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Apparently I'm not meant to get into any kind of Christmas-y mood this year. It was cold and snowing, much as predicted, which annoyed me rather than create any kind of romantic seasonal vibe. We strolled around rather unenthusiastic, not really tempted to buy anything - it always seems to be the same stuff, year after year - had a mug of punsch... and gah. Schokobananenpusch. I thought, chemical, probably, but original, and really, other than my sister, I'm not opposed on principle to the occasional exposure to artificial aromas. Except what the punsch-lady handed me was a mug of punsch of no particular taste with a Schokobanane stuck/floating in it, which was a certain WTF moment. Not really translateable, but soavezefiretto will perhaps be able to picture it in its full absurdity. Ended up slightly tipsy, but not enough to make things a little brighter and less depressing. I really could have used another punsch or glühwein, but didn't want to appear as the alcoholic that I'm really not, and remained (mostly) soberly depressed. Depressedly sober. The evening petered out having coffee at Starbucks, talking about books, vaguely, rather unenthusiastically.

Went home indefinably irritated, restless, needy, wanting to get drunk, wanting do something crazy, wanting not really knowing what.

I also blame R.-at-work for spreading all those romantic germs. [To be read with a note of melancholy irony, not cynicism.]

Was there a full moon yesterday? That would explain it, except not really, because full moon for me is like PMS (which I'm still not entirely convinced does actually exist) or periods - it seems to occasionally coincide with moods and mood swings, rather than trigger them.


Wanted to spend a quiet, lazy day at home, but R. called and asked if I wanted to go to the Louise Bourgeois exhibition. Which I'm not sure I do, since I'm not familiar at all with her or her work, but I like R. and doing things with her, and this enough to even drag someone as reclusive as me out of hiding. And there's always something to be said for broadening your horizons, and I'm really rather grateful if people occasionally force me from my beaten tracks...

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The spiral is an attempt at controlling the chaos. It has two directions. Where do you place yourself, at the periphery or at the vortex? Beginning at the outside is the fear of losing control; the winding in is a tightening, a retreating, a compacting to the point of disappearance. Beginning at the centre is affirmation, the move outward is a representation of giving, and giving up control; of trust, positive energy, of life itself.

Friends should drag me to exhibitions more often. Ironically, R. ended up not really liking Bourgeois's work, but I was intrigued. I can't verbalise it -I don't even have the vocabulary to intelligently talk about modern art - I won't pretend to understand it in the sense that I informed myself about the artist's intentions and aims, the deeper meaning of her work, &c. but something about it spoke to me, seemed somehow compellingly familiar, the older drawings as well as the more recent fabric pictures. Something I'd feel comfortable having around at home, if I had a home suitable to put up this kind of art, or the money to buy it with; which I don't think I've ever felt about any contemporary artist.

An oblong picture with black waves, that, despite the title 'landscape', resembled nothing so much as a turbulent sea, stretching from the lower left corner to the middle of the right side, black fabric, the structure and depth indicated by very exact parallel stitched lines, the remaining upper two thirds of the canvas painted a uniform light blue. The contrast between the dark, intricately patterned mass, beautiful, but confusing, almost oppressive and the clear, light sky was almost... transcendent?

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