Love

It's all you want, in the end.
It's all I want.

To be loved. Be be able to love.

It's saddening to realise too late that you've been giving your all to one person, pushing everything else away, because at that moment, nothing else really mattered. It's saddening to see them grow distant, care less and eventually stop caring.
People change, and the things you believed in get taken away from you, and then you're left empty, lonely, and helpless. So you hurt for a while. And it's more real than anyone else will let you believe, because no one can really help you. You may despair. You may spends endless, sleepless nights remembering an exquisitely gentle caress, a truly heartfelt kiss or a long-lost smile. You may not remember the last day you didn't cry, because it's so fucking hard to believe that something so good, days so happy could turn into.. This.
Still, later, you realise that no one can really help you, except yourself. That doesn't make things easier. But you'd be forsaking yourself if you didn't at least try.

Your world spins. It gets darker.
You will have to go through hell to find the light again.
Just try to trust me when I say it's there.

i've been going through

..through the past, and I'm actually liking the present
but gosh, all the things
man, I didn't realise how much GOOD I had before, I was better
I didn't know how different things could be
bitterness is so cold..

DISTRACTION

Update: what if the past catches up with me?

homecoming

 So, after about half a year of turmoil, I will be moving back into the Mežaparks house. With my arrival, I will be bringing with me a flurry of renovating, designing, personalising, sorting, and a lot of other things. I hope that giving the house a new energy will contribute to the hope of us not having to sell.










Also, stockings. I need stockings.
*looks distractedly off into the distance*

want

(Birdy - "Wings")

adventure.
beautiful, beautiful people on an adventure

nothing nothing

(Everything Everything - "Cough Cough")

The ISP

They walk among us, in great numbers. They are us.
The Incredibly Sad People.
The ISP.

"He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others--the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of his at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad."
 - Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated

This same guy also said "You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness." There are the ISP who are like the man from the story, who lie to themselves for the sake of illusion of the past. There are also those who lie to themselves for the sake of illusion of the future. They know they are sad, they admit it freely, at least part of the time, they will feel it all for the sake of the glimmers of happiness they may capture throughout the day. Brief, but serene, especially on the background of everyday sorrow. It might be better, this way, as they may learn this way. It might be better someday.

I don't think realisations exist.

In my mind, they almost don't count. I think this because I can disprove my convictions as soon as I come up with them. What I'm left with is an incredible amount of self-doubt, and eventually, loathing. Being unusually gullible probably doesn't help with establishing concrete facts, either.
Now I know what happens when I try too hard, what happens when I give in to fears and desperation. I, hah, get so goddamn needy. Once I've given up on trying to deal with myself I seek help, simultaneously seeking independence and self-assurance, creating such a mess that no one in their right mind would want to deal with that, but yet, I continue, because I don't know what else to do, and because the self-destructive part of myself is keen at proving that I'm no good for anybody.
Which means that what previously I considered "manning up" and expressing myself, trying to get to the bottom of my emotions was pretty much doing the opposite of what I wanted to achieve. I have yielded some good results with the bad, thought. Doing yoga and making an attempt at stabilising these energetic things had been a useful experience, but, as it turns out, too much interference remains being an overload of something.
I was told that both getting drunk and having a cigarette shuts these things off.
It seems that people smoke, somewhere subconsciously having stored the knowledge that it is for their own peace of mind as well as for that of the rest of the general public. If you're off, you can't sabotage other people's work with themselves at that moment. It's a tolerance conspiracy. Which is funny, because it explains how inept people are at dealing with their own shit, really, gives a good reason for the state of the world.

Unrecognizeable

I used to have such a fascination for decay, but a great deal of that seems to have been lost in my frenzy of stress and apartments and having to keep things clean and organized.
It's sad, to see the bubbles fizz out of the lemonade. I do see what you mean, Kat.
Pain, pain, less gain than complete disaster - it's hard to tell if you should be grateful for the experience or furious about having become one of the countless broken beings. The word "broken" having a new meaning for me.
The music stopped, and left behind a buzzing silence, interspaced with occasional tapping, the closed door muffling the city outside.
Let's make lemonade again, world. Full of delightful bubbles. I suppose it would be more sophisticated lemonade, perhaps pink lemonade, a sort of a metaphor for joyful lacy intercourse.
Boots. Boots is a good start, I suppose.

Malaguena

a late night disruption, most welcome

titties and cream

I know now, for certain, that I have lost several different parts of myself, many of which I valued a whole fudging lot. But, like my hair, I think I had to lose them to appreciate them properly. It's going to take a lot of work to get my lost values back, and a lot of time to grow my hair back, but when I do, I'll know that I deserve them.

I have some significant additions to my personality, but I do feel that a couple of them (at least), are destructive. I've been shaken by life, but the essence of healing is always beautiful.
There is a haze I need to get into. Also out of. What



Lost and broken toys - tiny, desecrated envoys.

I had this dream as a kid, a recurring nightmare - there’s a line that I have to keep straight at all costs, but it always got jagged at one point, like the line of a heartbeat. Then someone would scream “I’m the king of the world!!", like some grand, yet terrible finale, and that’s pretty much it. The worst thing is, all throughout the dream there was this feeling of suppressed anger. Not my anger, just terrible, terrible rage, like someone’s going to go apeshit any moment now. 

I’m not sure how many times I had this dream, but I’m pretty sure it was mostly in my childhood. But here’s the twist: that feeling of suppressed anger comes over me once in a while. Sometimes it lasts around 10 minutes, sometimes more than that. Sometimes I almost think I hear voices in my head, although that might be just in the recent episodes. 

Whenever that happens, whatever anyone says to me sounds angry, like they’re only barely, barely suppressing it, same goes for music, almost any sound, really. It’s mostly unprovoked, the only thing I’ve noticed that if I’m in front of the computer when it happens, staying there makes it worse, I have to get away from the screen for it to go away.

These “episodes" have happened a bit more often lately, and I’m just wondering what it means and what I can do about it. I’d appreciate any feedback anyone has to give. Thanks.

end of the rainbow

There is this thought I had about people wanting to commit suicide. See, YouTube is spotlighting a whole gay support thing, and Pixar Studios has contributed with an “It gets better" video. The gays of their community spilled their hearts out, and several of them shared their near suicidal experiences and suicidal thoughts they’d had in the past. One phrase that got me was “I would’ve missed so much." I think that that one phrase has something that fails to occur to so fucking many unhappy people out there. A decision to commit suicide happens in a certain stage of a person’s life (this stage differs for everyone, and some don’t have it, (just to avoid misunderstandings)). Logically, whatever stage of life we’re in, we still have something to learn. Any decision is made in some state of mind, and every mind changes incessantly. So no decision is absolute. One must remember that they are capable of change, and to quit now would be missing out on an unfathomable range of experiences, good and bad. And here I could end with the key phrase of the support campaign - “It gets better."

(I apologize for the punny title, but I honestly couldn’t help myself.)

two nights

..since I moved in on Alberta iela. Even this early, it's surprisingly easy to make it feel like home. Not as a reflection of what was home previously, but my own home. I had a breakfast of cereal and raspberry yoghurt, and this I bought myself, yesterday, on trip of many to come. A combination of adulthood chores and youthful excitement of tasting independency.
I haven't had the easiest time falling or remaining asleep. That should change, as I change the colours of the walls and the aura of my surroundings, and also as inner problems and wounds fade away. A place of starting anew, like it usually happens, only with a whole new way to do it.
I haven't been in my old room since I moved out, and I'm expecting the encounter to be rather saddening. It's a lovely room, it really is, and now I've left it sort of broken. Child-like drama, if you will. Storybook stuff, only all too real. I'll probably end up taking all my dolls here.
Since I'm up so high, all the things going on in the sky seem more relevant. It's raining, now. Right above me, it's very comforting.

this is amazing

(Metric - "Grow Up And Blow Away")

yes, Kat.
and battalions of salivating kittens sounds so nice I thought I'd put it here, too

more of me

http://amdusciane.tumblr.com

Inky clouds and pain

song to thank the stars, amber rubarth
daughter, youth
the ones that jerked tears from my eyes today
the ones that severed my control of the sphere-of-what-I-don't-want-to-believe-it-hurts

what a day

(Muse - "The Groove")

Something something

garned

Birdies

it was an unusually pleasant monday

Home

I miss my homeland. I do mean Sweden. Although by now I've become much more familiar with Latvia and her ways, there are some things from my childhood that just cannot be replaced. The language, even though I haven't forgotten it, hasn't really gotten any decent training with the exception of a book now and then, and visits from my dear relatives. And the personality of Sweden's culture is obviously nowhere to be truly found in any other country. I will want to return before long, so I suppose I'll have to make it work by visiting to and fro. Ma wee little 'eart breaks when I'm reminded of something from the early days, and other signs have been pointing towards reclaiming that part of myself. So I guess I'll just have to reintroduce Em to Em, and see what happens.

"..och det ska vara falukorv av allra bästa slag!
Ja, den ska vara himla god och flera meter lång, 
och föras sen till Bullerbyn med munter lek och sång."

the sunset was nice

(Eddie Vedder - "Society")

This damn thing

I was right about the new phase in life, only, man, did it go spinning off in a completely unnecessary direction. Guiltyguiltguilt hounding everyone. One painful situation coming to some absurd conclusion only to make way for something even more complicated.
New notebook, though, too. Songs. Apartments.


I've lost a friend.


Guess it's time to stride through the ruins of it all and do some heavy thinking.

Oh my

These past three weeks, my god. And the session. And everything. Big. Good and bad.

I found a new word - relationshit. It's not actually adequate, it's rather harsh, but it's a new word. Almost as good as catastrofuck. (Catastrophuck?)

Jessie, you are freaking awesome. And you made me remember that Latvia is also freaking awesome. 

I think this part of my life is a kick-starter for some new beginning. I'm in a bit of emotional pain, but that's okay. 

Witness this:

(Amanda Palmer - The Art Of Asking, TED)

so,

the EB concert at Depo went better than expected. Which is still not as good as I would've liked, but it does leave some hope for the future. I noticed some patterns I use when I sing, so I can try to diversify more now, and I got a comment from the sound guy to sing straight into the microphone, waving his hand at the vocalist of the band after us, who incidentally was screaming "My Heart Will Go On", which was followed by "Kur ir mana lidmašīna", which, in turn, was followed by "Sex on fire".  *cough* Ralfs Brieze was their guitarist, it turns out, who was much more uncomfortable to meet me than I was to meet him.
I met a lot of missed people, like the other Emma and Kurmis, and some unexpected ones - Pedro, Sāra, Diāna K., the R.1.ģ. Laura, even Rasa E. showed up at some point. Kate was there looking adorable, Axel was there to headbang, (Rudy attempting an amateur version of the same thing), Mārtiņš was there to grin awkwardly.

It's women's day.
It's also one of those days when the feeling of everyday life seems to change a bit more noticeably, whether it has to do with some inner acceptance or if it's a response to some new scent, I don't know, but it's very pleasant this time.
Gus is sick, but our mine & craft conversations have brought some more understanding between the both of us. Talking. Talking is good.
I'm also having these tiny crises about how I evaluate friendship and how much trust has to do with that, yeah, yeah, again, I know. Maybe I just don't meet people enough these days. Or possibly don't get drunk with people enough. Something of the sort.

this is me sometimes

Sure.

Of myself. I think. Hopefully, it's not just a fleeting certainty, like many others have proved themselves to be. But things seem to be promising. There are the courses, the attack of music, and the books piling themselves around me. :3

(The Cat Empire - "The Lost Song")

Stories may be forming themselves in my mind, and images itching to be formed on paper..
Eh. One returning problem is too many possibilities to choose from.
Anyway, the song is hardly appropriate.

I love a silly boy
Life,
With his mind you toy ~
This - nobody enjoys.
Yes, you may be coy
Just,
Be gentle with my boy.

Nightly fears

The situation is quite ridiculous, really, having come to the point where I lie in bed at 5am with the bedside light on, not daring to alternately close or open my eyes depending on which urban legend or fictional character my mind is entertaining.
Although I find comfort in the fact that I'm most certainly not alone with this problem, it just sort of underlines the incompetence of human nature.

I have relieved myself of most obligatory duties until the 9th of February, (the day on which I start massage courses, so I take it I'll have to be back on track), so that I may concentrate on my writing, my project, the better or worse parts of myself - whatever needs attention.
Hoping this will work as a boost of morale, not only because of the possible progress at the end of this "session", but also because I made a promise to myself. Whether that was a good or bad idea will be revealed as things take their course.

I have asked Rob and Gus to write rants about something, their reading of which I will later be able to film and montage into something deliberately acceptable. I shall contribute with my own rants/stories/fuck knows to this to add to the existing interviews, as well as asking more people to contribute. Maybe the boundaries of the project will finally take shape.

I hope the sob-fests will blow over soon. It would be a shame to accept failure as a part of me.
I do find it increasingly characteristic of myself to run my arguments in circles, coming to no comfortable conclusion. Oh, am I ever confused.

On a lighter note - the previously mentioned book, "The Hippopotamus" by Stephen Fry, I have found fabulously vulgar at first, and then things took a rather intricate path, making it into a curiously complicated combination. I was surprised at how much I found in common with the protagonist. Granted, only a few select trains of thought and perceptions of value, but it was amusing nonetheless.

Definition of comfort

As I read Stephen Fry's "The Hippopotamus", I continuosly ponder about how and why would what be considered an adequate inspiration, what quality of creativity that would unleash and how in the hell it should be evaluated. Again and again I find myself trying to see my nonexistent work through the eyes of people I have never met, people I don't understand, yet respect immensely. All of this having to do with the all-consuming phrase amour propre, the definition of which I Googled about an hour ago. Again and again these brilliant people take pleasure in crushing so many little buds through their characters, and yet they provide much needed nourishment for the actual buds/withered blooms that suck all this brilliance in. Everything I do is being done too late, so procrastination is both justified and the worst thing I could possibly do. The horrifying phenomenon of pleasing others is what drives this world through all of it's pathetic, money-raking circles, and also what comes as a kick-in-the-gut realisation as a worthy goal. Pleasing yourself, on the other hand, is an unforgiving act of egoism, and a vital element in aspiring to do something different, and then later - and element of seemingly endless and yet short-lived repetition.

[Looking at things too widely often does destroy the matter at hand, but trying to understand everything is by no means a sin. It provides a lot of misunderstanding, too.]

I cannot formulate my thoughts if I suspect I'm being watched of evaluated, even if not at the present moment - my torrents of pent-up words only find life by way of writing. I have a purpose, I know there are shiny little bits of good truths I have stumbled upon, but the only way to display them is to go through a big watering-down process, as well as intricate concentrating, and again, discipline, a concept to be feared and revered. A skill of combining "talents" must be put to use as soon as it is found or developed half-way, and well as a stressful rehearsal before unveiling it to the general public.

I love to learn, but I can only build a shell around me that protects me from less than half of the problems that I encounter. It's all too easy to convince myself of the darkest, lurking fears and failures. What follows is either a bumbling, emotional mess, or a numbness, followed by an attempt to deal with life as it is. I need help, but to mold myself into receiving what is offered to me takes just as much effort as defining what I need help with in the first place. Impossible choices and implications of priorities and sure to follow.

It's so easy to complain. To create something beautiful you must often douse it with a good amount of self-loathing, since that is apparently what people get off on these days.
And since everyone complains, you almost never get a chance to say something new, because it's simply an on-going topic that stabs you forever.
And even when you've finally done it, when you've created something you can pride yourself and others with, when you've succeeded in doing something "impressive", does it not cross your mind to question the point of the whole fucking thing? Is it actually beneficial to something worth making a fuss about? Should it be? If it isn't, is it a proud display of independent talent, or is it a show of mule-headedness?
Has your goal really been the creation all along, or has it turned into just fucking doing something, for fucks sake?

Chew on this, my pretties.

that was horrible.

Kat -

I really must thank you sincerely for lending me those books. Thank you in one of those ways you try to thank someone when you know that you couldn't possibly formulate it adequately. Again and again I finish one of the shorts thinking this one must have been the best I've ever read. And most of them are so goddamn inspiring. (This time it was "Stories" by Michael Moorcock within the "Stories") Writers tending to write about writing helps a lot, since one is rarely as thorough as when discussing one's own difficulties. I almost feel I've got an unfair advantage, but then I laugh at the idea.

Anyhow. Thank you.

in our very own 21st century

I had this rather intricate train of thought in the car ride on my way to Kauguri. About how we are all connected and something else that sounds very much like the usual enlightenment bullshit. But it struck me as very true, there was something to hold on to there. Now, of course, I can remember very little of it, but part of it was reflecting on this rather cruel article by David Wong: http://www.cracked.com/blog/6-harsh-truths-that-will-make-you-better-person/
At first it seems like he's showing us the very depressive corner of the whole picture, but then, it's just another one of those unfortunate truths that we all wish to ignore. At the end he practically turns it around and makes it the right kind of motivational.
Now, that deep thought of mine feeding of his train of thought, only it had a much more sentimental quality to it, I might have touched on subjects like telepathy and a combined conscience, so, Wong's article, but in warm and fuzzy light.
I'll ponder on this a bit more, may or may not return excited and with absurd ideas.

give me a motto

"Develop the mind of equilibrium. You will always be getting praise and blame, but do not let either affect the poise of the mind: follow the calmness, the absence of pride." - The Buddha

My days have become ones of reminding myself of what I knew through the words of wiser people.

*
Also - finally - I have put out the beginning of the project for the world to see.

ho hum

(Simon Amstell - Do Nothing (Napisy PL))

two thousand freaking thirteen

(Regina Spektor - "The Party")

This was my New Year song. On the trolley.

Kristiāne F.

There seems to be information thrown at you from everywhere about certain subjects in certain points of your life. At this time in mine, it's drugs. Heroin, mostly.
I'm reading "Mēs, Zoo Stacijas Bērni", which I had always thought was a children's adventure book until I picked it up at Lauriņa's New Year's gathering about 10 days ago. Rudy called me during my stay there and told me about a couple horrible educational videos he saw about drugs and their effects, dangers. And I just saw "Trainspotting" with Arvis.
Those kind of things. I don't particularly mind. Both the book and the movie are good. It's just another phenomenon that seems to occur and reoccur.

After cleaning and sorting again today, meeting Pandit briefly after 4 days of missing, and attending the first half of the first business choir rehearsal of the year, I feel good. I don't feel frantic do DO or on the wrong path anymore. Things will take their path, and this path will lead to where I need it to. It's all okay at the moment. I just hope it will be a long while before this stability goes away again.
(The change seemed to happen when I made a conscious choice to sit in this not that seat in the tram, but that's just another one of my mini-theories.)
Also, my period will fucking END, hopefully within the next 24 hours, and I will be spared blood and pain until next month. *inexplicably semi-content sigh*

Also, Monica. I've introduced her to Gus, but I've never really known what she's like, other than some vague concept of her being my sort of superior mentor. Someone I'd like to become. But, the stupidly happy truth is, I keep becoming her. Even though I have been pining for something as impressive as an alternate personality, it doesn't seem necessary to make her more real than she is.

Also, the title of the previous post was referring to me finally cutting my hair short.
Everyone seems to like it, which is a pleasant surprise. Even if I do look younger.