Once we had snow by now. Feels like ages ago, fifteen years back the very least. Some people are happy about this shift of seasons since they don’t like the snow. Me? I love it. Not when it’s too much but the way the breath clouds and the scrunchy sound the feet make when they take a step. And then there’s the light, it makes the days brighter. (The there’s the knitwear, of course.)
These people who say “thank God no snow” are delisiounal though. It will come, later around Januari instead of early November and it will be harshed and more of it. Snow storms didn’t used to be a staple of the Swedish winters.
I’m terrible at the Skype/Google Hangout thing, I ramble and look down into the table and all of those things one probably shouldn’t. And I mumble too and sort of panics. But it’s nice to talk to people who are great — that wins out easily. Internet, it’s amazing.
This summer has been a bit annoying for several reasons. One of them is the weather. It’s shifted, never really staying the fuck in one mode which in turn make my head ache and feel like it’s going to explode. (It hasn’t yet, but please, all you scanners out there, you don’t have to prod much for it to happen so please be careful around me, ok?) At least that’s my theory — there’s been two days of warm weather and now it’s shifted again. And the headache has returned.
The original plan was to travel about and see people. That didn’t happen as the money was scarcer than I thought. Very annoying. There are people I really want to see and laugh and spend time with. Witch reminds me: perhaps I ought to get a passport…
I also have a insect bite on a toe — it itches — and trouble with a stretch muscle in my right foot — it hurts but has gotten much better the last week.
Guilt. It’s a thing that appear from time to time. Being secular, I’m not quite sure of the details but I suspect I would have been a natural Catholic — apart from the whole follow orders from a silly old man in an even sillier hat deal.
This time, it’s guilt about communication. Or lack of it as I at time grow silent even though I don’t want to. Not really. It’s just that small talk has never been a skill I’ve been well versed in and on Internet that’s even worse. The thing si I don’t want to be that quiet, I want to talk about lots of things but through Internet, that doesn’t work so well at the moment. This guilt that grows from this is even worse in that some people, you’re too fucking far away. And I want to share life and not only words.
Of this silence that happens from time to time, I’m sorry. (Especially to you.)
We talk about the medicine, the side effects and the experience with the doctors. We talk about dosage, the things they make us do and do not do. But you know, we don’t talk about what made us seek help in the first place. What happened then, it’s implied and while there might be lots of different scenarios and the severities of back then, we still don’t have to be specific. Details comes when one is ready to talk about it, if ever. We get the bits that are important: we felt bad, horrible even, and we wanted to be better.
I thought most people got it, but I realise that it isn’t so. Those who haven’t been there, they most often don’t know shit. The tell-tale is in the judgemental tones. Because of course they know and of course it’s not special. They’ve been there too — except that they obviously haven’t. If they had, they wouldn’t need to pretend to know but they would get it. These people, they’ll never get it though. They’re the people — at times even family — that the details stay hidden from just because they’re so horrible at getting it. “It’s no big deal going through that. I’ve had it bad too, you know?”
Details comes with trust. the right kind of trust. It’s my birthday in 17 days. There was a time when I thought that this one was one I wouldn’t experience. (Or the one two years ago, that one had a nice number.)
I’m sure you’ve been there. It’s in the middle of the night, no really, smack in the middle. 3AM. You sit there in the bed, the weather was nice during the day so the room is warm enough to not freeze despite lack of… You get the idea. There, at that time it hits you hard. You miss people. People you spent time with last week, people you met briefly last year, and then the ones you’ve never met at all. The first two cases, it’s possible to fall back onto memories or anything. But the third case? Oh fuck, those itch.
How it is even possible? But it’s there and I rub my eyes. I miss everyone and it’s nothing sudden about it. That song lies about that, just as it doesn’t mention sharing cookies. Because I do got cookies to share — especially at 3AM.
Since I’ve never been popular this means I’ve gotten addicted to the other end of the like-game. Addicted is probably not the right word though, since I don’t seek it out but nonetheless. It’s the who liked an not the amount of likes that matters. I think it’s a good thing, keeps the ego down and not fall into the “I’ve only had a hundred retweets today! What am I doing wrooooong?!” trap — I’ve seen people fall into that one and to watch them try… It’s heartbreaking. But better they’d be broken than me right? Yeah, I think so too. (Talking to oneself on a blog must be a sure sign of insanity.)
Except of course whan I’ve done something I’m sure the good people will like and there’s nothing. That kills me a bit. But as they say: a bit of death has never killed anyone.
Now, let’s get some tea!
I was away this weekend and had a great time. Spoiled it by going home — where I live that is, it doesn’t feel like a home though — but there is a limit how long you can sleep on friends floor without feeling like an intruder and I reached that twice this time. Don’t think they feel the exact same thing but that’s why they’re my friends. I really need a job and move closer to people. Really really. And then I need to visit people in places such as San Francisco, New York, Brighton, and well, other places too. Lots of places. For such a small world, the fucker sure likes its distances.
Oh, I’ve also seen the new Muppet movie three times and it makes me cry. Not the amount, but the movie. It pushes buttons but in the right way.
It’s the ambivalence that kills me. I don’t think I’ve even been as good at drawing as I am now, the progress is there and not even I can ignore it. But at the same time I have this feeling of it not being enough. Not in the sense of “I need to get better!” but in the other, worse way. What if this is my peak? Perhaps I should just quit — a stupid thought, I have no idea how to not draw.
But it’s not enough. It’s not enough and it’s the one thing I can hold on to so where does that leave me? Have no clue or bearing or anything. I don’t know.
Some days I really wonder. What am I doing here? And why do I even try? It’s hard to try and find a place to fit in when there’s these things working against you and most of them are internal. To feel liked and loved but at the same time have huge problems with intimacy and body contact. (Can hug people I like even in public. Handshakes with strangers are uncomfortable. I can’t make firends without the Internet, don’t remember how. Trust me when I say that my biopic will have the title There Will be Issues.) To don’t have a clue about the social protocols and being forced to guess or at worst more fail than not on trail and error. To let people in without really knowing how to do that as the walls — cracked and ruined as they might be — still proves to be in the way and with marked no safe route around.
I don’t want life to be a form of looking in through a window but mostly that’s what it seems like. And most people don’t look up when I knock on the glass. The worst part is that I don’t know if I’m happy about the window or not.
On the floor, technically on a mattress, with the laptop on a stool and a wacom board in my lap. It’s pretty dark and my host is asleep (that made me sound like a parasite…). The Unthanks in headphones and it seems as if they’re here, circling around me in the darkness, whispering words of comfort and despair. It’s a pretty decent life right now, possibly since I’m away and that somehow always manages to make things seem better — even when things go wrong.
Perhaps there are stuff in the air here, or it’s easier to ignore the bad
Met old friends and some I’d like to have as new friends today. Even if — this is a theory I have — that happiness is a form of queasy stomach, it’s at times preferable to the alternatives.
I can’t lie. Just to feel the Uppsala ground underneath the feet felt good. To walk inside the door of The English Bookshop — despite the fact that this was the first time in their new location for me — all this almost made me cry. To spend a few hours with friends I hardly see anymore…
Yes, I’ve had a few beers. But slightly inebriated or not, the facts don’t change. I just wish I would have hugged everyone.
So today I got all worked up and if the table hadn’t been pushed against the wall, I swear I’d run around it in circles screaming “Oh my fucking god!” over and over. What sparked this exalt? I found out that someone had digitalized Oldrich Menhart’s typeface Manuscript — the digital is called Manuskript Antiqua. (The people on MyFonts that has lowered the score to 3.8 out of 5 are dead to me. They have no idea what makes a great typeface.)
I don’t own this of course, but just the knowledge of its existence is enough to put a dent into my gloom.