I’m a master of beginnings. I probably start writing a new novel at least once a month. I’m terrible at endings. Until now. I haven’t felt this excited about writing a will-be-novel in years. I even know the ending. I’m not saying the in-between-stuff isn’t going to be terribly hard, but I actually think I might be able to finish this one.
I’m excited, and this is an incredible high. Or maybe that’s just the pain-killers, for my wrist, talking.
I’ve been dead for a while. For almost two months now, and maybe I even quit this thing for a while. But I’m back, I don’t know why, but I am. It’s probably because I’m a bit antsy at the moment. I’m moving to Oxford in 78 days, and to be quite honest with you, it’s freaking me out. Not the moving part, cause that I’m mostly excited about. It’s the leaving-everything-behind-part that’s got my panties in a twist. (weird expression btw, don’t know how that’d happen in real life)
Don’t get me wrong, I’m so ready to leave this place and leave some of the people behind. But what worries me is that I’m leaving everyone behind. And I don’t know if I’m ready for that. It feels so good to finally get a fresh start, but I care too much about what happens to the people I leave. But then on the other hand, I have to live my life and can’t really be expected to look after everyone else in order for them to live their lives.
This change has been a long time coming, and I’m ready. Who cares if everyone else isn’t. (I do, I do, I do. But I’m slowly teaching myself to turn that into an I don’t.)
Tonight I’m sad, and freaked out, but most of all I’m really angry.
My family has a summerhouse about two hours away from where we live, and today we got a call from one of the neighbours saying that someone had broken in. The thief had collected the more valuable stuff, like all our family antiques, in the hallway and were gonna come back for it later probably. It’s a relief that they didn’t take those things with them, because they’re the most valuable, and our neighbour is gonna keep all those things at her house so we don’t have to worry. And the police said that if they came back, they wouldn’t go back inside another time since they can tell that someone else has been there. It just freaks me out to know that someone who isn’t supposed to be there, has invaded our space. And what really makes me sad is that my grandfather, who bought the place like 40 years ago, is really really sad because it’s his home. All of his stuff, from when he grew up, is in that house. And we don’t know what they’ve taken, or ruined.
I hate that people are so disrespectful, and selfish that they go into someone else’s place, and just tear it up. We’re never gonna feel alright being there again, because it’s been tainted by someone else. It’s just so low and it makes me so angry cause it’s not just stuff, it’s our memories that they’ve taken. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them.
And I hate that when you’re doing alright, something has to happen to fuck it up. Yesterday I was all excited about a date, today I’m worried about everything. It’s not right.
So, I’ve been wanting to get a pair of those hideously big Hollywood-type sunglasses, to wear whenever I’m in a “I’m a moviestar”-mood (I’m already rockin’ my aviators whenever I’m in a rockstar-mood), but I haven’t really found any that looked semi-ok and didn’t make me look like an insect. But then today, my mom totally surprised me with a pair that actually didn’t look half-bad if I can say so myself. So yay, my search is over. If you happen to be anywhere between Washington and New York in May/June and you see a blondish Swede with either aviators or a pair of ridiculously big sunglasses on, you can be pretty certain that it’s me.
Nice aim I’ve got, huh?
I just have to add another one to show off my excellent photo skills, and I’m slightly embarrassed to admit that I once wanted to become a photographer. Heh. It’s not blurry at all.
I love when you get a wake-up call from your workplace, at 7.50 in the morning, on your day off. Apparently I was supposed to work today. Only thing is, no one asked me. So since I’m now awake, I can’t stop thinking about it. Did they ask me? Did I just forget to write it down? Am I slowly losing my mind? And no matter how many times I go over it, in my head, the answer is still no.
And now I’m cursed to go over this time and time again, on my day off, just because they made a mistake. That’s just fan-freaking-tastic.
There’s an artist called Giuseppina Pasqualino di Marineo. She, however, went by the name Pippa Bacca. She’s the granddaughter of Piero Manzoni, if you know who that is. (if not, google him.) She was doing this performance project where she meant to show that people can be trusted and by doing this it’d be like a manifestation for peace.
She and a friend were to hitch-hike from Milan to Beirut wearing wedding dresses, but when they got to Istanbul they decided to split up and meet in Beirut. But after that Pippa disappeared.
She was found yesterday. She had been raped, and strangled. And the killer had buried her naked body.
It’s a fucked up world, and not everyone should be trusted. And that, in itself, is fucked up.
I wrote the following poem a couple of years ago, although my disappointment remains as well as my admiration of Peter Pan, I think my writing has improved at least a bit. I hope. Enjoy:
I never wanted to grow up, you know.
But you made me, you never showed up at my window wishing to hear stories.
I’m sure I could have made some up, just for you.
But you never showed up.
Maybe it was because of my lack of imagination or the fact that I can no longer remember how to play.
Maybe you just found it pointless because you knew I could never replace Wendy, Jane or Margaret.
Sometimes I still dream of you, of all the magic and pixiedust.
But you never showed up, I always wake up alone and cold.
Oh Peter, where are you? Have you lost your way into this world?
Because I still remember the way into yours;
Second star on the right, and straight on ‘til morning.
A couple of months ago I read this thing in the news about a dig outside of Mantova in the north of Italy. They had found a 6000 year old grave that contained two skeletons holding each-other. It seemed to be a man and woman, both very young because their teeth were so well-preserved. They died holding on to each-other… The oldest lovers known to man.
I wonder what the last thing going through their heads was, if they were scared or if they were comforted by knowing that whatever came next would come for them both. A love that’s lasted 6000 years, that’s pretty huge.
Do you think they’re still together, somewhere?
rach:
Weeping Tile - Room with the Sir John A View
THIS GIRL IS MY HERO. Ask for this song, and one day later it she sends it to my mailbox. I am so crazy in with love you some days, internet.
Enjoy; Weeping Tile is one of those great 90s Canadian bands that died before its time. This song happens to be about how girls tend to fall for traveling ghosts, aka rock stars. Seems plausible.
