've been beginning to develop delusions of a DSLR, which, I keep telling myself, even while (or because) I've started to look up prices, would be extremely wasted on me at this point.

* Also, if that weren't enough, there's LibraryThing (still very much a work in progress at this point) to waste time on, and what turns out to be my quite absurd collection of archaeology books, art books, fantasy novels, and embarrassingly little 'real' literature. (Bad term, I know, but I'm too lazy to think of a better one to distinguish what I read for enjoyment of prose, ideas, &c., as opposed to what with a few exceptions I read mostly for kinks emotional button-pushing satisfaction.) My poor abused paperbacks, especially the ones I love(d). Faded and worn after ten, fifteen years.

Little else happened, not even much tv/dvd watching; fast forwarded (little time, less attention span) through a few S4 Angel episodes, and am still very much full of fanish squeefulness about it, especially Wesley. Wonderful arc, some truly heart-wrenching scenes.

My days need to be longer, somehow. Less work hours for more money. Well, a girl can dream.

And lest I forget, had a risotto dinner & board games evening with Ch. and A. yesterday, and it must have been the extreme exhaustion after more than a week of getting up at 5-6 am and doing all kinds of things before work finally catching up with me that made me tell her to sign me up for the belly-dancing course, too. Only a Schnupperstunde to be precise, but still. Gah. I don't dance unless drunk. I have no sense of rhythm. I'm simply not sure I'm comfortable enough with my body to do that. Whatever came over me?! Someone smack me upside the head.

solitary_summer: (Default)

Hu. I think I've lost the ability (or at least the motivation) to write/articulate/verbalise.

solitary_summer: (sky lines)

And after only two weeks, another morning run. /sarcasm.

It was good, though, and extremely beautiful, the park still very bare, the trees barely tinged with the lightest hue of green, although the buds of the chestnuts have already opened and the forsythia are flowering; the lawns are already looking more like spring, occasionally sprinkled with violets and primroses; everything still wet from last night's rain, bright and clean and crystal clear in the morning sunlight and the sky a very pure, washed out pale blue before the sun rose higher and new clouds began to form...

Strange. Sometimes I must talk, talk, talk (or write, as the case may be), I compose lj entries in my mind when I walk around, whereas at other times (like recently, hence the lack of updates) I just feel sort of burned out, deadly tired of the endless succession of words in my brain.
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Gah. It's one of these days when you feel entirely useless, a waste of time, space & air, and every word you write is one too many.

Too much Leerlauf in this life, blank spaces; too little substance.

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Spring teases. Sun and light coat today, a week of snow showers and temperatures barely above freezing point to come. It's intensely frustrating.

And when has every other entry started to turn into a complaint about the weather?

Then again, these ups and downs really mess with my body, or at least that's what I think it is; I've never been overly weather sensitive, but I've been having persistent headaches for the last week, accompanied by nausea (still lingering a little) yesterday, and I'm beginning to get a little grumpy.

Went for a walk-with-camera today, but the weather was so changeable, cloudy-to-overcast more often than not, so that only a few pictures turned out even remotely decent. Doesn't much matter, though, I still enjoyed getting out, although it's a strange season. Not the pristine, cold cleanness of the winter sunlight, but not spring yet, no real green, no open buds, lingering patches of snow, muddy, sodden earth, dirt and trash that has been hidden under the snow again and again over months.

I should perhaps write more; want to, even. Problem is, I don't write fast, or fluently; any longer posts, no matter if it's about personal issues, a book, a movie, fanish topics, god forbid, politics, whatever, are compiled slowly, a half-sentence here, a fragmented thought there; I keep notepad open most of the time, or the update page, but it takes a while for things to come together enough for me to be satisfied with the result. Perhaps I would write faster if I kept my focus, but often there is a kind of mental block, and I keep switching over to other browser windows almost compulsively, and nothing gets done, ever. Again. Perhaps there are subjects my subconsciousness shys away from, perhaps I don't like to commit myself to the written word -- I don't know. Perhaps it's just laziness fighting perfectionism - read, re-read, spellcheck, re-read, re-spellcheck, post, edit, edit, edit, ad nauseam. Perhaps sometimes language frightens me, because it's so final and at the same time so inadequate, at least when I handle it... Pictures are easier. This is what I saw, this is how I saw it.

solitary_summer: (window (© clive barker))

Sometimes (like [to?][yester?]night at 2 am, but I was slightly tipsy then and much too tired and to actually write a lj-entry about it) I wonder why I write in English, and how, if at all, it affects what I write and how I think. How I appear to others. At least part of the this journal's raison dêtre is communication, message in the bottle - here I am, this is who I am, look at me, notice me, like me! - and English obviously assures at least the possibility to be heard/read by a wider range of people. But it goes beyond that, even when I kept a private paper journal (rather irregularly) during my late teens, early twenties, I mostly wrote in English. I did make a couple of attempts to switch to German, but it always sounded rather stilted and somehow wrong. It is easier to say some things in English, smoother, maybe; less painful in some occasions. Would it go to far to say that it creates a shield, a distance from what I am, an emotional safety zone; not only towards the world, but also towards myself? Am I the same person in English that I would be in German? Is the language a facade? Or does it matter at all? Am I more myself, because I can say things that I perhaps wouldn't say, or not like that, in German?



[ETA, ca. ten minutes later: I try to be honest on this journal, mostly for my own sake; I might omit a few things that are too personal and embarrassing, I suppress the occasional urge to rant about petty things - but then, the suppression is as much part of my personality as the initial urge - but to the best of my knowledge I've never consciously lied here. Still, I perceive myself as less awkward in English, cooler somehow, more interesting, perhaps. What to make of that?]
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So that it isn't all gloom and depression, right at the top of the journal....

solitary_summer: (birdman (© clive barker))

Livejournal is working again.

Which is more than can be said about my brain.

I can't even make up for the lack of content with pictures, because this last week it's been so cold (-15 or - more? less? - to -5 at the very best, plus wind-chill) that one's fingers start to freeze the moment one pulls off the gloves.

It's strange - sometimes writing is almost a necessity, and at other times I feel so... disinterested, even in myself, so uninteresting, that it just doesn't seem worth the bother. Fragments of thoughts at best, too unformed, immediately discarded. Very, very blank.

Even stranger, I'm not even unhappy with this state of mind. Should I be scared?


solitary_summer: (Default)

March 2013

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