As usual I finish the idea with topical confusion, probably I'll have to include a new topic called "versuft" or "zweerver"...hummmm, problem is most of my notes during the weekdays would be under such topic and the readership (this is a joke, if any at all) would get "confused" at not knowing the Dutch language, but oh well... should I care at all?
In anycase it's just a journal, so why should I expect all those many readers to mind anything at all? If Brontee and Frank didn't why would I? A simple project of a human being minding whether to be read or not? I must be just too bored I guess. (Martini break here)
Somehow the last days have been so full of activity, and it doesn't really look like... good mood, bad mood, good mood, bad mood, good mood, bad mood, new year, depression, joy, mortgages, missing, love, casual sex, conversations, alcohol, hunger, nicotine, lack of nicotine, infatuation, pain, despair, joy again, etc.
I've been writing quite a lot and it's not really out of boredom. I'd rather say it's more like out of need (again me being an American, mind the speech out). I'm pretty needy, needy of myself... getting probably too much of myself, it's a little bit disappointing. I wish this note were more of the kitty kind of note, but no matter how much I struggle I end up walking in circles around the same points. I'm just too heavy.
I haven't done any academic writing, and for the same good sake no academic work at all... in my twenties I'm already getting old, for the grave tastes to fresh. Another kunderian though that reminds me of Edgar and Lola, Usaquen park in the evenings, cups of tea, staring at the hills... staring at lives that were never led, that were never lived, imaginary people... imaginary friends. Like Kitty's and Peter's. Kitty's and Peter's that one day became Nicolas and Catalina, Kitty's and Peter's that one day became also the wife, Elliot and even Antigone. Probably Alon is the only real persona, for myself I don't consider either a real persona. A philologist kind of thing, I explained that yesterday I think.
Refusing to embrace my sleep... maybe afraid or maybe just in unrest. Thinking of Rovaniemi, dwelling in Rovaniemi, but simultaneously also down here. Staring at my walls, at walls that are not really mine. Anna in the eyes of her father, Otto in the eyes of his father... Anna and Otto, Otto and Anna.. in each other's eyes. Ari in the eyes of his father... Ari is his own eyes.. through timeless glasses, vanishing.... like air. Clung up.
Tomorrow finally I'm compelled to leave the house, to join the humankind... and well it ain't no bad, but it does no good either. Again smoking... smoking... for the sake of smoking. Busy thoughts, like in the middle of jams, in the middle of traffic jams, motorways and tramlines. Still wife ain't home, nor is Elliot. The hundreds of volumes that fill up the bookshelves of this modest house are nothing but empty blank pages... fearful of the future, drunk in uncertainties. Not living one day at a time... but a minute at a time. Tameless (again). Less political, more infatuated. Just high and dry :-)
Once again, the books of this celebrity house contain nothing but blank pages, except the bible.
Ari
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