(no subject)

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.

(no subject)

Sound of the melting snow dripping on the window-sill. At least it does melt somewhat faster, these days.

Also, someone's too-loud tv.





It's sunny, almost, but I refuse to go out and take pictures with new snow in the middle of March. Instead I'm going to be lazy, read, perhaps finish a couple of livejournal entries, watch a dvd...

(no subject)

( Lengthy Sunday afternoon intro- & retrospective ramblings, for my own benefit mostly; caveat lector... )

...accompanied by another picture from yesterday.

(no subject)

Sort-of addendum to the previous post -- It's nearly impossible to say this without straying into the territory of awful, over-used truisms, but it's vaguely scary how little you can know about yourself and (your) life at an age when you (I, that is) ought to know more, ought to have experienced more. It's disquieting, although not in the profoundly frightening 'I don't know who the fuck I am any longer' way... Not the disorientating feeling of having the floor pulled from beneath one's feet, but -- strike the inane metaphor. A kind of emptiness that is an opening, when you start to really look outside yourself, start to notice things more intensely, notice more things, connect, and god it is embarrassing when one's livejournal entries sound like a self-help book, and perhaps I'd better shut up now.


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I've been starting to re-read Der Zauberberg, and read a lot of M. Reich-Ranicki's essays about the TM and the Mann family.