Birdies

it was an unusually pleasant monday

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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.