At night,

she wouldn't just feed her fears, she would spoil them rotten. Any fantastic character that lingered after the story was told, any optical illusion in her peripheral vision, anything that went "bump" or "tap" or "squeak", any concept at all that destabilized her ability to feel safe, were all welcome to come together and embrace the futility of weighing oneself against the universe.

She would lie awake with a light on or a candle lit, or both, and refine her lack of significance in The Bigger Picture. There are countless ways to die. There are countless easy ways to die. Cross the street or slip on the stairs. Ingest the wrong poison. And then you're gone, leaving behind your very own, personal ripples of impact on a few beings and places and things before having whole lot of questionable nothing to deal with. Is that what wore the faces of demons and monsters and ghouls, leering at her from anywhere that was just out of sight? Is that what shaped those restless hours of her elevated heartbeat and city-born tinnitus masking any potential audial proof, of the reluctance to remove her blanket even when it was stifling, the half-dark shaping some undefinable object into a face that was not quite there, and not quite human? That great big Nothing in the never-ending story of life and death, coming to swallow everything. Gnawing away on the remaining time. Tick fucking tock.

She was glad, though, of having this reminder of the urgency of respecting existence and giving it all of the love she could possibly hold. Her fear held the hand of an undying desire to be that would not, could not fail to bring a sleep-deprived smile to her face. A tribute to a worthy cause. Right, so.. This is it. Here we are.                                    .

playlists

I posed for a picture on Saturday with a blackboard in my hands that claimed I would buy no milk in the year 2017. I do not yet know if I plan to follow through, but Laura Bužinska had just left after putting the responsibility of complying to the shiny-looking girl who was probably in charge of the pictures in that particular corner. Milk is bad for you, though, right?
Kaņepes Kultūras Centrs had organized an event in the spirit of Buy Nothing Day, which, depending on where you live, either coincides with or comes right after Black Friday. I later found out that the event (which included people waiting in line for the sewing machine to proceed with their buckwheat pillows and bringing broken devices to the little table where Fricis and Mārtiņš Celotājs both sat, happily tinkering away) is actually organized every two months or so, or whenever they get around to it. Which is pretty cool. KKC has seemingly been a solid supporter of responsible citizen stuff. Even if no one was enforcing the "buy nothing" thing, since that would have been bad for business.
The Minimalism movie, the grand finale of the whole ordeal, left a lasting impression on me, not so much on Terēze, my companion for the day. My mother has been claiming for years that one day, she'll get rid of all the excess shit and never worry about it again, so it's not like the concept is unfamiliar to me, but I did find myself wandering a Tiger shop soon afterwards simply to look at every vaguely humorous product and trying to gauge how unnecessary it was. Looks like I'm on a slippery slope to becoming a jaded ex-collector haunted by clean living and nostalgic memory, fuck me.

artist unknown

Once you've gotten your head out of the sound of shattering glass, things really aren't that bad. January was a month of tears, weaknesses and literal puppy love.

Jackson C. Frank - Milk and Honey

Lieki.

Kā tu domā, vai viņa juta riebumu pret manu pieskārienu, kad padevos un pabužināju plecu caur sarkano džemperi? Vai viņa ir apbruņojusies pret to tukšumu, kas visus inficēs caur smaidiem, smiekliem un apskāvieniem?

Man atliek vienīgi cerēt, ka apmaiņa bija pāragra, nevis bezcerīga.

Es zinu, ka es nemāku šos cilvēkus, šīs brīnumskaistās būtnes, kas ēd, dzer un elpo ciešanas. Nemāku pateikt, nemāku uztvert, nemāku palīdzēt, kā es vispār uzdrīkstos mēģināt

Neskatoties uz šo koeksistenci, vakars silts.
Paldies par ballīti, Mārtiņ. ♥

hate the dischord

It makes me feel alien. Most of my larger fuck-ups seem to be doing something that upsets principles pointing at things I don't see. I'm not sure how unique I am in deeming what I think of someone much more closely tied to the person themselves instead of the gestures they make, yet here I find myself on my ass, again.

I'm not claiming innocence through ignorance - there are plenty of selfish, petty, cruel actions I can sign my name under. I have been greedy, thoughtless, hypocritical, stupid.
And in the end, on top of all that, I fucking dare to love you all all the same, regardless of how harsh the words have been, regardless of how much we've hurt each other.

Another experience that isn't new to me is finding myself trying to prove to someone that I care. People seem to be mostly in two camps when it comes to this - there are those who say I think way too much of the well-being of others, and those who seem convinced I am incapable of giving a single fuck about them.
She's taken things a step further, claiming that I gather people around me for exploitation, for entertainment. Claiming that my voiced or demonstrated emotions are false, empty. That my only hope of regaining her respect is to admit that I couldn't care less.

And of course I can't help but wonder if she's right, to harbor lingering little doubts about everything I hold dear. But all I know is how I feel. I believe in these things mulling around in my chest, what else am I supposed to do? I've got my pretty little philosophies, I made these pretty little philosophies, it took a lot of hard fucking work to get here, alright? They're not non-editable, but some structures do, indeed, seem to have remained constant for enough time to make me dare to lean on them. I haven't the foggiest idea how make them comprehensible to those I have to prove myself to.

It does sound like a load of b-s.

Dark Dark Dark - "Daydreaming"

ardievu, tumbiņas

Terēze ir ciemos un guļ māsas gultā. Viņa teica, ka es, te, lejā, pie datora un mūzikas, viņai galīgi netraucēšu. Ceru, ka viņa man nemeloja/nepārvērtēja savu miega ciešumu.
Mjā, Kaspars beidzot ir paprasījis atpakaļ savas tumbiņas. Ticu, ka šī būs viena no pēdējām reizēm, kad šeit sēdēšu, čakarējoties ar skaļumu, lai atrastu to punktu, kurā melodija nav par skaļu, bet arī pārāk bieži neizzūd. Vispār jāpaspēlējas, kamēr vēl iespēja pastāv.

Apdāvināšu sevi ar pašas krutajām tumbiņām tad, kad es nejutīšos tāpat tik apdāvināta: Vakardien no rīta es pamodos no tā, ka māte pie gultas noliek paku, kurā bija ar nokavēšanos atnākušais Codex Seraphinianus. Arta man pirms pāris stundām iemeta linku, kura attēlā bija redzami kārtējā mazā testa rezultāti - esmu tas cilvēks, kas viņu šogad iedvesmos. Visbiedzot gribu arī pieminēt to, ko kopīgiem spēkiem izvilkām no laimītes dirsas:

"Lai sajustu to, cik brīvs esi, tev vajag darīt to, kas aizliegts."

Tas teikums dod ārkārtīgi patīkamu spēka ilūziju. Pati laimīte izskatās pēc krātera, un no viņas daži gabaliņi jau ir atdalījušies. Ja to apgriež otrādi, atsit jūras zemo slāņu radījumu. Apakšā (?) ir ieliekusies pirmā pilīte - vienīgais šķietami konkrētais veidojuma aspekts.

Es (šeit) tā arī nepieminēju, ka cepure tika atrasta arī otrreiz,
kad to no azotes izvilka nevis Robis, bet Tapiņš.

Kāpēc jātic savām pārliecībām ar tādu degsmi? Pēc mēneša ticēsi pretējam, (Diān; Terēz). Protams, ka ar degsmi tādu pašu. Varbūt šo svārstību dēļ esmu tik neizlēmīga. Un es nezinu, vai labāk ir ļauties pārliecībām un, attiecīgi, vilšanām, vai mēģināt noturēt savu sudīgo līdzsvaru uz tā sasodītā naža asmens. Jā, zinu, ķip chill, ja vien pie tā piedomā, but it's not all that easy to go with the flow when it seems more like the rapids. Kā arī - ziema.

Meh, suddenly I'm a fucking poet in a softer world of substance-induced forgetfulness.
Es neesmu tik dusmīga, cik te izklausos. Blogā patīkami lamāties.
Uzdrīkstos, jo noteikti vēl kādā brīdī sarakstu papildināšu.

Ar šallēm apmainīties ir tikpat banāli,

cik jaku bilde
un netīšie sirsniņsveķi, bet

tā pagaidām vēl smaržo pēc tevis.

lucidity is definitely an illusion

So, yeah, I am being well and properly "disillusioned" - as if some higher being decided to give some misconceptions of mine a thorough thrashing. The last paragraph of this was based on an existing situation that turned out nothing like I had hoped it would (miscommunication is hilarious), and then took a couple of steep turns after that, meaning the third-to-last paragraph is also based on convictions being cruelly challenged.

Maybe more of this later. I need sleep. Time dragged by when I was sick and is making up for that by why the f*ck is it two thirty in the increasingly snowy morning

atpakaļ

Francijas karodziņš-zobbakstāmais, kuru atradu Diānas džemperī, kuru man aizdeva pīpauzēm uz balkona paģiru dienā pēc tā Aptiekas vakara.

Under Byen

Salūžšana uz trepēm Mežaparkā ar ironijas piegaršu un kaķi klēpī.

"Jeg Er Din Mand"

Nakts, kad mākoņi ātri virzījās, "pašķiroties", lai ieskautu mēnesi, un radot viņai tādu kā iluzionāru fonu.

live, 2004

Visskaistākās dziesmas.