life without a plot

God, I'll be glad when this week is over.

I still think I wasn't wrong as such, because this wasn't a spur of the moment thing, it's been building and brewing for a long while, but I just should have shut up. And I do realise that it's a difficult situation for her too, but my temper is completely frayed since autumn and this came on top of last week (Thursday: our 7-10 pm seminar [*]; Friday: flickr meet, which I was at least rational enough to quit at around 11ish and not so drunk that I'd be hung over on Saturday: work from 10-17, alone, no lunchbreak; Sunday: horse duty dumped on me since Ch. got the flu), so I was tired and cranky and well, things went straight to hell on Monday. BTW – next week: Monday: work, half of my Russian class, seminar, home at 10; Tuesday: work, belly dancing class, home at 10; Wednesday: horse, work, possibly niece; Thursday, Friday, Saturday: work. I'm making a resolution here to just Keep. My. Mouth. Shut, whatever it is, whatever it takes, whatever it costs, invest in valium, anything, or I won't have a job the week after that.


I want time to go out and take photographs. I want time to write and catch up with all my 'unfinished'-tagged entries. There's Torchwood stuff among that. I want time to calm down enough that I actually can focus on a book instead of just reading a couple of pages here and there and get irritated, impatient and unfocused. I want more time for Russian. And I want time to watch tv shows on DVDs.

Speaking of which, downloaded & watched the pilot (which I liked) and first episode (which I didn't like so much since it added very little, and I didn't really appreciate the re-cast when I'd just started to like the characters) of Being Human. Also (and perhaps irrationally), werwolf guy sometimes reminded me a lot of Ianto when he takes his glasses of.

And speaking of that, Torchwood S3 trailer. *warm fuzzy feelings* OMG, I miss that show so, so much.




[*] Extended footnote: We did a test to find out what causes stress for us, and unsurprisingly my problems are that 1) I'm a perfectionist, and b) I try to please everyone. Which, like I said, no surprise at all, but the latter made me wonder if that's the reason why pretty much all interaction with other people makes me apprehensive, because I always try to figure out what they expect and meet everyone's expectations or am convinced I'll fall short of them anyway. It's better once I'm in the middle of the situation, but all by myself I get anxious and play out worst case scenarios in my mind and it makes it impossible to even try dating with the intention of dating, because that's all about meeting someone's expectations. Also, this: I never made a decision not to become a dentist, or mechanic, or physicist. I never made the decision not to study Swaheli, or Norwegian or do a gazillion other things I can't even think about because I don't know about them. So I don't think it's true that as a child, growing up in that particular family situation and not knowing any other, I made a decision about becoming that perfectionist, wanting-to-please-everyone person, unless you're working with a rather strange definition of the word. Decisions are a difficult and ambiguous enough thing when you're an adult. I may be on one end of the scale, but the coach person is right at the other, where people need to believe they have complete control over their lives.

I am so, so dead. Tuesday went better than expected, Wednesday - horse in the morning, work in the afternoon & feeling exhausted for the rest for the day, although with less of a sore throat, but more constant sniffing & sneezing & lots of tissues & generally feeling crappy. Same yesterday, plus headache. Also, period. Gah. Today (up early to pick up the newly winter-tyre'd car from the garage) after I'd closed the shop I just sat in our storeroom-cum-kitchen for a quarter of an hour, mindlessly staring at the wall, and couldn't even make myself move to get up and go home. Which I finally managed to do, had hot soup, chocolate and the first episode of Buffy (pondering the scary possibility of rewatching all seven seasons... mid-March with one episode per evening?! dear god...) and am feeling somewhat better now, although still rather brain dead.


And it's Friday evening already, when did that happen? Since Russian class & belly-dancing class started again it's like, *blink*, and the week is over.

So, brief summary of my completely boring life; saw Rebecca last week (got the ticket from M., who didn't want to see it again), and the most I can say about that is, meh. It's pretty enough and doesn't outright suck, but it doesn't come close to Elisabeth, while reusing too many of the elements that worked there. It's all bit boring (and I wasn't even very familiar with the story), although the pace does pick up a bit in the second part, and if a special effect (Manderley burning, which is admittedly impressive) gets almost the most applause, you're doing something wrong. The fairly catchy title track is repeated ad nauseam, and other than that there are only a couple memorable and one decent song (Mrs. Danvers' Sie ergibt sich nicht). The ensemble scenes are all very Elisabeth-esque, been there, seen that, and as for Uwe Kröger, IMO he hit the jackpot playing Death there and has been insanely overhyped ever since.

Also (Saturday), one immensely satisfying shopping trip where I actually found everything I was looking for (Brio toy train for the niece's birthday; Russian grammar, verb list and new vocabulary CDs; new jeans, much needed; a rucksack, ditto). A very nice afternoon walk on the Bisamberg on Sunday. Practicing the choreograohies (and showing them to the parents, because I figured if I was going to do it on stage I should try to get used to people watching me), Russian learning (which I'm really kind of obsessive dedicated about at the moment, irregular verbs during lunchbreak, vocabulary on the underground, that kind of thing, but I'm going to speak this language and read all those Russian authors in Russian in this lifetime, and before retirement, too.)

And suddenly there never seems to be a whole lot of time left. I guess what I sort of miss is actually having thoughts about life, the universe and everything. Then again, I most certainly don't miss all those vicious circle depressive thoughts, so I guess being busy is good.

And, oh, alright, qualification; I spent a shitload of time and thought on that epic S2 Reconstructed Torchwood post a couple of weeks ago, but OTOH that was completely worth every minute of it; for one thing because I love it when things sort themselves out in my head, and for another thing, because of all the time I now won't spend obsessively trying to make sense of something that doesn't.

( Navel gazing. Even when she said she wouldn't. )

Am I getting closer to the crazy cat lady stage, minus even the cats? I wonder.

[After the telephone drama with my aunt yesterday I slept till nine-ish today, read, had breakfast, internet'ed a bit, crawled back into bed, read some more, fell asleep & slept from twelve to around three-ish. *sigh* So much for Saturday. Did part of my Russian homework. Also sent a brief e-mail (Hi, googled you, congratulations!) to the very important former best friend, which probably was a stupid, sentimental and pointless thing to do, brought on by reading E.M.Forster and too many memories surfacing, and also totally inappropriate, because our (my) last contact was a long depressed & disappointed e-mail from me about the end of our friendship, but what the hell. We can't do less than not talk for another decade.]


On a slightly related note, few days ago I browsed through my teenage to early twenties paper diaries, which was at once interesting - retracing where one has come from and how much, or, in other respects, how little one has changed - and completely, utterly embarrassing. And not only because of the horrendous English.

I don't even want to know myself before I was 17. Oh. My. God. Child genius she certainly wasn't. I must have been pretty boring and generally... bland. Not really a personality. (But maybe that's the natural state of things at that age?) I can't even get a grip on who I was back then, before I at least sort of grew up. It does get better, though, after that. And fifteen to eighteen-ish me had, albeit in a rather on-and-off fashion one hell of a crush on David Bowie; I'd kind of managed to forgot how intense that had been over the Other Crush. Oh, and poetry from 1989-1993ish that is obviously bad and derived in all kinds of ways, but that I can't bring myself to hate, because I remember how good it felt writing it, enthusiastic and still so unashamed and unembarrassed. Endless images of the sea and beaches and mermaids, strange for someone who spent her first holiday on a beach on her Maturareise (not counting two brief trips to the seaside during two different holidays in London with the family when I was a child) I kind wonder if A. still has the copies I once gave her.


And again, not completely unrelated - I've reread Maurice and started to reread A Passage To India, and with all the reminiscing it struck me that E.M.Forster is the author that one way or the other has been with me the longest and probably influenced me the most, and whose work I can always come back to and discover aspects that I hadn't noticed when I was younger.

I must have seen A Room With A View first, because it has a late 1986 release date for Germany and this was before we even had a tv, much less a video recorder (I'm trying to remember who I saw it with, though. Fourteen, 5th grade? No idea.), but Maurice (early 1988 German release date, and in this case I even remember the cinema, watching it twice and being mildly uncomfortable because I was fifteen and Austria in the 80ies was very provincial and conservative and anything gay still rather taboo; the standard BRAVO/Dr. Sommer answer to the 'OMG am I gay?' question was 'It's just a phase, you'll get over it unless you're really unlucky') must have been the first novel I read, because I own the German translation, and I stopped reading English novels in translation... I guess around 16ish? I remember having A Passage To India on my English Maturaleseliste, possibly also A Room With A View, but according to my diary I read most of the other novels as well as the short stories a bit later, around nineteen, twenty. It's still difficult for me to put into words what exactly his writing means to me; perhaps the most immediately tangible thing and what always deeply impressed me was the emphasis on the importance of honesty towards oneself.

I just wish I could be more sure that I wasn't failing so abysmally at that.

:: yesterday ::



So I'm kind of, with half an eye, watching I'd Do Anything, although I'm a week behind, because JB seems to be so omnipresent these days that it's rather impossible to keep up with his appearances, and some of the dresses are horribly unflattering, and what was I saying? Er. What I do admire is the certainty of those girls, the absolute knowledge that this is what they want, because I've never in my life been that sure. Not even remotely. Half of the time while I was studying I thought I'd rather want to be doing something artistic instead, except I really rather liked academia and using my brain too, especially once the right subject for my diploma thesis came my way, and tried to balance both. And as a result I've got an unchallenging underpayed job I mostly try to keep a mental distance from, play around with my camera occasionally, and spend a disproportionate amount of time analysing tv shows. Go me. And I still don't want anything badly enough to make a real change.


I hate Sundays.



And speaking of procrastination, I've more or less finished tagging my journal; it's not a hundred percent consistent, but at least now I'll be able to find things. For what that's worth. ::sigh::

Had a lovely week full of sunshine, blue sky, biking around a bit, walks in Hellbrunn and around Salzburg, a bit of photography (*), a zoo visit, two museum visits (neither very satisfactory, because I most definitely wasn't in the right mood for looking at art or learning about Salzburg history; everything from taking photos to reading a book or simply being outside seemed more inviting); reading (**), re-watching Doctor Who (S1 & the beginning of S2; it had taken me half a season to get used to David Tennant, but now going back is a bit weird...) and Brokeback Mountain (***). A lovely trip to the Chiemsee, which was a dream of mist and sunshine, frost on trees and and blue water in the morning, sunshine and hazy snowy mountains on the horizon across more blue water in the afternoon, also a boat trip and barely any tourists at all.


Generally felt very balanced and at peace with myself; this week finally a got a bit itchy and restless and thought perhaps now I'd enjoy going skiing after all, but on the whole I'm glad I didn't. In a way I love it too much, and every time I have to drive home again, which is invariably on a day when the sun is shining from a perfect blue sky and the snow is glistening, I slip right into depression again at the thought of my boring job in my sunless shop with nothing but houses and concrete to look at and all the supposed holiday relaxation was for nothing. Less of a endorphin rush, more quiet and peacefulness, which I think was what I needed.

My mother came over for a night because of the skylight we're supposed to be getting, but in my zen state of mind that was all right, too, even if she does drive me kind of crazy by immediately putting away everything which isn't in its proper place and talking all the time, and mostly about things that to me just don't seem really worth talking about; at least not at such a length... But then, that's what she'd think if she knew, oh, about my TW rambling.

And speaking of which... two episodes to watch now. :)





(*) Although I still lack the right kind of eye, or maybe the right kind of feeling, for this city. I'm starting to like it better and to see the beauty, but it seems impossible to take a photo that has individuality and some sort of personal perspective instead ob bland, boring prettiness, and doesn't already exist in a million tourists' versions...


(**) Yevgeny Zamyatin's We (fascinating, loved it), Halid Ziya Uşaklıgil's Verbotene Lieben (good read, even if not exactly my kind of thing), D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover (enjoyed the beginning, but ended up disliking it a lot), the better part of Simon Wiesenthal's Recht, nicht Rache and a bit of Clive Barker's Weaveworld (re-read), some of which I might actually write about a bit (i.e., type up what I wrote in my away-from-the-internet paper-journal), if ever all that TW lets me.


(***) I swear that film depresses me more every time I watch it. Perhaps because it's impossible after the first time to see the romance part and not already also know about the tragedy and futility and waste of lives, or maybe this is simply the part that resonates most strongly with me...

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.

What's the point of having a day off (an entire day too, for once, and all to myself, since Ch. and I have arranged the horse schedule so that I only have to go every other week), when you've just got your period and feel crampy, tired and generally disgusting? I went to the zoo in the morning (listlessly), mostly to get the annual season ticket as long as the voucher was still valid, and had planned to go photographing in the late afternoon, but watched three episodes of B5 (which I've decided to re-watch, yes, all five seasons, yes, I've all kinds of never-watched dvds lying around at home, and and no, i'm not sure there's a point to it, but since it's been years I've forgotten enough to see it with an at least partly fresh eye...) instead, because I just couldn't face the idea going out again.



soavezefiretto writes about what she'd do if this were the last day of her life, which got me thinking, too... (And depressed, oh, yes.)

Make a will [you'd get a first pick on the dvds, cds, and books, just so you know... ], maybe write messages for a couple of people, but probably not. What they know, they already know, and it doesn't seem fair to drop any kind of emotional bomb on someone when they can't respond properly any longer.

Then I'd get to some beach, Greece, Turkey, doesn't matter, somewhere that's reachable within a day with some time to spare. Granted, it'd mean spending much of my last day on an airport and plane - although I'd also get to see the clouds from above one more time, which is one of the great things about flying, IMO -, but I think it'd be worth it, sitting on some beach, looking out at the sea and listen to the waves, maybe watching the sun set. Maybe take a book I love, something familiar, (at the moment it'd be something by Thomas Mann, I think), read a few pages. Have a glass of wine, maybe.

I don't think I'd want anyone with me, because that'd lead to all kinds of tears & drama (although I'm toying with the thought of bringing a mobile phone, just in case I want to hear someone's voice, after all), and in the end you're alone anyway.



For me the surprise in thinking about this was (even though today was a rather crappy day where I've already asked myself why I keep going on, etc.), the sadness, and the regret. There have been years where I'd probably have welcomed dying (at least in theory and my imagination; reality might/would still have been somewhat different, I guess), now... it depresses the fuck out of me, because after all I don't want this to be over yet, and at the moment (I want to blame the hormones, but am not sure I can) all I can see is regrets, missed opportunities, thirty-five years of nothing and failure. (Funny. Because when I started to come out of that long phase of depression I thought that was enough, having survived, living, and and I wasn't regretting anything, because all this made me who I am, was who I am. Right. Riiiight.) And what I'd regret most is the general lack of love, and perhaps I can blame the hormones for all this disgusting sentimentality after all. God.


And I guess this should make me reflect on how to re-structure my life, make it more meaningful, start dating, etc., but I suspect I'll just go back to watching another couple of B5 episodes. Literally and metaphorically.

A strange day at work, at least for the first few hours. After three weeks being very much myself (for lack of a better word; not that it was always all that pleasant, because the Salzburg part of my holiday wasn't really; reduced to myself, maybe) or at least by myself, I felt weirdly raw and vulnerable, too open; it took a while to get back into the meaningless, superficial, polite, exchanges with customers. Almost surreal, at a loss at what I was actually supposed to say or do there and unsure how I'd be able to stand it for a whole day; thank god it was at least slow & quiet until the later afternoon, by which time I'd at least partly recovered my book selling persona. And of course it's natural and necessary to adapt again, but at the same time I resented having to do it, it felt like I was losing, hiding, burying a part of myself before I'd only been on the verge of finding, slipping away before I'd really recognised it. Probably post-holiday delusions. Sigh.

I'm still feeling strangely not-quite depressed; a bit like a blank sheet. A sad blank sheet.



The problem is, and I've come to recognise the feeling from after always too short weekends, the more I feel like myself, the more I do things that actually are important to me, the less bearable the dull, idiot routine becomes. During my early years there I'd been so depressed that it hadn't mattered and I appreciated that the job at least gave my life some structure, forced me to get out of bed, etc., but it isn't enough any longer. I want something more, something else, but since I'm incapable of actually defining it, it's a bit pointless to want at all...






And what worries me is that it appears that the stomach thing is at least partly psychosomatic... I barely had problems in Spain, ate pretty much everything put in front of me, even drank wine, coffee, etc., and the only thing that really disagreed with me was the very delicious paella. Back to my life & hello! slightly upset stomach & low-key nausea. I don't know what do do about that; I don't see a possibility for change.


Dilemma.

Meh. I'm counting down the days until I can finally get out of here, which I'll do as early as possible Saturday morning. I'm becoming slightly desperate for a break, time to really relax, although at the same time I feel a bit guilty for needing that, since my life is hardly stressful to begin with. But somehow, probably due to me being lazy and inefficient, which I seem to be incapable of changing, there's never enough time for what I want to do. Exhaustion. And there's this lingering sense of sadness recently... not exactly depression, because that to me was the antithesis of emotion, and actually being able to feel sad an improvement, but like I might burst into tears at the slightest provocation, which I don't do, obviously, but it's vaguely irritating. I'm starting to really resent my body's chemistry.

The flat needs cleaning, too, before I leave, and I'm doing it in tiny baby steps, picking up something here, putting a book away there, procrastinating on the internet...


I'll do nothing but sleep and read for the first few days, I swear.