Where Would You Start Your Autobiography?

I was a kid. Didn’t feel like one. Never felt like one.

I don’t really remember the details. Those days are a vague memory of a movie I didn’t enjoy, but was compelled to watch.

Something broke inside of me that day. Irrevocably. That much I do remember. I still hear the sound. I remember the shock. I remember that day as the day when I started to be what I am.

I’m probably wrong, because you come to be from a series of experiences, not just one defining moment. There’s no fixed dramatic structure in life.

That day, looking at the faces of my friends, on a sunny summer day, something ended, someone came to life.

Opened up my heart to the people I thought were closest to me; people I thought felt the same. Ended up being laughed at and ridiculed.

It kills. It maims. It scars.

A Phonological Mistake

Leaving is a feeling that overwhelms me at times. It’s so abstract. I don’t want to leave anyone. There is no place I wish to leave behind in a cloud of dust. It’s just a word that pops up into my head and takes me over; a word I don’t know what to do with. The probability that what I want to leave is myself is what freaks me out the most. Because, that’s something I cannot leave.

I don’t dream about distant beaches or snowy hilltops of some non-European country. I just feel like leaving. Maybe it’s a phonological mistake. Maybe I feel like living. Whatever that might be.

Wrinkles, Grimaces and Books

The kind of book I’m looking for is the One that’ll cause an involuntary upward movement of the corners of my mouth. The One that will force me to hold back a full-blown grin – mid-conversation, during a meeting or on some form of public transport. This book freezes my face in a grimace that makes me look deeply unsatisfied, maybe even a little constipated.

When I grow old(er) I hope the deepest and most visible lines on my face will be the ones which have already broken the skin just above the corner of my mouth.

The Wind

It always starts with the wind. 

With the rustle of the leaves, the silent anger of Mother Nature.

The noise seems to die off. Things become clearer, more focused, as the silence brought on by the howling encompasses the world.

I have nothing. No characters, no plot. Just a strange sense of calm, before an inevitable storm. I can feel the thunder in the air. Even before it strikes, I can feel its rumble, I can see the sudden flash of light. Something awakens, some strange inspiration.

Deep in the dark of the night, broken by flashes of violence, lurks something new. The air is electric and I can feel life in its primordial form; wild and untamed, complex and beyond comprehension.

The need to explain is not present, because the cold caress of wind against my skin, the blinding light of the storm brings about understanding which defies explanation and nullifies all but pure existence.


A calm washes over me and a new life begins to form. Words and worlds appear, waiting to be crushed under the trivialities of reality.

Who’ll ask the dark its name?

I’ve been reading Earthsea for a while now, and I must say I was a bit surprised by the maleness of it. Male strength, male power, male everything. I don’t mind, don’t get me wrong, but Ursula has always had a strong penchant for questioning that power.

He’s a bit from Tehanu.

“A man’s in his skin, see, like a nut in its shell. It’s hard and strong, that shell, and it’s all full of him. Full of grand man-meat, men-self. And that’s all. That’s all there is. It’s all him and nothing else inside. “

“And a woman then?”

“Oh, well, dearie, a woman’s a different thing entirely. Who knows where a woman begins and ends? Listen, mistress, I have roots, I have roots deeper than this island. Deeper that the sea, older than the raising of the lands, I go back into the dark.”

“I go back into the dark! Before the moon I was. No one knows, no one knows, no one can say what I am, what a woman is, a woman of power, a woman’s power, deeper that the roots of trees, deeper than the roots of island, older than the Making, older than the moon. Who dares ask question of the dark? Who’ll ask the dark its name?”


Naughty Blogger

I’ve been a bad, bad blogger. Unfortunately, at no point during the time I spent as a naughty blogger did I look like the missus from the cover pic of this post. Darn!

What have I been up to? Livin’ la vida loca? Not really. I’ve read no books, I’ve seen no movies worhty of a blog post. I’ve been watching Smallville. Again. I love that show. Talk about your guilty pleasure there. Tom Welling is so freakin gorgeous. I still can’t believe Henry Cavill is Superman (actually he only thinks he is).

Forgive me for I am tired.

As you might have noticed, this is a perfunctory post. It’s on AM and I’ve just decided that I’ve done enough work for today. Might as well have some fun typing about how I don’t have any fun? But, lo! I actually did have lots of fun lately. Hosted a party (it was good as far as I can remember), been at a party, went to the theatre, and all that in just one month. If that strikes you as not very fun, bear in mind I’ve been pulling these all-nighters (work-related) for some time.

The truth is, I love to work. Especially when I’m faced with something challenging, like crazy deadlines and new challenges. I’ve worked like crazy the last month or two (or more, I dunno) and I don’t think I’ve ever bitched less about the amount of workload I’m faced with. Because it awesome workload. I get to do new stuff, learn new stuff, test my boundaries and learn how to do it better the next time around.

It’s party time in nicollville.
Well, would you look at that! I ended up writing a post about work which can be categorized as guilty pleasure. Go figure!

This being somewhat random, here’s another gif of Tom Welling.

He so cute!

Obsessed Much?

I want to write about Obsession. No, I am not talking about the perfume. It’s the name of my iTunes playlist. At first it was creatively titled Most Played, but soon it became obvious it’s a result of my monomaniacal (yes, I’m rereading Moby Dick) replay of selected songs.

I know no one cares, but I do, and this is my blog, so I’m going to write that I have a total of 680 songs in my iTunes library and on my iPhone.  Certain entries like White Rabbit, High Hopes, Ghost Song and Soldier of Fortune are there because I cannot imagine leaving the house without them. Others, those on my Obsession playlist, are there for abuse.

Normally, the most played song on my Most Played list changes every few weeks, But as of xyz months, after I added the latest Arctic Monkeys album and Just Drive (Sky F1 intro) got dethroned, I was forced to rename the playlist because a single day does not go by without me listening to Do I Wanna Know


Let’s be clear. I love Led Zeppelin, Judas Priest, Black Sabbath, The Doors, Jimi Hendrix… you know, the dead ones and the almost-dead ones. So when I stumble upon something new I tend to abuse it until I get sick  of it. Do I Wanna Know seems to lack the capacity to induce sickness. I guess it’s because I’m a sucker for stories and every time I listen to it I feel there’s a story in there, a good one. It’s the reason why Pink Floyd is my favourite band in the world (using words such as encumbered is another reason).

When I discovered I liked the entire AM album, I shared it with most of my friends, discovering that even my Slipknot-listening mates love that shit. Go figure.

Well, you probably thought I was going somewhere with this. Not really, no.

Not With a Bang But a Whimper.

And there I was, thinking I was doing this big thing. Baring my soul. Giving a piece of my heart. Sharing. Doing that shit you normally read about in books. Expecting a catharsis. Literature teaches us that communication and development of narrative lead to conflict resolution, forging deeper bonds.
I did not expect something big.

A smidge of revelation. A touch of liberation. A hint of catharsis.

A murder of crows.
A quiver of cobras.
A parliament of owls.
A squabble of seagulls.
A shrewdness of apes.
A mischief of mice.


Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion

A whimper.

(More randomness on http://users.tinyonline.co.uk/gswithenbank/collnoun.htm)

Shi(f)t Happens

Shit happens. I’ve learnt not to discriminate against shit happening, because at least you can tell. You can smell it, you can see it, and generally there is a viable and/or visible reason behind the happening of the shit. Even if you do not know the reason, you probably know someone who can explain why exactly shit has happened.

What I hate is when shit doesn’t happen. When there’s just this slight shift in the fabric of universe, so slight you cannot even be sure it has occurred. There’s no physical evidence, no justification upon which you can claim the shift has happened. You just feel there’s something different in your gut.

I don’t know how to communicate or seek explanations without decent justification and reasonable amount of physical evidence. It would be great if that was due to my penchant for rational approach to life. However, it’s more due to my fear of being considered insane. Going into childhood trauma which brought about this particular personality trait is not something I’m prepared to venture into. I’m just slightly despondent.

All I can do is write a post (in English, to additionally distance myself from the issue) and tag it personal to ensure the least possible number of people read it.


Yes, I have really matured, haven’t I?

RANDOM A/N: I know that “slightly despondent” sounds like an oxymoron, but it’s how I actually feel these days.

Etymology oxymoron: 
1650s, from Greek oxymoron, noun use of neuter of oxymoros (adj.) “pointedly foolish,” from oxys “sharp” moros “stupid”. Rhetorical figure by which contradictory terms are conjoined so as to give point to the statement or expression; the word itself is an illustration of the thing. Now often used loosely to mean “contradiction in terms.”

Basically the word oxymoron is an oxymoron.

Etymology despondence: 
1670s, from Latin despondere “to give up, lose, lose heart, resign, to promise in marriage” (especially in phrase animam despondere, literally “give up one’s soul”), from the sense of a promise to give something away, from de- “away” + spondere “to promise”. A condition more severe than despair.


We’re All Mad Here

And my eyeballs roll this terrible terrain; And we’re all inside a decomposing train.

I walk the same distance every day. The weather changes. Sometimes the sun filters through the branches. Other times you can see your reflection in the dirty puddles clinging stubbornly to the side of the road. Often enough, you have an opportunity to swear at cars spraying the contents of said puddles all over you. The distance might be the same, but the circumstances change, surroundings shift. That chubby girl you see everyday changes her hair. Just the other day her curls were suddenly straight. Not a good look on her. Adds ten pounds. Makes her look fat instead of appealingly round.

The weird watcher relentlessly surveys the street, day after day. One day he’s a reliable pillar you can count on, a familiar bearded face which makes you feel closer to the world. Other days you notice he’s been wearing the same shirt for several days and his face belongs to someone slightly crazed, not all there. You take precious time to cross the street as to avoid his presence in the personal space reserved for people with clean shirts, not wearing flip-flops and socks on a rainy day. As days shift and moods turn, you pass him and you smile. Reason has no place on the walking distance.

The woman in black is at the tram station. The same woman from ten years ago, when I lived halfway across the town. It disturbs me. Her constant presence in my life. I feel the need to say hi, talk to her. Ask her was that her back there, back then. Has she recently moved? Why do we keep sharing tram stations during these ten years of seemingly unrelated existence?

The chubby girl with (usually) curly hair is surprisingly punctual. Without even noticing, I start measuring time according to the particular segment of the street I see her. If we meet near the weird watcher, I know I’m on time. If I meet her near the enormous cherry tree which sprouted an awkward branch, then I know I can slow down. If I see her curls bouncing on the pedestrian crossing, then I know I need to hurry if I want to get to work on time.

We share this one street, my weird nameless friends and I. And I want to ask the weird watcher what on earth he is doing. I want to see if he is “cuckoo” or is he conducting an extensive sociological research, and if so, what is his method? I want to know why the woman in black never seems happy.  Happiness would look good on her pale face with small features and dark eyes. I want to say to the chubby blonde she looks much better with her curls bouncing merrily around her face, making her seem buoyant and proud.

Instead, I keep quiet and I keep walking the distance.