The Getting On With -

The Prague Journal

Tuesday, April 10^th – The Prague Airport.

I think I'll use a pen today – I don't really know why. I've been in this airport, mostly at this table, for around 18 hours now, with 24 to go until my flight leaves for Edinburgh. I am impatient to be gone, which is one of the reasons I came here two days early. The other is that I've spent too much money on this trip. So, I've kept some by not buying a hostel – and I have learned it is too cold to sleep outside at night here. But there's got to be a story about that, doesn't there? Of course; And, seeing as how I've already played 31 games of solitaire, of which I won 6 intermediate levels, it's time to write, I guess. I could use more sleep, I suppose. And this will be a long entry – so expect breaks and changes in handwriting. (Do other people change their handwriting depending on mood? I wonder.)

Day #1. March 31^st – Edinburgh to Prague to Vienna

Well, it began [with the forging of the great rings] with a late night hanging out, listening to music and playing cars with Brian Kerr and Kari's friend. That was the end of a good, long week, where I did little but watch West Wing, and chill with Graeme, David in the beginning, and Poppy. It was actually a very good time, which might explain my later lonesomeness. At 4 AM, I got my bags together (three: hiking pack, MegaTokyo European-carry-all, and small rucksack), and walked the dark walk to Waverly Bridge. From there, the bus to the airport, where I was delayed, for an hour and a half, which didn't really matter. I really don't mind airports – they are usually so well-lighted, and that makes me view them as sterile. Time in an airport doesn't really exist as it does elsewhere. It stands still as it goes by, like a man on an escalator. As well, the opportunities for distraction are greatly diminished. One is forced to find a way to kill time, instead of merely lazing about. This day, I bought the Times, read an article on Ian McKellen and World of Warcraft, and did some Sudoko. My plane arrived eventually, as is usual, and I headed off. Due to costs, I had decided not to fly to Bratislava or Vienna direct – I went to Prague, instead. In retrospect, it wasn't so bad an idea, as I was able to see pretty much all of Czech-land, as it's easier to call it. From the airport I bumbled my way to the bus station, getting some kroner along the way, and from there to the train station, where I spent around €31 on a ticket to Vienna. (The plane cost 115 pounds, + five for the bus. I haven't really bothered yet to figure out the exact krone correlations, but it as 45 one way for the train. But who cares. Money was spent.)

My cellphone was not at all liking Europe, and the entire trip I had difficulties contacting Jacob Neubacher and Poppy, Sandra, and Tobias. I borrowed a phone to reach Neubacher, and never reached the others. As it was, I found myself with no means of communication traversing the entire Czech Republic, which looked a lot more normal than I expected, although very poor. The little hills were reminiscent of New England, the mills of the rust belt, and the squatters on the sides of the tracks of West Virginia. Very depressing, and yet wholesome in a way I can't think how to describe – simple. Eventually, I crossed the border into Austria, and made it to the scrumgiest train stop in Vienna; it was reminiscent of a few places in Edinburgh, so I felt a bit at home (insert laugh). After waiting forever, Jacob came, and we went to his house. I met his family, who were large and Austrian and scared me a bit. Then I fell asleep. A long day.  

Day #2. April 1^st – Vienna to Venice

 

I awoke, and had a confusing breakfast that was altogether hearty, with boiled eggs, toast, and the like. We packed, for into the car after two trial runs with Mr. Neubacher, whose size and gruffness was about as intimidating as my AAA test. It was a small semi-automatic VW, with great gas mileage and a gear system that took me a bit to get used to. We had packed food in the trunk. (Oh yes, the previous night Jake had showed me a bit of Vienna, Not much, at all. I wasn't really interested – I was already missing Edinburgh, and Jake's accent didn't help anything. Really harsh and American, actually.) We, meaning I, since Jacob didn't drive, drove from Vienna south through long, sloping, lovely white and somewhat forested mountains. We stopped several times, for me to stretch and Jacob to buy more beer and smoke, two things that silently irritated me for the entire trip. I really detest smoking and non-social drinking; they're just wastes. At one point we drove off with a full bottle on top of the car. I felt embarrassed and gratified, so I laughed about it. I found myself lying about my emotions often, which means they can't have been that bad.

The mountains on the Italian border and after were beautiful, as were the tunnels through them. Waterfalls, tall peaks with snow, castles – very picturesque. We went easily through the border, and stopped soon after to walk by a beautiful, clear, algid river with a wide flood plain, which must pour out of the mountains as a torrent on a normal, northern spring. Lots of trash but the roadside. Eventually, we got near to Venice, where we had a lot of confusion trying to find a parking lot. Two hours later we pulled into the car garage they had, and got out to view Venice at night. I had driven around six-seven hours, going around 130-160 kilometres per hour. We had played a few road games – I won every game we played on the trip, except for the lizard-sighting one, because Jacob walked up front. Anyway, we walked into the city, and got lost. Jake was bad at maps, and I was too tired to bother. We saw some fishermen using 10-inch cuttlefish as bait, and saw some of the normal sights. It's true, by the way: eastern European women are often very attractive, but the Italians are generally lacing in that respect. But, eventually we found a place to eat, and had a good Italian pizza each, which was lovely and burned my mouth for days, and was too expensive. The deal was that I pay for all the gas with my card, and Jacob would use my half as credit for other stuff. I sure hope I wasn't charged exorbitant fees. As it was, I payed probably €2-300 for the gas on the trip. Finally, we crawled back to the car – for €20, a pretty good hostel, even though the seats weren't fully reclinable and sleeping cramped against the wheel did more harm than good. But to bed.

Day #3. April 2^nd – Venice to Porto Venere

[Insert: Lunch break. Solitaire: 35 games, eight wins. ... 40 games, eleven wins.]

We woke up sometime. Walked into Venice on a surprisingly warm day. We were looking for a Billa, for food, and for a tape-iPod adapter for the car. Both were found. We walked through the city, which was crowded with tourists but still clean. It's not a very manly place – all shops, and overpriced food. I can't imagine living there. We had some gelatti, while sitting on a pier on the water. And then, having gotten food, we were off – for another six or so hours of driving, this time across the entire neck (panhandle?) to south of Genova (Genoa) and a place called La Spezia. There, we looked for a parking place and a supermarket, again, and proceeded to park in a quite questionable area, meaning no signs, around three kilometres from the village we wanted to start from, Porto Venere. The area is known as Cinqueterra, and is warm, right on the Mediterranean sea, with large jagged cliffs of caramel-coloured stone. The water was clear and cool, and the sun was splitting stones. Having walked into the port, we found a nice looking church on a place called 'Byron's Grotto' – probably due to Byron. It sure was romantic enough, with a beautiful sunset framed by an abbey, a cove, a castle, and cliffs with wheeling gulls and gull-wheeled waves. We found a nice landing place, and treated ourselves to throwing stones, and a hot meal. Then, the sun having set, we laid out the sleeping bags under the stars. And here the differences in our temperaments came into full swing: I, mostly subservient in the day, nocturnally flame at night with energy, while Jacob becomes less headstrong and more passive at night. So it was, that, thirty minutes in the bags, I ask if he wants to continue. He says yes, and, exclaiming over the magnificence of the spontaneity of night hiking (clearly not a veteran at spontaneous hiking, as I had schooled myself in the past summer of '06), we pack and head out under a moon a night or two away from full waxing. We head up for a bit, and skirt the castle, when we pass by these monstrous caves. We dropped packs and spelunked, as some of the man-made routes went pretty far into the rock. There was trash and old rusted industrial equipment, but besides that no indication of the caves previous usage. A few cat/squirrel skeletons mothing in the back ways. And so, adding two types of spelunking to the list of activities (the other type is, of course, throwing rocks into the ocean and hearing them go 'spelunk' – onomatopoeia at its finest.) Then we spent an hour or so labouring, sweating more than a woman in labour, up a mountain, till we had a grand view of the sea, for a few kilometres, dashing itself inexorably on cliffs far down on the shore. We hiked along for a bit more till I found a place I thought suitably comfortable (grass swards are far better than the concrete Jacob at first suggested), next to a giant old fortress. The next 8-10 hours were spent whining internally, in a long battle against the wind and cold, as we were to lazy to pitch a tent.

Day #4. April 3^rd – Schiara

Waking five or six times to a less-full-each-time car lot, I discovered, despite my dreams, I was nowhere near any tourists. The land we were on was in fact military, and trespassing was prohibited. We disregarded this for the few minutes it took us to wake, eat, and sit around for an hour, taking pictures and charting our course by eye on the distant cliffs. After eating half a baguette stuffed with prosciutto, a favourite on the trip, we set out on a path towards the road. Thirty minutes later we were altogether somewhere else, and started to go around a second headland on a different hiking path (the area was full of them.) We spotted a few lizards, a rather large quarry, some gigantic tankers and battleships harboured at La Spezia across the bay, many rock-climbing designated cliffs, and a few Germans. Having walked another two hours in the heat of midday, we came to a small town, where we got more food, water, and deliberations as to the route ahead. We had planned to hit a beach down by the sea near a small, car-less village called Schiara. The map, we found later, was inaccurate. The paths were not where we thought they were, the descent was less of a hike and more of a climb (ironically, I had to stop often from exhaustion. huh) and the 'beach' was six or twelve little one or two room deserted cottages on a few god-forsaken rocks battered by the sea. We explored a bit, saw a large yacht, and sunned. Jacob proceeded to force his way into some of the houses, which looked as if they had been deserted for years. We found no evidence to the contrary, and the newest date on a magazine was 2005. He, being particularly fond of one house, cleaned it out and made it semi-habitable. (Luckily, I had him try the bunk beds first. Think for a bit.) We had dinner, which was a fiasco, as Jacob spilled both dishes he made somehow. All in all, I hated the place. We went swimming. And here is the lacuna you've all been waiting for. [Suffice to say, a lot of things I shan't ever forget happened. Legomena, phainomena, dromena.] ... and, exhausted, we finally reached the car at almost exactly 1:00 AM, after around 20 kilometres. We quickly got our things together, Jacob smashed his unopened bottle of wine he had in the car, and we went to bed in the little VW. It had been a long day, after all.

Day #5. April 4^th – Porto Venere to Trieste

We awoke, glad the car had still been there, glad we had hiked out of Schiara in the night, and glad there was no hiking left to do. Jacob was for finding a beach: I vetoed the idea, and so we turned bumper to Porto Venere and La Spezia, heading out towards Parma, then towards Milan, then Venice. Six hours later, probably around 4, we stopped 20 miles before Venice at a rest stop, to recharge the iPod and our stomachs. There was a most expensive, yet hearty meal – the salad was good. While we were there, we decided to go past Venice and the upper Adriatic, to go past Trieste and down into Croatia, through Slovenia. the plan was to sleep there that night, and to drive through all of Slovenia the nest day, back to Vienna. However, 'twas not to be. To the sound of Stairway to Heaven, Jacob's expired passport was rejected at the border, and so we went instead to a place called Muggio just south of Trieste on the sea. It was windy, but I walked around the town and the harbour – there were many, many boats and a few yachts, and I had ten hours of driving on incredibly sore legs after the 20 km hike the night before. We found a parking lot, and fell to another night of troubled, cramped sleep. A long, boring day.

Day #6. April 5^th – Trieste to Salzburg

We awoke, I brushed my teeth, and were pretty much right off north to Austria, to the sounds of Negrita's 'Rotolando Verso Sud' and Sufjan's 'Chicago', as well as Broken Social Scene's '7/4 Shoreline', the three theme songs to the trip. We were going faster returning, because I was more comfortable with the car and Italian roads (faster being 160 kph or so – around 100 mph.) We crossed the border, and decided to hit some roads through the mountains for the views. Soon, we decided not to go to Wien, but instead drove north to near Salzburg where Jacob's cousins, whom I had met earlier at his house, lived, where his summer house was. This was a capital idea, and the view from the house was astounding – a beautiful lake, with white mountains across on the other side. We showered and were treated to a marvelous dinner – bread, butter, spreads, meat, eggs, all fresh (the place had chickens and cows, after all.) We played on the trampoline, me trying to speak broken German, and then went to the after-dinner daily drinking party thing, where a few Austrian adults drank like Scotsmen and generally held forth in full frivolity. They made more fun of Jacob's americanized Austrian than my own English. After was to bed, or for me, a couch, for one of the few really good sleeps of the trip. The atmosphere was surreal, but I suppose not less so than the rest of the trip.

Day #7, 8. April 6th-7^th – Salzburg to Vienna

The next day, after a hearty (I seem to be using that word often. Thick would work. Filling. Huge.) breakfast, we did nothing until coffee with some more old Austrian folks, and then we left to head back to Vienna. That took a few hours, and then we were back, limbs, car and all. We watched 'The Terminal' (strangely fitting, given as I am now stuck in an airport), 'Office Space', 'Ong-Bak', and 'Cinderella Man.' We slept the night away, went online, and pretty much rested for a day and a half, at his house. I watched 'The Sound of Music' for the first sentient time, and was amused at the similarity in landscapes that I had seen. I sovereignly beat Jacob and his dad at rummy, and ate a lot of their chocolate. And then to bed again. Not much worth noting. I tried repeatedly to contact my friends in Germany, whom I was going to go visit, all to no avail. Seeing as how i had suggested the idea, though, it were best that I left soon. All to the good, I think.

Day #9. April 8^th – Vienna to Salzburg to Linz to the Czech Republic

We awoke with the dawn, and had more boiled eggs and toast for breakfast. Then I packed, and Mr. Neubacher arranged an easter egg hunt for us two in the back yard, for which I was both embarrassed and grateful, as chocolate is one of the most blessed foods to a traveler. Then we got in the car by 6:30, and drove back to the house in Salzburg for the church there. I skipped out, seeing as it was in German. An hour later, we were headed to Salzburg proper, where the train station was. The Germany plan fell through due to cost, so instead I went and bought a ticket to Prague, through Linz and Ceske Budejovice. That day, after parting, I rode the train to Linz, bought a wonderful fried pizza, and headed north into the Czech Republic. The landscape went from mountains to cute little fielded halls – a woman's country, for small villages. It felt quite feudal, and yet was pretty in its own way. Seeing this, and the beauteous sun, I got off soon into the Czech Republic, and walked around. The land was flat and wide, all plain, with various plots of forest. The people were poor and semi-rural. I walked four to five kilometres to the next train station, and sat there for a long while, planning to sleep there. Just a night hike for the third time. I walked to the next two train stations, through fields and on the tracks, past dogs and gloaming forests. I realized how lonesome lonely travel is, and wished that Brian had come, or that I had stayed with Jacob, or that she would be there. But in the end it was a good hike, and I enjoyed it. I stopped at a nowhere of a train stop, and had 8-10 hours of really, really poor sleep: it was freezing, cold, the bench was hard, the night noises and trains long and heinous. This influenced my decision to get to shelter – given my budget, I ruled for staying outside in Prague, or the airport. The airport won.

Day #10, 11. April 9th-10^th – C. Budejovice to Prague

I awoke, freezing. Getting up slowly, I realized how poorly insulated I was, and that my back pains were back. That was about as bad a sleep as you can have while not being physically ill. I went outside of the hut/lean-to in which I had slept, and noted that the train I needed did not, in fact, go there, as it was too small. Therefore I picked up my things and walked two miles to the next station, where I had two boiled eggs and some toothpaste for breakfast, with chocolate as a desert, naturally. The train came, I got on, and went t my destination, where I got on another train immediately for Praha, as the Czech call Prague. That train, to the tune of Harry Nilsson's 'Everybody's Talking', my classic traveling music, took 2 and a half hours. I came into Prague, bought a map, and decided to look for a hostel on foot. I selected first, however, landmarks that I wanted to see in the city. The closest was the Natural History Museum, which was all in Czech and so largely not informative at all, as well as costing 2 quid. They had some really rather excellent specimens, though: a Moa, whose size I had never grasped, a parrot I've wanted to see since last summer, and a few more nerdy things that I alone would consider cool. From there I went and bought some milk and a giant loaf of bread, which, along with soup and cheap tea in the airport, has been my meal these three days. I walked around the city, saw the main square, castle, and other things. I dawdled by the river and ambled by the doodles in the less-good district when I went to the metro, which I stupidly paid for, to get to the airport. On the bust to the port, I talked to an American family from, of all places, Torrington and West Hartford, who were interested in River Run. The world is so small, just when it seems largest. anyway, I then came to the airport, and I have been killing time ever since. I played 50 games of Solitaire, won 15 mediums and one hard (¼ choice deck). I've slept, read DH Lawrence, changed, and gazed into space. I also wrote this entry and some emails. And that's it. I leave tomorrow at 12:20. I'll probably write on the plane, if I don't sleep and really annoy the person next to me with my stench. :D.

These are entries I keep in my travel journal. I bring it on all my trips, or have since I got it for Ireland. The Ireland entries are not included here, as they were a previous post. This post contains an entry or two before college, and various plane flights until 2007 came, which includes my entire Rome travelogue. Enjoy, whoever reads this thing.

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August 4th, 2006 - Billingsgate

I need to write something. So, here I am. Ireland is a month gone. It is August 4^th now, by 23 minutes. My mind is telling me to stop, that this is foolishness. I often get this feeling when I begin to write. Perhaps, deep down, I know my work is horrible, the scrawlings of a boring teen. I don't know. I am not sure I still am a teen. Responsibility and awareness have snuck upon me like some sneaking thing. So much for the idea that writing solidifies and betters thoughts. That analogy was rubbish. Perhaps a type-writer would suit my need for dedication better. Not dedication: deliberation (is that even a word?) The ghost of Yeats may haunt me for years; and speaking of ghosts, Edward Abbey. Now, there's a fellow for you, flesh and blood, human. He is me, fifty years advanced. Really is inspiring, in its own way. But he's dead. He had a great passage, about death, about how “the feel of black leather” will be gone. That passage shook me, deep down. Am I prepared for death? Can I endure the unknown? Am I willing to realize my dreams, aspirations, hopes as unfulfilled? To die a virgin, of life and sex and thought? There's something tragic there, and I love tragedy. But there is no Shakespeare for my life – there is only myself. Maybe that should be a book: an aspiring liver's untimely death. Or rather, maybe that should end my book, my “kitchen [illegible: looks like sihle?]” about my social disaster of a family. ---. I am listening to Kate Bush. Her music is fantastic. Aerial in particular is a beautiful song, but I fear it has been molded into Abbey's world, because now I think of the wide desert when I read it. I yearn for the desert, in this 105°F heat. I must be mad. But something, some intangible unreality, is hidden in me that makes me yearn for wide lands, steppes, deserts, lakes, the sea, bogs. ---. Jaded: I am sick of: proselytizers, militants, fascists/nationals, religions. Concerning Lebanon: it's not humane that I don't care. I ought to care.

 

November 7th, 2006 - Edinburgh

I had the rush to flee tonight. Half-packed the bag. But I have assignments. I have decided to work as hard as possible, get them done. This weekend, I am going. This weekend---

Post Script: I did not go. I was largely under the influence of 'Black Swan' by Thom Yorke, as well as the knowledge that the 'rents were splitting up financially, and probably what I would term as frustration.

November 11th, 2006 – Fairly Familiar Things

I went to see a play tonight, by David Barnes. I arrived at 2:43, the play was to start at 3:30. I bought myself a ticket, at the same time as Fran Walker and Genine. I know Fran, and we chatted amiably. However, I soon retired to a corner of the Fat Cat Cafe. I continued to chat across the room. See, I had a book to read, and there is something in Genine I did not like. I had known her before, but we were never really introduced or talked. So I generally did not pursue conversation. Realizing, however, that this was the case, and would stay that way, the awkward glance and forced silence, I went up to her, and stolidly introduced myself, correctly. We chatted, I sat down. Ed and Courtney came in: I chatted. Becs was there, as was Kerry. She gave me her forced, pained smile. What did I do to deserve that?

Anyway, I asked Fran if Sally was to appear. She said yes. I tensed. Soon, wending through the crowd, Sally came. She gave me that fleeting look I am too familiar with. The glance, the sight; “why are you here?” --- I don't think I've seriously thought of myself like I just did before. Through her eyes. Wow. How many times must I hear that phrase before I think to try it? That's what that look is. The “why are you looking at me, I don't really like you and you stopped talking and acknowledging me. You aren't intelligent or interesting, you're just some kid who wants me. Again, why are you looking at me? I don't like you.”

December 9th, 2006 – On the Plane to Rome

Here I am again: on a plane. I am somewhere over the Alps now, I believe: there aren't any lights down there, and there are no clouds. It is now 9:00 PM – the plane should land at some point after 10:00. I look forward to being in Italy, on mainland Europe – my first trip truly alone, my first time on the Pan-Asian continent. I don't have accommodation for tonight – Don't know why I'll be doing. That's the future.

--

The custom-free shop was like any other: booze, cheesy nationalist clothing, candy and bestsellers. An early 90's pop song was playing: N'Sync, I think. “I hate this song.” “Me too,” she said.

--

I don't know what she looks like. I don't know much.

--

I once knew a kid named Rowan. He went to France for an exchange year, and soon ran out of money. He spent the rest of the year being the young (lover?) companion to a french woman he met. Last I heard, he was in Tibet.

--

Perhaps Plato was right? Or maybe I just think too much. (Accompanied by a drawing of a 4-legged, 4-handed, double headed figure.)

--

I got off the plane at 20 to 10. Had an interesting lack of understandable conversation with two security guards. Saw my first hedgehog and Roman ruins. Walked into city – Colosseum, Arches. Walked. Played a Ukulele in a square: attracted drunk bum + two cig bums. After thirty minutes, left drunk bum. Fell asleep on stairs. Woke to find drunk bum. Sexually assaulted by drunk bum. Had bad pizza. Some of Rome is good, some is bad. And some = perfect (sketch of the bridge to the Vatican.)

December 15th, 2006 – From Rome to Edinburgh

I have learned since coming to Rome that traveling alone sucks. Well, travel is nice – but seeing the sights, all of that, is boring and lonesome without another. Tourism needs tourists – there's no real singular for tourist. Or there shouldn't be. Rome – Rome. I didn't like it, all sums added. I have nothing against the city, just that I didn't like it. I felt homesick for the gray rock of Edinburgh, for the honest gloom of Scotland. The city here is too loud, the Italian snippets ugly and coarse, foreign food is too expensive, too many tourists clogging up the place – there isn't much of value that I can see in the city. I've been robbed, molested, hungry, wet, tired, cold, spurned, and scorned – no, I don't like the city very much. Highlights: walking in on the Via Appia Antica, four hours of Italian countryside, cobblestones, loneliness. Saw my first hedgehog. Runis, runes, ruins. The smell of Cyprus trees, the moonlight. Once into the city itself, only misery. That morning, the villa Borghese – again, the smell, and look of the dawn on well-tended parkland. All this was to the good. The sight of the river, bridges, hill and Vatican from under the sycamore trees – that is how a city ought to look. The quiet, the dawn, the empty streets. The sad death of these, in the glaring day. Falling asleep in the square before St. Peters. Pigeons, squawk of sea gulls. Climbing to the top of cupulla – seeing snow on the far mountains. The squares. The city rooftops, domes, from Emmanuel II's monument at sunset. Good prosciutto and cheese pizza, eaten near the aqueous structure of Poseidon. The Keats's museum. Eating with a Mexican. The notebook shop. These were the highlights, and they were few and far between. I will not miss Rome, but it has taught me how nice Edinburgh is. Rome – I chose to sit in the airport all day instead of spending another few hours entombed in that horrible city. It was cold, and rain threatened anyway. No, I could not enjoy Rome. It needs to be shared. I couldn't even enjoy the looks of some Italian women – I don't speak their language, only pain there. The Sistine Chapel was nice - but lonesome. O, to be back with good food, comfort, and with people I know – friends?! Aghast – I've become social.

I spent ten hours in that Italian airport. 10 hours. I read a whole lot of Edward Abbey's 'Confessions of a Barbarian' – I liked it as much as I did the first, if possibly only a little less. We're flying over the Alps now, some turbulence. I also read 173 pages of Moby Dick – my first time through the tome. I've never read it before, but I find that it is surprisingly quite enjoyable. The descriptions and long-winded prose are daunting, but I can not help but laugh at Melville's jests, intended or no. Although I am inclined to believe that Cape Cod is far better than Nantucket – he mentioned an 'elbow of sand', however, so mayhap he has his names switched up. Who properly knows? Scholars, critics, etymologists. That's who. I never did like that phrase. Nor the phrase 'wet (whet?) my/your whistle' – something in the – not assonance – rhyme? alliteration annoys me. 'Wet' is a good sounding word, however. Wet. So is 'Scandinavian.' But I ramble – from what course, I don't know, but I ramble nonetheless. I am quite happy to have left that sad country behind – I don't like the sound of Italian any more than I do Spanish (Ironically, the two friends I made not in the hostel were Spanish and Mexican.) [I must remember the email address pedro pimp at yahoo dot com – beats me why.] I say friends – but is that the right word? People who I smile with, talk a few sentences, perhaps even share a drink – but temporal as a flower in the snow. How poetic. Acquaintances.

My two favourite puns: Audi for audit (It's a foreign car, the t is silent.) or 'How do you titillate an ocelot? Oscillate its tits a lot. Camelot, Lancelot. Flying over some coast now – lights end in darkness: pale reflections. The Mediterranean? I think a large, large lake. Geneva? I don't know. Winding roads on hillsides. There are large docks – must be the Inland sea. A walled river, there. €.70 for French bread – mandatory by the government. Not sure if I approve. Sounds like socialism, to me. The faces on this flight are bulbous – ah, the English. Ugly men, occasionally stunning women. You have seen/should see the women. “Her beauty was like intelligence” - Yeats was good, most of the time. Perhaps all? Keats, on the other hand – painfully romantic. Shelley full of verbose verbal verbiage. I haven't read any Byron – I dislike Kipling. I ought to read more Shaw – and, of course, Herodotus, Livy, Caesar, et cetera ad infinitum. In the original, of course. I must relearn Latin, and Greek, for that matter. I am a mediocre/bad school boy. Will I change? I must, and soon, ere I become a fat buzzard. Why must I change? In order to woo women – and sleep better, at night, of course. I need a cure for snoring. Perhaps the sea. Doggone the old man, beating me to a maritime youth. How I envy him. If he is any proof, however, I can change, no matter what the age. Perhaps even learn languages. We are a lot alike in mind – not exactly temperament. At patience he will prove his immortality – his greatest virtue, and most practiced. Patience and peace. There are precious few moments in my life whose memory I savor more than anything, which merely reflecting on makes me peaceful. Right now, I can think of two – the time when I lay on the dock in Whitaker Lake, with the Dugs there on the other side of the lake, the blue sky perfectly clear, the sun shining and the water warm. Jacob Neubacher in a canoe. “Don't be emo or gay”, he said, or something of the sort. The other moment was in Collinsville, in October, with all the leaves turning and falling, there with Jordan and her friends drawing on the asphalt. The New England fall – may I never forget that. But I know I will: death comes to us all, and steals away our memories as far as we know. I put orange chalk on my trousers, ate an old baguette. I held a girls hand once – we walked together all night at the Veteran's monument. That was a good night – I treated her poorly the following days, but that night was good. I kissed a girl on her front lawn. I treated her poorly, too. That time, in that field, with her, and I, and Orion blazing – she, too, was to good for me, in the end. Maybe I deserve this celibacy – looking back, I have not been chivalrous or even kind-hearted to most of the girls I knew or liked. Even Jordan I insulted with my comments and presence at times. I don't know why I am only realizing this now – I have suspected it, but never looked this fact in the face. As for friends, I don't think I've treated them any better – I haven't yet mucked up Ed, John, Christian – maybe I have Ryan and Leon – so I will have to work harder at that. As for females – well, that road is obvious. Be faithful to my friends, loyal to my female companions, and be strong for yourself. The crazy, the undefended, the ugly, the mute – I am not predisposed to help them. Maybe I will, eventually. For now the independent and myself are all I can manage. Oh! my family. I have not been good to them. My father. I love dad, I think I can say that for certain. He has his vices, but they are few and far between his virtues. I don't blame him at all for breaking away – he was broken by conscious mental uxorial infidelity (not sexual) – and that is no man's fault. Would I advise him to do differently than he has? No. He is a strong man who knows what he is doing and why. I might advise a divorce, but that would be ugly. But this is concerning my faults, as a son, not his failure as a husband. I have not respected him, nor done my best to see his wants fulfilled. I squandered the opportunities he gave me. For that, I may have a life of regret. University, although I am paying it, is as much for him as it is for me. This isn't my life, alone – I am not an island. This I ought to amend. So, a new resolution – work to kick my life into shape – academically, morally, spiritually. All will be painful. I'm over the channel, now, and I am avoiding the next entry. Mother. I don't love, like, respect, even treat kindly the woman who bore me into this world. She, of all my family members, I ought to do the opposite to. I am a bad son – not a horrible son, but a bad one. Changing this – I don't even know where to start. This desperately needs doing – this, of all things, will I later regret most, I believe. An awful premonition. As for my sisters, I am at best a mediocre brother. I don't really know how to change that. What is the position of a good brother? Topic for reflection. My grandparents: the solution – stop treating them with mild, indifferent apathy. Pretty obvious.

December 17th, 2006 – Edinburgh to Gatwick, London

Well, here I am again for my planer entry. We are turning so sharply I can see straight down. There's the sea. Thalatta, thalatta! And there, of course, is Edinburgh, Edina, Athens of the North. The cloud mountains are in the distance. Whatever happened to that story I was working on? Hills now – The Borders. “As I break my fast on a wet stone / and tabulate my hells.” Breaking fast sounds splendid currently. And, wonder of wonders, a (young) woman has sat next to me, with a lovely thigh and face! Agast! Always this feeling – inadequate awe. She is sleeping now. A very large bay, now – must be the west coast. Marsh – Ice? No, silt or waves of some sort. Saw a beautiful woman walk on – beautiful to me. Normal, if somewhat well-breasted, brown hair – and a haughty eye, an almost cynical lip. O to change that! Snow on the peaks down there – not much. She's awake. Ah, theres some snow. Looks a wilderness. The hills look like water in wind – ripply. All cloud now. Sheepy. Sleepy. Man ruins land. Young kid behind me laughing. His father loves him. Joyce 'Ecce Puer.' Elysium! We're tracking another Jets contrail...or were.

December 31st, 2007 – Boston to London

Surprise! I'm on a plane again, sailing to London to Edinburgh (or will be). Long day – bus to Hartford (missed) to boson to Logan to sitting around to boarding. My eye has been twitching a lot recently. I ought to record my thoughts more. Its been a long week and a half. Family, old friends. Jordan, Julie, Jen... I don't love Jordan anymore. Or Julie, really. But I do miss Deirdre. Seeing Lauren, Sarah was nice. That world seems so foreign now – but how quickly one can fall back into it. As it was, I missed my friends in Edinburgh. But now I am going back. Helen of Troy is down the hall, this time. I had a longish chat with Dean. I've grown, having gone to Edinburgh. This semester I need to prune my growths. That was the most socially radical week and a half I've ever had, I think. Somethings Gotta Give is on...[P.S. I ended up watching the whole movie. It was good.]

Time moves on, continually demarcating the present from the past. No, listen to me when I say this: one day you'll wonder these things for yourself, and you may not have an answer. The present is here, then gone. We don't remember it; our emotions, our senses, the environment. We remember what we think we do, nothing more. Our mind's eye distorts – its vision is skewed. I don't fully understand the present. I don't understand how we interpret things. No one knows the future. But the past – all the past is in moments, sometimes seconds, sometimes hours long. And it objectively is, it does not disintegrate. It is not a hypothetical – for it has modern repercussions. It was, and there is no denying that – there is only remembering, that and being. It doesn't matter, particularly, what we do or who we are, if we remember that we did and were.

I am a painter, staring at a picture on a wall. I see myself, younger, not myself, sitting in a wrangler going to the Cape. I am making drumming motions to a song, sung by a band that has good lyrics but a bad drummer. I am smiling, there is wind. My sister's ex-boyfriend is there. He's a funny, akimbo surfer from Fiji. I think I like him, but I'll never be sure. The picture is constant. Mist rolls into the room, and the glass clouds up. I sit up, stop looking at the picture, and break the glass. The picture is a canvas, blank. I sit down.

Why am I so obsessed with myself and the past? Why do I think so much? Why can't I apply my ideas and my thoughts to me life? I don't have answers to these questions. I don't know what the answers might look like. I am not sure I want to know. No, I want to know. I want resolution. I want to control my life. I want some one to share it with me – and few people will get into a sinking boat. Am I really all that bad? No. I have some friends, against all the odds. I know how to occasionally have some fun. I know some things, I don't just get by on wit and intelligence. I know a few girls – even kissed one or two, but that may be over – I no longer have innocence going for me, I suppose. I talk to my family, although I don't really connect with them – but who does? Josh said he didn't, and for some reason I really respect his thoughts.

--------------------------------------------

Issues: #1,354

Well, it's happened again. I've lost the fish. But this is by a means I've not quite comprehended till now. I labeled my issues as shyness, as perhaps social incompetence, as lack of confidence. Well, this loss takes the cake. Because of these traits, I've been unconsciously doing something: nothing. I've been blanking her. NB: (With diagrams of several instances of 'blanking' in motion.) In my eagerness to not make things awkward with her friends, I've been disregarding her. In my shyness, I haven't found the confidence to talk to her. In my lack of confidence, I'll make contact with her or her friends indirectly, and not actually talk to her. This makes me look indecisive (which I am not), weak (arguable), but overall socially creepish – by not actually talking to her, I am furthering my own fantasies, I am building up a false image. And she knows it. This makes me extremely angry and discontent with myself. Worse, there's no feasible way to salvage the situation. Directly talking to her furthers my awkwardness – then, and after. Attempting to not do this again doesn't resolve my creepiness except in the long term. Ignoring her makes me where I am. This entire situation is almost the exact opposite of earlier this year, where too much attention and not enough follow up led to enstrangement. “The irony is killing my soul.” And unless I fix my own ways, it looks like I'll be stuck with trying to make relationships out of friendships, which I doubt I can do; given that as a friend I am possible even more awkward. After all, we've established in other entries that I view friendship differently than others do, resulting in particular ailments which take a considerable effort to remedy. But, for now, I must 'desinas ineptire, et quod vides perisse perditum ducas.' Now, the only remaining question is whether I can be 'destinatus obdura,' and also 'quem nunc amabo?'

Post-Script:

Does unintentionality change anything? Is this all only because of my feeling of intimidation concerning Brett? How much does the fact that I don't know her well affect things?

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I am just going to start writing. I've been staring out the window for ten minutes now. It's a sunny day, and you can see the sea. There's a yellow restaurant on the corner of East Crosscauseway. It's called Phenecia. I can see the crags there on the hill, half in the southern sun. There's a snatch of green in the churchyard. The windows are boarded up. They still look vacant. The steeple aspires to touch the sky, in the other church. It almost does. I am listening to “I think about forever.” It is a relaxing song. Relax and relapse. I want to do something, but I don't want to leave. I miss female fellowship, as if I ever tasted it.

The green country, wide and bright, under a blue sky. The white of surf, the sparkle of waves. The curving horizon, the cry of seagulls over the blue. White specks wheeling in the wind. The shoals of fish, the flukes of whales. The tall herons, winged and silent. Swans in the inland ponds, frogs creaking. The tall forests, bright, like grass beneath the sky. The miles of plains, the herds of clouds, fleecy, running to forever. The drop-off of the seas – the impossibility of finding the edge. The stars beyond – the flight of the giant eagles. The levity of dragons at sunset. The world bathed in light as of fire. The night, bright with the moon. The clean air. The swift sunrise. The far snows and the distant sands. The cleanliness of the inhuman. The silence. The elemental colors -the green islands in the sea. Waterfalls, palm trees, white beaches. The twitter of song birds, the thud of coconuts. The floating islands. The sea creatures. The giant turtles.

White sails, full of the sun. Horizons.

My dreams are filled with these. To return. To live again in nature unsullied. To taste pure salt, pure air, purity.

 

The day is a remembrance
of something old

That thing, memory, time
flew slowly

Like a kestrel
crying awake the cow-stones
the dry, indomitable burren bones

A gull singing immortality
on utterly inhuman
sacred, righteous, recognized cliffs

We've walked these roads before
sung these songs to god
sung these songs to ancient tunes

The mind forgets, but body,
our unknown body, remembers

And the soft-muffled crack
of soles on cobblestones
raining, pouring home

Is the period, to punctuate
our loss, our gain

Half-formed thoughts rust
in such a timely rain

Wrote this in November sometime.

 

 

It so happens,

 

            That this day will decay, just as all the others

            will meld into the long array of past

           

            I won't remember the walk this morning.

                        The orange I ate

            I may remember one thing, a conversation

                        or a sight

                                    or an experience

            But chances are I will not.

                        I will not remember friend's names

                                    clothes

                                                laughing children

                                                            tourists

 

And if it so happens

           

            that memory decays

                        that time is subjective

            than I decay

                        I lose myself every time I lose something

                                    despite that I can't remember

            what it is that I've lost.

 

But even if this is all happening

 

            years from now

                        I'll remember the feeling

            of walking Clerk St. in the morning

                        the taste of oranges

                                    the smell of bookshops

                                                the clip of shoes on cobblestones

            the cold air of Edinburgh

                        The taste of sun and feel of mist

            I'll remember that the artic is dying

                        that the air is less pure

                                    that a car's exhaust is the owner's breath

                                                that words decay in meaning and memory

            I'll remember yellow

                        and orange

                                    and here's green-grey-blue

                                                the city's red-blood colours

 

So happening

           

            Something is gained

                        in every thought I focus elsewhere

                                    in the osmosis of the unnoticed

            Something remains

                        for every thousand that go

 

And it so happens

           

            That that is fine by me.

 

I was asked to put my New Years Resolutions online. So, here they are:

To be loyal to what I love, be true to the earth, to fight my enemies with passion and laughter.

To hammer my thoughts into unity, to begin to temper myself, to make my actions deliberate and worthwhile.

To be a better friend.

And finally to be asexual. History has shown that I am not mature enough to have any sort of relationship.

My Rationale:

The first resolution is from an Edward Abbey quote. I was reading through Confessions of a Barbarian as I was in Ciampino Airport after Rome, and since I had had nothing to do but go over my life for the past week, I thought about all of the shortfallings I have as a person. Many of them stemmed from my inability to recognize what I love and then to be willing to devote myself to it: friends, family, passions, books, hobbies, what have you. As for the earth, I want to be more of a natural person, to hike and canoe and walk and sing, and I realize that I need to establish a new philosophy in order to do so: I must help defend the earth, if that means turning off the lights or volunteering for conservation projects. National Geographic helps. As for fighting my enemies - too often I get angry and moody when dealing with things I don't like. I have to learn to laugh more in the face of hardship.

The tempering idea has been my resolution for the past few years. I suppose my interest in the Golden Dawn started it: the idea of the supranatural makes me itch with expectation and willingless to go forward. Also, something Mr. Goodman said three years ago - High school science is not for the learning, but for establishing a system with which to learn. A shaping of the mind. "Not the filling of a bucket but the lighting of a fire." So, I need to medidate more, to arrange my thougts, to not give into indolence or melancholy. As for deliberateness, that is one of the few things that separates me from others. I must work on it more. I am not a bumbling pile of accidents: I am a man, a deliberate thinker, every action forethought and decided. Or, I ought to be.

Friendship is pretty self-explanatory. I suck at being a friend, I am too selfish. I need to work on that. That goes the same way for females.

I hate going to the mall and I love it. This has become a sort of code-word between me and my close friends, meaning how much I despise seeing attractive females in my surroundings who I don't know and how much I love it. It is all very confusing, but I would like to try and elucidate it. But really there isn’t much to make clear: I see beautiful females, mostly my age, if not a few years older because I am young or think that I am, and I burn, to quote Catullus. I know that there are no social ways to interact with these females without using social networks. But these are slow and unsuccessful. However, were I to go up to a female and break the social conventions I would be branded as a weirdo, unless I am particularly witty, and even then some. The problem is that one must be completely normal and one must try and attract females through means that do not alert them to that fact: one must become friends first, one must go out to lunch and learn their names conventionally through friends also there, one must do this and that and that and that... But time is of the essence. I am no Jean Brodie in my prime, I am a young man getting older and older and I shan't stay in this state for long. Given, I am not yet reached my prime: but neither have the objects of my affection. So how am I to get them into my sphere? There is no way. I am trapped by my awkward social skills and my inability to throw caution to the wind, to trade knowing someone for being branded a freak. And I do not like being trapped. Which is why I hate going to the mall, per se, or even to go to my lectures: right now I am in English, and I cannot focus for want of the beautiful plethora of females I see in front of me.

But worse, I do not know what I would want once I have gained a female's affections! I was sitting next to an attractive female today in a previous class and I thought of how much I wanted her, but I did not know how my wants were to be expressed. Certainly not through sex, not through the full on male to female active passive action paction. No, I wanted to touch her, to subsume her, to take her in a way that is not possible on the physical spectrum of movements. Looking on her writing, I was struck by its simple beauty, it's aesthetically pleasing look: and I wanted it. Always this ownership. She is dating someone else but what of it? In my mind she ought t be mine, and ought always overrides reality in the hypothetical. But what on earth would I do with her handwriting? Not mimic, for sure: I like mine own well enough. Nor to put up on a glass cube on my mantle, as I had thought earlier of some girl’s countenance: to have, a picture on the wall, mine, but always separated! Always aloof, always there to touch but not there to mentally have. It is like cake, really, I cannot eat and have, the proverbial if you will.

I break down the female into component parts. I see her nose as a separate entity, her smile, her eyes, her freckled face, her hair and her fingers. I see them individually in motion, and I am repulsed. Not merely apathetic, but repulsed. What use is there in a meat wad? But in the combination, in the entity of the whole, in the entirety, she is beautiful and she is mine. So I imagine myself having all of her, drawing my fingers across her face, kissing her mouth and cheeks and eyelids and whatnot, and this is not enough. There is not an enough. For it is on the one hand merely hypothetical, and on the other hand temporal. To pass one's hand over another’s breast is to pass, to do and then to have done, to go from the fence on one side of the future into the fields on the other. And this temporality is most likely exactly what is so enticing. Knowing that I cannot have her, that I want her but I cannot be satisfied, that were her beauty the sea I could not drink enough: this fact is what makes my thirst grow. And it is painful to know.

Which brings up the idea of pleasure in pain. I grow more pleasure from imagining myself in pleasure than the pleasure itself. I had a dream, not too long ago, where I was lying in perfect peace on the stomach of a beautiful blonde. And that was all: there I was, laying there, happy, content, with no plans for the future and no regard for the past. But this cannot happen except in the sphere of the bound dream: in life, past and future exist. And this makes the desire for such a moment so much worse. When I see a girl walk into the lecture theatre who is beautiful, I throw my mind at her, I pretend for a moment that she is mine and that I am hers, that we are always thus, and then I realize the truth, and I withdraw, and that withdrawing is made all the more poignant for it's pain, and for my mental levity (every beautiful girl is to me the beautiful girl.) Pleasure is only gained with pain: I imagine, once I have actually accomplished the social interaction resulting in a female companion, that I will be then forcing her up against this standard, and the pain in the blatant separation from her in my mind will be painful, and because of this there will be moments where the gap will be less, and I will be more ecstatic for the realization of the shrinking of the gap. But how ironic is it that only through my failure to withdraw my standards will I find success in them.

And so the thought occurs: why bother trying? Why bother to attempt to bridge this gap between hypothetical and realistic, idealistic and the real. It is not, as aforethought, in order to make the gap less through my cynical lowering of standards. Nor is it ever to accomplish the idealistic. No, the attempts are merely to make the short fallings of the realistic more blatant, to enlarge the gap so as to make the pain more intense, and therefore the balm more healing. Every failure on a social or sexual level I make is more of a success towards the end goal of complete pain then a failure towards complete pleasure. But this would mean that I am sadomasochistic: but no, the point is not to enjoy the pain. It is to become enemies to it, to understand the closeness of it's front to the capital of my heart's country, to understand the pain coming from the gap in order that I might feel it less when the smallest of my desires is fulfilled, and feel it dissolved when the greater of my desires are brought to light. But it is painful. Necessarily so.

I hate going to the mall, walking on the sidewalks, going to lectures, leaving the warmth of my bed for this fact. I know that I shall see females, that I shall see those who might absolve me of my pain: and realize that they merely help engender it within me. My eyes are the catalyst of hypothetical cancer: and I cannot deny them their biting lust. I hate seeing females, and I am locked into the seeing of them: no matter how much I want the pain to dissolve, so much more does it increase, and I find myself powerless against it. I am not an unsatisfied teenage male: I am a decaying corpse, who must die with every glance and every touch and every interaction. Who must die, in order to possibly, perhaps, by chance, by the roll of the dice that love holds, be reborn. Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

I have finally done it. The other day, I was discussing my opinion of someone with Jack, and he said these three short words that clarified how I felt towards that person. From there, I thought about the similarities between all of my friends and I in high school. Just a few hours ago, I realized that I could make a novel involving my family and my friends, meshed together, and I sat down and discovered that they are mirrors of each other, mirrors of me, that everything clicks almost perfectly. Here is the graph I wrote up. I took everything to extremes in order to simplify it, but it is totally going to work. I am very excited to begin work on the book I've been meaning to write for 3 years now - my high school years, in essence.

Right click and the select view image. The stuff on the side clarifies the graph somewhat.

 

Or, http://amadeo.blog.com/repository/297678/1380414.jpg 

Someone requested that I give her this story, so I figured I might as well post it here. It's easier than figuring out the proxy and whatnot. Anyway, it is really old - I wrote it in my sophomore year in highschool, and I don't like it so much, but that's just me. It's called Spilt Coffee.

-------------------------------- 

He woke up, tired, sweating, soaked to the marrow. He got dressed, went upstairs, talked to the man next door. Got in his car, drove to school. Crashed along the way, but still arrived on time due to the tow truck and meeting Liz when he stood out in the snow, cold. Sat in Liz’s car, drank some black coffee; he had saved that at least from the wreck. Talked to Liz. She talked back. She turned towards him once, to say something, and crashed her car too. Two broke teens with two broken cars and a cup of coffee between them. Got picked up by Sky. Sat in the back seat. Spilled coffee. Drank the coffee. Spilled it on the rug. Drank that up, too. Spilled it on Liz’s lips. Drank that up also. Drunk it all up, until he and her were kissing on the car seat, drinking spilled coffee. A blanket was spread over him.

He woke up, tired, sweaty, soaked to the marrow. He went to school. Sat through Modern World. Saw Liz as he was walking out. Spilled his coffee. Blanket in the back seat. Principles office. Attempted sexual harassment, apparently. He didn’t mind. He still had his coffee. Saw Liz walking by the window of glass. Walked out of it, kissed Liz. Drank coffee. A blanket was spread over him.

He woke up, tired, sweaty, soaked to the marrow. Drunk coffee. Drove to school, left school. Went to Starbucks. Drank coffee. Sat on a blanketed couch. Saw Liz. Spilled the coffee, but he drank it anyway. Saw a fleshy bone. Then blackness. His eye hurt. Must have spilled his coffee. And been tangled in the blanket. And been arrested. Didn’t matter. Spilled coffee was still Pepsi.

He woke up, tired, sweaty, soaked to the marrow. He went to school, came back, went to Starbucks. Saw Sky. Spilled coffee. Asked if life was real. Yeah, that was Sky for you. If life is fake, what is real? Where’s my coffee. Oh. I spilled it. Spilt coffee, Sky. It’s soiled now. Where’s Liz? On vacation in Maine. Then where am I? You’re here, in Starbucks. Drinking coffee under a blanket under the Stars. Is life real? I don’t know, Sky. Seems awfully dreamish to me. Did you kiss Liz yesterday? Not me, you. No, not me either. At least, not in dreams. Not in reality. Spilt coffee only comes in dreams.

Journal: July – Late October, 2006

 

--- = End of thought   ~ = new page in the same thought

 

In defense of the Occult: -There is only greatness in hidden things, those unexplained, to be delved - to force action. Passivity is indolence.

 

-------------------------

 

I have, during my highschool yuears, been tossed and turned on my emotions and actions. This has wrought near ruin. I must learn to be active in all pursuits. To be the man. To become what should, not what is.

 

-------------------------

 

I can only change in youth, before personality is stiffened.

 

-------------------------

 

The bourgeois church-goer is a heretic of convenience. Worship and learning ought not be found in man-made monstrocities, but in the divinely inspired. There is a beautiful stream that moves not far from this church, but none here know of it, or wish to see it. No, air-conditioning, roofs, shelter from wind, rain and curse are preffered.

~

I hope my parents understand that I am sacrificing my dignity for their enjoyment.

 

What peace does man ever feel after going to church? What peace after going for a walk, on the beach or in the hills? Blind, idiot - men.

 

-------------------------

 

Ideals, aspirations, are products of conditioning. Therefore, they cannot be used as proof through their objects - only the fact that we yearn can be of theological use. But this is wrong: who says that we yearn for God, unconditioned? No, we yearn for return. We yearn for the grave. ~ The drug addict is closer to the road of return than the idealist - even if more temporarily damaging. But moments are meaning, not reprecussions. If eternity exists, if the past is uncertain, if the future unknown: Now shows our worth. The now, perpetual, alone.

 

-------------------------

 

What honour is there in the half-muttered singing of the damnable? Christians are such egotists! Personal praise, man to God, is dross. Only man-to-man worship, through actions, not passive thought regurgitated, is of worth to Christian theology.

 

-------------------------

 

Hamelt is an example of perfect writing without consideration for thought: the displacement of themes and cliches.

 

-------------------------

 

Another conundrum: the christian prayer for peace, when salvation and growth reside in turmoil.

 

-------------------------

 

hips like almonds, "lips like cut figs"

 

-------------------------

 

"The church has faults because it is made up of humans." If the divinely inspired bulk of Christianity can't pull themselves together for the glory of God, then thet are no longer divine and their souls and loves are indeed human, and therefore, mortal.

 

-------------------------

 

Idea for a book: The story of Sergei Krikalyev, the USSR spaceman in space when the country fell apart. He landed in Kazakhastan, without a country. It would require a lot of study, true.

 

-------------------------

 

Fact: I can never respect or admire my mother again. Someone who gives up trying, when bound to continue, (marriage, religion, family) someone who is two-faced and completely hypocritical, and a wife who openly admires a lesser man far above her husband - This is detestable, unforgiveable, and I refuse to be proud of such a mother, obey, or respect her. ~ Situation: This morning, I was awoken early to drive my mother to the shop. I told her again and again to hurry, but at 11:30 she finally arrived in the garage. I did not have time to get to work on time, so I took to my bike and rode to work. She screamed, "I am furious with you, and there will be serious punishment." ~ I am selfish. I am not, however, rash, nor am I prone to excessive anger or aggresion. I cannot sit by, however, and let such a person rule me. I am master of myself. I shall not give up my leasure to temporarily satisfy an ungrateful monster. ~ She cannot treat the family like shit and not expect reciprocation. She can't justfully be anger or exact revenge ("punishment") for actions not taken on her behalf: Granted, she says she does a lot for the family, but it is not mandatory to return the favor. No need to get ticked about it: smile & move on.

 

-------------------------

 

Two attractive teenage girls just waved at me. This may be a first. Way to go, new shirt.

 

-------------------------

 

Idea for a book: a travelogue to all of the World's countries.

 

Idea for a one-act: 2, 3, at a table. Glasses of water.

 

-------------------------

 

Thursday, August 31st, 2006. It hit me last night what I am in for. My life. As I knew it. Is gone. (with drawing)

 

-------------------------

 

(drawing) The lines we draw

                        encapsulate our lives

                                    like ripples surrounding

            a drop of water

                        growing, moving

                                    with their own life.

 

-------------------------

 

"In the fire of images, gladly I put my hand." - George McCay Brown

 

"Populo enim ius est ut imperium cui velat deferat." - George Buccanen

 

-------------------------

 

Sir Walter Scott - "Unspoken, unwept, unsung" - what am I to make of that? An attack on my vitality.

 

-------------------------

 

Often at pubs, parties, what not, I feel the need to start a novel about the night. I don't. Needed to say that.

 

-------------------------

 

It's time to lock the door soon -- 24 hours, a week. Writing, without end. O------------------------>

 

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Catullus:

 

LXXXV Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

VIII Miser catulle, desinas ineptire, et quod vidas perisse perditum ducas. Fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles... vale, puella. Iam catullus obdurat... Quem basiabis? Cui labella mordebis? At tu, Catulle, destinatus obdura.

XIVa (fragment) Si qui forte mearum ineptiarum / lectores eritis manusque vestras / non horrebitis admovere nobis. "O reader, if there be any of you who will read my nonsense and not shrink from touching me with your hands."

LIa Otium, Catulle, tibi molestumst: Otio exaltas nimium que gestis. Otium et reges prius et beatas perdidit urbes. "Idleness, Catullus, does you harm, you riot in your idleness and wanton too much. Idleness ere now has ruined both kings and wealthy cities."

LXXII Nunc te congovi: quare etsi impensius uror, multo mi tamen es vilior et levior.