the day they do not celebrate here

i think one day i will write something terribly logical and bitterly ironic about this day they ignore, because the one side thinks they lost the war, and the other side refuses to admit they are not in moscow. i mean, the 8th of may. i mean, the day when the western world lost half…

lvls

today, at some point, holding my frame together with sheer willpower, trying to be sociable and coherent, i suddenly realised that all i really wanted, even longed for, was controllable levels of pain . nothing fancy, just that. gee, are my standards deteriorating and ideals imploding. Posted by Wordmobi

the judgement

today i accidentally (i normally do not do this, as there are better things to do) stumbled upon one of the major latvian language newspapers (relatively major and relatively newspaper, more of yellow press sort of thing), diena, and it had this headline (here and below, all translations mine) on the front page: “Why this…

never let me go*

caught like the butterflies in the never-ending fire of death, we still aspire, still hope, still try mending the holes in this incomplete pattern of advances and retreats, visions and divisions called life. ————————— * a novel by Kazuo Isiguro, now a film. you want to read it, you want to see it. you want…

beset by nightmares

no, i do not understand. i will write a more complete analysis maybe later. or not at all, because it does not matter. the annual crisis of imagination is at its fullest. on the other hand, if people think they can go on being plain stupid, i will not hinder them.

do it twice, and you’ll wake it

from a student’s essay: a person who wants to kill an Upyr must very carefully stroke him only once, as the second stroke will awake the Upyr back to life. this explains a lot. like why vampires are so rare. or how come they are so sex-crazy. the question this leaves, though, is – what…

time to hit one’s head

after three classes, one tutorial and 3 hours of reading essays and 2 hours of reading student research papers, i feel a definite feeling. rofl. i feel… aargh, i don’t know what i feel. i must feel, once i am writing about it…or maybe not. my head hurts. my head not only hurts, but also…

i am that i am, no more, no less

had one of those talks… where one can only be amazed at how there is nothing but appearances, where demanding equals cruel and love is perceived by having no requirements. or so it seemed. and the question- in the talk – ‘ you must understand that we have not read all those books’, it really got…

approximately so

with horrible regularity, this thing comes up again and again. maybe i will write up those dreams that haunt me and leave me nothing to wish for, nothing to desire, but dreamless sleep.  maybe the breakdown is not over. maybe it is the full moon. maybe not. most of what i do is futile.  anyway.…

november

has turned its other side. it is raining. rain of dickensian proportion has soaked, sogged, quagmired all and everything: raindrops congregate on the twigs; fog waterlogs moss and lichen; even the sun becomes gray and blurred amidst the moisture. my november dream of sitting by the fire and baking potatoes in the ashes has failed.…

white cat, paperwork, paranoia and total non-entity business

my life currently has entered the nervous breakdown stage. i feel cornered. i have no space to be me. people (with those good intentions at heart and the usual demagogy) make decisions for me, and get offended when i consider them invasions of my privacy and my personal space. i feel i have lost the remnants of faith that…

log

i switch on my interface. i connect to the world outside. i open port to the universe. then the universe demands logon and password. i log on. i pass word. i am me. i contain… whatever it is, it is too much pain. ————————-

dysfunction

in my dreams, i am back at that hospital in 2005. talking to the surgeon. about how bro’s inner bleeding cannot be stopped. how the brain death is imminent. and in amoment, it has set in. about stopping the blood transfusion after that. detaching the artificial life-support. and in the dream, i am suddely aware…

some more dead

Bro went a little fishing. the end result passed on to me for cleaning and making fish soup. pity the smell cannot be pictured. delicious, no less. Posted by Wordmobi

pig

well, here it is, the pig. dead. quartered. processed. just the way i like a porker.

dreamspaces of steel glue

So, there is this dream. In this dream, I get the place of someone who has died or gone MIA. In an office or suchlike. (should not read fforde too much, that’s it, and goodkind is not healthy either) I get this table with all sorts of things on it. On top of those things…

A door is a door is a door is a … what?

Ye deities of one’s preference. A number of things happened this day. First. I got hangover without drinking. The god of Hangover (see Pratchett, Hogfather) might have mixed up the doors or something. Second. I woke up at 5 a.m. O misery, o moonless snowy night. O world indescribable by mortal words. I have not…

tell me. really.

Thus, I must be going mad. As soon as I will be mad, I will be free. Or maybe not. I asked the quiz galaxy, when that freedom would come. I received this answer. Death would be another adventure. Unfortunately, life prevents me from it. The Picto-Personality Test You are a person who is very…

Suddenly this seemed a good idea to write down.

Imagine a building. It is grey and slightly rambling, and made of concrete like all its brothers and sisters at that time when concrete seemed the very summit of fashion. It has some fissures in some places: concrete has not proved to be such a good idea after all. Its has many windows looking at…

Mad, madder, maddest

“Самые безумные чаепития творятся не в кроличьей норе, за столом с безумным шляпником, ореховой соней и мартовским зайцем. Маленькая кухня маленькой квартиры, утренний чай, долитый кипяточком, малиновое варенье из трехлитровой банки – вот она, сцена, на которой непризнанные актеры играют настоящие безумные чаепития. Здесь, и только здесь, говорят слова, которые иначе не скажут никогда. Здесь…

Poems like leaves

What happens to the poems whne they are reduced to lines of symbols and formulas? Do they go to some ossuary? Is the beauty of the poetic destroyed by analysing it? If so, I have been a murderer today.