It's funny how once I decide to truly commit to something, everything happens at once and delays the process. I've lost track by now of how many projects I've started and abandoned over the years. But there are a few, who never really leave my mind; projects that I connect especially with, and though months pass by without anything being done, they are always in my mind. One of those is the project I'm recently using as my kind of 'relaxation' project: the text game I'm developing during April's Camp Nanowrimo. It goes under the project name, "Of Angels & Men". Most of the material is from previous Nanowrimo novels, that I've already written tons about on this blog (the concept being to write a novel in 30 days). Writing a novel in such a short time has its benefits, like forcing you to forget your inner editor, and coming up with vast amounts of material for later editing and polishing. But it has its downfalls too - like losing track of the main story, writing various passages that have no purpose or are written poorly. The process I'm focusing on now right now is finetuning some of that old material into a new and modernized format - the text game.
For anyone who hasn't already tried it, the narration tool Twine is a true gem for experimental writers. It doesn't matter if you're an author or a game developer, if you know how to write text and move around blocks of it, you can make a narrative with Twine. Some people have made advanced narratives like RPG's, yet others have made their first attempts at creating interactive narratives. As for me, I find the tool convenient for the modernization of my old texts that I have in mind. The result of my work will hopefully be a text-based game told in 2nd person (a terrible choice for someone who's never done it before, I've found), allowing for player choices and at the same time including more traditional passages.
To help with my process, I decided to do two things at once when pursuing this project (surprised? I'm not. Even when I tell myself to keep it simple my ambitions overshadow my performance) and joined Camp Nanowrimo for the first draft of the massive text material I will need to compile. For the first few days I did well and wrote ahead of my schedule, but then the everyday life got the better of me. I kind of crashed, hit the wall, call it what you will. It has been tearing on my mind to be unemployed and the uncertainty about whether I will ever have a future has made it difficult to find my muse. I'm hoping throwing this blog post together will help me get started again after a week or so of no writing. It can be hard to get back into the game. I've deserted too many stories not to know this. But there is a key point to writing during a Nanowrimo event, such as Camp Nano - you write, even if you fall behind; you push on, so that on the last allotted day of writing you can look back and be amazed. I remember what it felt like when I finished those novels that I'm now trying to cleanse and refine - I want to go there again, experience what it's like to pull something off. Something of a greater scope than just the short stories I usually entertain myself with.
So, without further ado, I'll throw myself back in the game, no matter what it takes - I am not waiting another year to join another Camp Nano, even if I don't have any time limit on my game project. This will take time, blood, sweat and tears - and it will be beautiful.
That is the nature of writing.
Yours truly,
POET IN THE JAR OF METAPHORICAL INK
Tuesday, April 15
Wednesday, April 2
Tangible, And Terrifying
They're back again, you know. The nightmares. They had been oh so beautifully rare for such a long time; I had almost forgotten how lengthy, intricate and absolutely terrifying they can be. It's not that I dream of monsters, although I do - I suppose they are the brain's metaphor for things we're worrying about - it's that these dreams are so REAL. So tangible, like I could touch them. Sometimes I dream something that's perfectly safe, and maybe it isn't technically a nightmare; but it becomes one as I try to reason with myself in the dream. I've tried lucid dreaming and the techniques for achieving that, it doesn't work. The only time I consciously managed to effect what I see and experience on a deep sleep level of dreaming was when I was sick and tired of being chased by spiders in my dreams (one of those metaphorical monsters...). I repeatedly told myself while awake that if a spider showed up in my dreams again I would automatically be able to materialize a weapon and blast it to pieces. That worked for a while and I can still somehow get my hands on weapons in my dreams by using this "rule", but I guess I was never persistent enough in any of the other changes I tried to make to my dreams. Either way, does it matter? There's just no way that I could make up enough rules to cover it all, anyway.
The problem, the nightmare feel, as I said, doesn't come with the fact that I dream of unimaginable evils. It comes when I try to reason with myself and it's not linked with lucid dreaming. It comes when everything in the dream, that seems so incredibly real to me - so real that I accept it as real without ever questioning it, no matter how wacky it gets - is too bizarre to be possible. When that happens, I can hear my brain tinkering with the unsolvable logic of it. I can feel it. When that happens, I reason thus. Since the dream events instinctively feel real and I can not question any of it while I'm dreaming, I have to assume the next logic step. That I am insane. I am bat-shit crazy, wack in the head, I am lightyears from normality. The realization that I am insane becomes bizarre in itself, the whole dream world shivers, as if it felt me caving in under it and is about to seek me out to deal the final blow. The dream, the world, the whole universe is out to annihilate me, masking it in surrealism so I won't see it coming. THAT'S when the dream ceases to be a dream and becomes a nightmare.
And if you set this whole reasoning aside, I'm left with the fact that when I recall the dream, it IS bizarre, or deceivingly simple. It's often a long and intricate series of separated events that have nothing to do with one another. I rarely dream that I'm being me. I rarely dream something that can be summed up in a single sentence. In my dreams, I've been a man, a woman, a mother, a father, I've been children, I've been inanimate objects. Once I had a terrifying nightmare that had me waking up bathing in sweat and shivers. The dream? I was a chunk of meat lying in a blazing frying pan, looking up at a giant chef cooking me, and I was boiling.
You might attribute it to the fact that I have a very vivid imagination, but in that case, where does this imagination come from? Why does it take the form of nightmares? Why does it make the nightmares take the form that they do?
You might attribute it to the fact that when you're in a life crisis or pondering something in particular, your mind needs to sort it out while you sleep, but in that case, what is the crisis? What is it that I'm not willing to think about when I'm awake? I have met with much suffering in my days, but I attribute them all, I see them as pieces of the puzzle that is my self-awareness. I acknowledge them all, and even the things I don't write or talk about, I think over in my head. So what is it? What's the missing piece?
You might attribute it to current or recent events, my feeling of a doomed Earth and constant notions of being a failure of a person; but in that case, how do you explain that they started as I was a kid? How do you explain that my mom, after hearing me recount my dreams, wanted to force me to go to a shrink?
Is that the answer? Either something happened in my childhood that I didn't process - and believe me, I have heard all the tales, and I have processed all there is to process - or I am simply insane? Just see a shrink and I'll be fine? The dreams will stop?
I believe the nightmares are a sign from my mind that I'm miserable. But what does that help, really? I'm taking every step that I can to become somewhat happy again, I know this is a work in progress, and I know I'll manage somehow, eventually - so why do I need reminders from the dormant parts of my brain, when I already ponder all of this while I'm awake?
Do people in general have these periods of nightmares, and periods when they have calmer dreams? Do they have times in their lives when they do not dream at all? I can't remember the last time I had a dreamless night. It doesn't happen. Even if I forget the dream as I'm waking up I can always remember the fragments. My dreams have such an impact on me that I remember dreams I had as a child. When I dream I sometimes revisit known places. It's like my dream world is a complicated network of places and people that are seemingly unconnected or the events are impossible, but when I'm in the dream I know that they are meant to exist like this. When I'm in the dream I believe it all and don't question anything. It's as if my dream world was a videogame, a created universe where nothing is unthinkable, a universe that has its own made up world laws, rather than the workings of the real world.
I'm tired of dreaming. You could say the dreams are a muse. That they inspire me to write or create or think. I'm sure they do, to some extent, but there are many dreams I'd rather have done without. Why let me dream of a boy who fell naked down a drain pipe and is forced to live there forever, naked and alone? So I can paint it, and then feel terrible and grieve for him whenever I see the painting? That happened a few years back. The painting is in my room the very moment I'm writing this. Thanks, dreams. What the hell was the purpose of that specific creative outburst?
I could spend the rest of the week recounting dreams and still never finish. I might tell you everything I've ever dreamed and achieve nothing but giving you nightmares, too. There's really no use in passing on every graphic detail. If that's what you want, if you want me to point to examples, because when I say "crazy and very real" it doesn't tell you anything specific; go ahead and read about that time I dreamt about a city made of quilts (click here!).
I guess I've got a lot of sleepless nights to look forward to. Cheers,
POET IN THE JAR OF DREAMS
The problem, the nightmare feel, as I said, doesn't come with the fact that I dream of unimaginable evils. It comes when I try to reason with myself and it's not linked with lucid dreaming. It comes when everything in the dream, that seems so incredibly real to me - so real that I accept it as real without ever questioning it, no matter how wacky it gets - is too bizarre to be possible. When that happens, I can hear my brain tinkering with the unsolvable logic of it. I can feel it. When that happens, I reason thus. Since the dream events instinctively feel real and I can not question any of it while I'm dreaming, I have to assume the next logic step. That I am insane. I am bat-shit crazy, wack in the head, I am lightyears from normality. The realization that I am insane becomes bizarre in itself, the whole dream world shivers, as if it felt me caving in under it and is about to seek me out to deal the final blow. The dream, the world, the whole universe is out to annihilate me, masking it in surrealism so I won't see it coming. THAT'S when the dream ceases to be a dream and becomes a nightmare.
And if you set this whole reasoning aside, I'm left with the fact that when I recall the dream, it IS bizarre, or deceivingly simple. It's often a long and intricate series of separated events that have nothing to do with one another. I rarely dream that I'm being me. I rarely dream something that can be summed up in a single sentence. In my dreams, I've been a man, a woman, a mother, a father, I've been children, I've been inanimate objects. Once I had a terrifying nightmare that had me waking up bathing in sweat and shivers. The dream? I was a chunk of meat lying in a blazing frying pan, looking up at a giant chef cooking me, and I was boiling.
You might attribute it to the fact that I have a very vivid imagination, but in that case, where does this imagination come from? Why does it take the form of nightmares? Why does it make the nightmares take the form that they do?
You might attribute it to the fact that when you're in a life crisis or pondering something in particular, your mind needs to sort it out while you sleep, but in that case, what is the crisis? What is it that I'm not willing to think about when I'm awake? I have met with much suffering in my days, but I attribute them all, I see them as pieces of the puzzle that is my self-awareness. I acknowledge them all, and even the things I don't write or talk about, I think over in my head. So what is it? What's the missing piece?
You might attribute it to current or recent events, my feeling of a doomed Earth and constant notions of being a failure of a person; but in that case, how do you explain that they started as I was a kid? How do you explain that my mom, after hearing me recount my dreams, wanted to force me to go to a shrink?
Is that the answer? Either something happened in my childhood that I didn't process - and believe me, I have heard all the tales, and I have processed all there is to process - or I am simply insane? Just see a shrink and I'll be fine? The dreams will stop?
I believe the nightmares are a sign from my mind that I'm miserable. But what does that help, really? I'm taking every step that I can to become somewhat happy again, I know this is a work in progress, and I know I'll manage somehow, eventually - so why do I need reminders from the dormant parts of my brain, when I already ponder all of this while I'm awake?
Do people in general have these periods of nightmares, and periods when they have calmer dreams? Do they have times in their lives when they do not dream at all? I can't remember the last time I had a dreamless night. It doesn't happen. Even if I forget the dream as I'm waking up I can always remember the fragments. My dreams have such an impact on me that I remember dreams I had as a child. When I dream I sometimes revisit known places. It's like my dream world is a complicated network of places and people that are seemingly unconnected or the events are impossible, but when I'm in the dream I know that they are meant to exist like this. When I'm in the dream I believe it all and don't question anything. It's as if my dream world was a videogame, a created universe where nothing is unthinkable, a universe that has its own made up world laws, rather than the workings of the real world.
I'm tired of dreaming. You could say the dreams are a muse. That they inspire me to write or create or think. I'm sure they do, to some extent, but there are many dreams I'd rather have done without. Why let me dream of a boy who fell naked down a drain pipe and is forced to live there forever, naked and alone? So I can paint it, and then feel terrible and grieve for him whenever I see the painting? That happened a few years back. The painting is in my room the very moment I'm writing this. Thanks, dreams. What the hell was the purpose of that specific creative outburst?
I could spend the rest of the week recounting dreams and still never finish. I might tell you everything I've ever dreamed and achieve nothing but giving you nightmares, too. There's really no use in passing on every graphic detail. If that's what you want, if you want me to point to examples, because when I say "crazy and very real" it doesn't tell you anything specific; go ahead and read about that time I dreamt about a city made of quilts (click here!).
I guess I've got a lot of sleepless nights to look forward to. Cheers,
POET IN THE JAR OF DREAMS
Tuesday, April 1
Errands, Camp Nanowrimo & Narratives
Well, today was unusually productive. Managed to do a ton of errands. Made some calls, paid some bills, got some paperwork out of the way. Applied for a job. Finally handed in that late book to the library. Mailed some letters, threw out some trash. Topped it off with a couple of hours of browsing for good tutorials and figuring out some scaling standards in Blender. I recently rejoined a project that I've been away from due to all the things I've been writing about earlier and this time I feel like I am actually up for the task. The scope of the project scared me off a little last time, and as soon as I ran into problems in Blender I just gave up. Then everything just crashed down around me in my personal life and it just got worse. It feels good to be back on a project again.
Somewhere in between all these things I had time for a Skype meeting and a coffee at a friend's house. He proposed something interesting - that we spend an hour a day learning something/studying something. At first he wanted it to be maths but I wasn't too thrilled about that, so we compromised and said one hour of studies of your own choosing. I'm gonna let my Blender studies cover that one hour for today, and probably tomorrow as well.
Anyway, joining Camp Nanowrimo for the second time and hoping to achieve something this time around. I have the lowest word count goal and will be working with converting old novels into a text game, for which I'm also making all the code and assets, so the scope of words is mostly for show. I just want some support and motivation from the fellow cabin people to get any writing done at all. I will probably join some writing prompts during the next few days even though what I'll jot down will most likely be drafts and notes. Who cares? I gotta have some kind of main script anyway. It seems bulky to write it all in Twine directly (an amazing tool, by the way; I'm going to blog about it later).
So yeah, now for some writing and gaming to top this Tuesday off. I'm a little sad that nothing ever seems to change for me, for us, so I've decided to start making changes to my life. Blogging regularly again is one of those things. Cross your fingers for me.
POET IN THE JAR
Somewhere in between all these things I had time for a Skype meeting and a coffee at a friend's house. He proposed something interesting - that we spend an hour a day learning something/studying something. At first he wanted it to be maths but I wasn't too thrilled about that, so we compromised and said one hour of studies of your own choosing. I'm gonna let my Blender studies cover that one hour for today, and probably tomorrow as well.
Anyway, joining Camp Nanowrimo for the second time and hoping to achieve something this time around. I have the lowest word count goal and will be working with converting old novels into a text game, for which I'm also making all the code and assets, so the scope of words is mostly for show. I just want some support and motivation from the fellow cabin people to get any writing done at all. I will probably join some writing prompts during the next few days even though what I'll jot down will most likely be drafts and notes. Who cares? I gotta have some kind of main script anyway. It seems bulky to write it all in Twine directly (an amazing tool, by the way; I'm going to blog about it later).
So yeah, now for some writing and gaming to top this Tuesday off. I'm a little sad that nothing ever seems to change for me, for us, so I've decided to start making changes to my life. Blogging regularly again is one of those things. Cross your fingers for me.
POET IN THE JAR
Tuesday, March 25
Disorder In The Cosmos
I wish everything didn't have to be about money. There are so many places I still wanna go, there's so many people I haven't met. I don't think people are meant to be unemployed. For every day that passes I feel more recluse and shut myself in my room so I won't have to talk to people. Friends come over and go again but I still feel lonely, lonely, lonely. I have the best partner anyone could ever ask for; so I'm not sure why I'm experiencing this heartbreak. I feel scared and alone and I long to go home. I miss the mountains and the rivers and the forest where I ran around on adventures as a child. I miss it so much sometimes, it feels like my heart is bleeding. I'm going there in a few weeks but it won't be the same. I'll miss my Loved One a little too much for my own liking. A lot of the time I forget that he is younger than me, he's so mature and reasonable, I love him for that. But sometimes I just feel like I'm growing old while he isn't, as if the distance of time between us is an untrespassable gap that will lead to our demise. My thoughts of doom and the ending of the world are increasing lately. I think about dying and what ways would be the worst or the best. I think about what'll happen when the universe collapses, when none of us will still be here. I think that I can't handle thinking of all these things, but if there's one thing I hold on to even while going through a creative stalemate, it's thinking about the mysteries of life. The universe and the cosmos is one of those, right? One of those mysteries that you can conceptually understand, but when actually imagining it happening... that's when your mind really runs free and roams wild, out of your control. Isn't that so?
It feels typical of me to begin thinking about the cosmos with a mention of money. But hey, money makes the world go round. And that's the main part I hate about it.
I really miss having my own place, my own apartment, where I can have everything in my way and where I can be safe and alone, or invite people as I wish and nobody would have any say about it. I miss being an independent spirit. I don't know how much longer I can take living the way we do, we just don't have the privacy needed to lead a serious and adult life. My time with Loved One feels as though it's borrowed, and as if I had stolen it. It can't be allowed to exist in a more permanent form, or I would be struck out of the deal, and all of our time just taken away. It's possible that it's surreal to think this way, but come on. We're all going to die eventually, my problem is just that I can't seem to stop obsessing over when and how. I'm terrified of dying. Probably because I don't believe in being reborn or there being an afterlife. It makes it feel as though I have to really LIVE every moment that I have the chance to and really spend it while I can. But still day after day passes and I've never been more passive. All I want to do is submerge myself in games or films and I don't want to have to be subjected to the real world. I want to work, but I've given up on finding any job. Even if I got something I would be too angsty to enjoy it and I would end up screwing it for myself much as I have done at every job, I've ever had. This is saddening, and I feel like a complete failure. It's not as easy as it used to be to just snap out of it and force myself to do this or that. Nowadays when I'm sad I'm mind-numbing sad. When I'm restless I am so restless I can't sit down or be still for a second. When I'm angry, I throw things and yell. I'm so unbalanced. People think they know me, people think they know what signs to look for in someone depressed. When I let my feelings take over this fully, then know, I'm deep down, and deeply troubled. But no one seems to bother. Since there are no particular outer factors to point out, I must be fine, right? Those people must never have struggled with their inner worlds.
Why can't I just get help? Was I so wrong to ask for it?
POET IN THE JAR
Sunday, March 16
Unanswered Call
The world couldn't be responding any slower. Even when you wave your arms around and shout from the top of your lungs, screaming "Help me!"; they don't seem to hear or care. That's how it works in this country. I recently read an article saying that while there is a drastic increase in mental illnesses in young people, the availability of psychological care decreases. A few weeks ago I went to my doctor to try and determine whether I might be diagnosed with ADHD (essentially a hyperactivity and concentration problems diagnosis). The doctor seemed less educated than me on the matter, and kept asking me about family and home relations as if he was going to diagnose me with a wreck of a past (not a diagnosis last time I checked). He was right to conclude I need further evaluation though. He told me their therapist was an expert on cognitive problems and that I should be pre evaluated by her before moving on. The problem is, this was weeks ago and I still didn't get an appointment. This despite calling them and leaving a message twice. The therapist is apparently on sick leave for an undefined amount of time. So why couldn't they send me on to the hospital instead? I'm supposed to wait until this person gets back to work? These evaluations take long as it is without this so called, unfortunate delay. I need help today. Hell, yesterday. Hell, years ago! Now that I am finally making myself ask for help I feel like I am being ignored completely.
Did I mention that people with ADHD are particularly prone to depression?
In Sweden, we like to brag about our welfare and we pay 30 percent of our salary each month so that we can access free health care. The truth is that many health care institutions are run like businesses, aiming for a high profit while the remaining live off tax money and suffer constant cutbacks. The truth is despite paying taxes we still have to pay for our medical care, our doctor's appointments and our medications. I can't find it in me to blame the doctors and nurses when the problem lies in the system as a whole. I know they don't have enough staff or money, and risk their mental health working long hours for no appreciation. Health care should be without fees. It should be a fundamental human right. In another life, perhaps.
With a diagnosis I could explain my whole life. I could pinpoint why I act and react the ways I do. I could let other people know what to think about when they're around me. It would simplify everything. It would explain to the world why I was always perceived as different, and why I always felt that way. It would be a tool for me if I could get help drawing strength from it. If I wasn't knocked down by it. I feel like I'm currently being hindered from functioning. I always thought this was just the way I was. That someone made up what was normal and that maybe I was the normal one while everyone else had it wrong. A bizarre deduction, almost. There is a difference between adjusting to norms in society and adjusting to a completely haywire chemical balance in your body that makes your life an endless emotional roller coaster, always swinging back and forth between hyperactive restlessness and mind-numbing apathy. Perhaps my notion of normality could be applied to my school years. But it doesn't explain my childhood or my inability to function as an adult. I owe my family an explanation for my behavior, I owe it to them to let them know why they could never quite get me.
People have this notion that they know what ADHD is all about. When I told my friends I was seeking help for it, a lot of them didn't believe me or take me seriously. They seemed to think I had read about it online and then imagined I had the same symptoms. What people normally associate with ADHD is the characteristic of being hyped up and "all over the place". Although this is true there are different types of ADHD, and you can be diagnosed without even showing a sign of physical hyperactivity. The diagnosis can also include subtler restlessness, like always fiddling with things, having racing thoughts and getting bored quickly. The idea that I would just apply a diagnosis on myself because I went online is almost laughable considering how many different diseases I've looked up without applying them (many of these moments caused by forementioned boredom). No, this goes back further; this is something coming from my heart and intuition; only recently backed up by the general research and talks with afflicted friends. It seems strange that I could always intuitively understand and relate to other people with the diagnosis. Or is it?
It's time to get to the bottom of this, and I'm not willing to wait for the system to work this one out for me. I've waited long enough.
I've waited my whole life.
POET IN THE FRUSTRATED JAR
Wednesday, March 12
Hands In The Water
I watch from my island, made of stone.
Pillar-like, it rises from a raging sea.
The waves are silent, but monstrous in proportion,
in their ancient war, beneath of me.
I'm seated on a withered, powerless throne.
Once meaningful as a core defense.
But it lost its magic eons ago,
And left me alone with its lens.
I see hands in the water, I see shivering arms and skin.
I see faces of chaos, and their torture within.
I see beckoning eyes and jagged lies,
cloaked behind distorted grins.
They are lost now, and beyond me.
They haven't always been.
I'm chained to a tower, that splits the sky.
The remnant of a monument, a mighty cage.
I've been depleted, every last restortion
weakened by the untamed waves.
I see hands in the water, I see shivering arms and skin.
I see faces of chaos, and their torture within.
I see beckoning eyes and jagged lies,
cloaked behind distorted grins.
They are lost now, and beyond me.
They haven't always been.
Beast-like, they manifested, one after one,
until their creations could not be undone.
With claws and nails and teeth they spun,
until their world was an ocean.
And I, I see them scream and pray,
their silent pain, directed at me.
I, who see them struggle and fade,
I grieve for their decay.
You must understand, when the world began,
these beings were not beasts in agony.
They were ideas, inventions, and ideologies.
They were spoken words, impulses, promises, and pleas.
They were harmless, before they were spoken.
They were beautiful, before they were broken.
I see their hands in the water. I see their shivering arms, and skin.
Their faces of chaos, and torture, within.
They beckon to me, with jagged lies,
treacherous tales and thwarted grins.
They are all lost now, and beyond me.
I, perpetual guardian, carved in stone,
watch over them until they end.
I'm untouchable.
Invulnerable.
Alone.
I'm untouchable.
Invulnerable.
Alone.
Saturday, June 8
Failure
I am such a failure. Such a wreck. A real train wreck. I didn't pass school. I have no job, no income. I have no apartment, starting August. I have no car. And everyone I'm friends with keep letting me down, they just keep letting me down, I keep helping friends in need, they keep ignoring my problems, they keep not helping me back.
Sometimes it's not what you do, it's what you don't do.
I don't know what to fucking do, I just don't know what to do. I'm so blank and so torn. I'm so sad and so angry. I have no outlet.
I have no creativity.
I have no words.
I have no skills.
I have no talent.
I'm just pestering this Earth with the burden of my existence.
Everything just totally fucking sucks.
POET IN THE JAR
Sometimes it's not what you do, it's what you don't do.
I don't know what to fucking do, I just don't know what to do. I'm so blank and so torn. I'm so sad and so angry. I have no outlet.
I have no creativity.
I have no words.
I have no skills.
I have no talent.
I'm just pestering this Earth with the burden of my existence.
Everything just totally fucking sucks.
POET IN THE JAR
Thursday, May 23
Repairman
I was a castle, made of sand,
Made of millions of grains.
I stood guard, proud and tall,
Until I was washed away.
The grains spread out and separated,
My castle walls torn down.
The rooms that I had decorated,
Sent to sea to drown.
Then, planlessly I drifted,
Undesired and ungifted,
Until the ocean shifted,
And a single grain was found.
Then, you rebuilt my castle walls,
And brought me back from sea.
And you sought out to find them all,
The grains that once were me.
Now every time I feel despair,
When I remember washing away,
I know that I can be repaired,
And time can still be made.
So should your castle ever fall,
I'll fix up your broken walls,
And collect your scattered pieces all.
If I have to search the entire sea,
I'll do it for you,
Like you did it for me:
Unconditionally.
Friday, May 17
A Tiny Sketchbook
So I just wrote a poem. Or rather forced it out of me. I quite dislike it. It's just missing something, that I'm sure my old poems used to have when I was still feeling creative and ached to write. But then again, maybe that depends on how you look at it. Maybe I used to be able to write better poems because I didn't give a fuck about how it turned out. Instead of what I was doing now, weighing words against eachother, changing sentences, rearranging, staring at the page, wondering what it was that I wanted to say.
A couple of weeks ago I bought a sketchbook. A tiny one, the kind of pad that you can shove down your jeans pocket. I thought that if I started writing things down in it when they came to me I wouldn't have to spend so much time posting on Facebook and Twitter. That maybe if I wrote them down by hand they would have to mean something. That I might find my way back to the words that way. I don't know if it's been working yet. I've written a few things down in it in crazy spurts of racing thoughts, but when I look at it, well. It feels like it wants to be more than it is. I guess I should just let go of trying to make it anything else than what it is. And not beat myself up about not filling the pages with masterpieces of poems or profound thoughts and ideas (not to mention excellent drawings and yes, no less than excellent). I think I still have to get used to having a physical book to write things in. I still have to make myself used to the idea that whenever I think about something I should want to grab that little book and jot it down. It seems like I have no particular thoughts to jot down. No particular ideas. I feel rather strangely blank after everything's that's happened for these past couple of days. The good thing about writing in a physical sketchbook is that you don't have to share it with the world. Which means you can write down things that are really personal and private.
Things I couldn't even share here.
I wonder if all my obsessiveness with medias and with my own trainwreck of a mind is making me appear heartless. If maybe people don't really get how my mind works. When I worry sick about something, like now; I just rather preoccupy myself with anything I can think of rather than deal with it. Perhaps a sickness, but then, at least I'm aware of it. At least I could do something about it (if I ever felt like it). I wonder if other people also contemplate how their minds work or if they just sorta go with it.
Can I entitle myself a poet when I hate my own words?
Can I exist when I don't struggle to write?
POET IN THE JAR
A couple of weeks ago I bought a sketchbook. A tiny one, the kind of pad that you can shove down your jeans pocket. I thought that if I started writing things down in it when they came to me I wouldn't have to spend so much time posting on Facebook and Twitter. That maybe if I wrote them down by hand they would have to mean something. That I might find my way back to the words that way. I don't know if it's been working yet. I've written a few things down in it in crazy spurts of racing thoughts, but when I look at it, well. It feels like it wants to be more than it is. I guess I should just let go of trying to make it anything else than what it is. And not beat myself up about not filling the pages with masterpieces of poems or profound thoughts and ideas (not to mention excellent drawings and yes, no less than excellent). I think I still have to get used to having a physical book to write things in. I still have to make myself used to the idea that whenever I think about something I should want to grab that little book and jot it down. It seems like I have no particular thoughts to jot down. No particular ideas. I feel rather strangely blank after everything's that's happened for these past couple of days. The good thing about writing in a physical sketchbook is that you don't have to share it with the world. Which means you can write down things that are really personal and private.
Things I couldn't even share here.
I wonder if all my obsessiveness with medias and with my own trainwreck of a mind is making me appear heartless. If maybe people don't really get how my mind works. When I worry sick about something, like now; I just rather preoccupy myself with anything I can think of rather than deal with it. Perhaps a sickness, but then, at least I'm aware of it. At least I could do something about it (if I ever felt like it). I wonder if other people also contemplate how their minds work or if they just sorta go with it.
Can I entitle myself a poet when I hate my own words?
Can I exist when I don't struggle to write?
POET IN THE JAR
Where Do You Wander?
Where do you wander?
When every second feels like an hour
When every moment is eternal
When you're lost in thoughts,
Lost in contemplation
In concern
When you burn
Where do you wander?
When you've emptied yourself of everything
When you've looked for yourself everywhere
When you can't breathe,
Can't oppose desperation
When you're inconsolable
When you're uncontrollable
I wandered the world, observed it in words
I trusted my eyes, and the whispers I heard
I dismissed what I learned,
I spent what I earned,
I lost myself
Until you returned
Where did you wander?
Sunday, May 12
Incompetence
Seemingly, late night rants is what I'm capable of these days.
As usual I can't sleep and this time it's for... different reasons. I've hit this period of weird insomnia. I'm just not friends with sleeping, from time to time. I don't know. Or well, I do know. My head is just too busy THINKING, that I can't possibly focus on DOING, and making anything actually HAPPEN. Instead I stay awake over every piece of dread I can possibly collect from my own head and heart, and maybe if I ponder them just ENOUGH, it might not just keep me awake for the night; it might just keep me awake for the rest of the WEEK. And yes, this CAPS use is necessary to convey my point.
I don't even know why coming here soothes me. It's just what I do whenever I'm going through a... crisis, or what to call it. I don't know a lot of things, these days. Everything feels unplanned. The future should be shining brightly ahead of me. Instead it's like this massive, poet-eating void of non-knowing. I've lived my whole life with a plan. Even when I thought I didn't have a plan; I definitely had SOME kind of plan; this time, everything is out there, everything is open, everything is closed. Geez, I fucking worry about everything. If I was a friend of mine, instead of being me, I might slap myself in the face and tell me to get off my high horses and stop feeling so goddamn fucking sorry for myself. What can I say? I can't help it. It's my "weak and sensitive nature". No, seriously, I can't relax until I've just SOLVED everything. And if that's your current main goal in life, imagine not being able to solve ANYTHING. Imagine not being able to solve your unemployment; your fear of abandonment, your family issues, what to do with your pets. Not being able to solve school, not being able to solve your writer's block, not being able to solve your insomnia. Not being able to solve the fact that you're considered a bad friend. Not being able to solve your recent passive obsessiveness with TV series that you can't quite explain except that it gives you a temporary moment of RELIEF. Relief from the guilt you feel about your inability to solve your given situation. Relief from all the chores you put off and all the achievements you couldn't accomplish. I'm in the middle of some weird fucking age crisis, or something, bloody hell knows what it is. I feel weak. I feel exposed. I feel disliked. I feel unloved. I feel alone. I feel completely, utterly, fucking INCOMPETENT and POWERLESS.
I guess the only reason I feel soothed by spilling this out into a blank text box online is that the written word doesn't judge me. Doesn't call me cowardly. Doesn't mock me. If, you don't count the fact that I've been dying to write something more CREATIVE without it ever spilling into this blank, empty, text box online. Let's say we don't count that. Let's say those veins of creativity are still flowing and are going to just pop open when they're ready. Because I swear to no particular deity, if those veins don't pop open soon, I'm going to have to resign my calling as a self-appointed world observer a.k.a. verbal describer of personal, subjective emotion and thought.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. Yep, I'm watching LOST. I can't even write a bloody blog post without the comforting background sound of the TV, assuring me that there are voices in the room, presence in the room, that the room isn't empty, that it's not just me, it's not just my voices.
The sun's up. I've got to be in university in... 3 hours. We'll see if I've got it in me to wrestle my own arch nemesis, called Sleep.
POET IN THE CHIPPED GLASS JAR
As usual I can't sleep and this time it's for... different reasons. I've hit this period of weird insomnia. I'm just not friends with sleeping, from time to time. I don't know. Or well, I do know. My head is just too busy THINKING, that I can't possibly focus on DOING, and making anything actually HAPPEN. Instead I stay awake over every piece of dread I can possibly collect from my own head and heart, and maybe if I ponder them just ENOUGH, it might not just keep me awake for the night; it might just keep me awake for the rest of the WEEK. And yes, this CAPS use is necessary to convey my point.
I don't even know why coming here soothes me. It's just what I do whenever I'm going through a... crisis, or what to call it. I don't know a lot of things, these days. Everything feels unplanned. The future should be shining brightly ahead of me. Instead it's like this massive, poet-eating void of non-knowing. I've lived my whole life with a plan. Even when I thought I didn't have a plan; I definitely had SOME kind of plan; this time, everything is out there, everything is open, everything is closed. Geez, I fucking worry about everything. If I was a friend of mine, instead of being me, I might slap myself in the face and tell me to get off my high horses and stop feeling so goddamn fucking sorry for myself. What can I say? I can't help it. It's my "weak and sensitive nature". No, seriously, I can't relax until I've just SOLVED everything. And if that's your current main goal in life, imagine not being able to solve ANYTHING. Imagine not being able to solve your unemployment; your fear of abandonment, your family issues, what to do with your pets. Not being able to solve school, not being able to solve your writer's block, not being able to solve your insomnia. Not being able to solve the fact that you're considered a bad friend. Not being able to solve your recent passive obsessiveness with TV series that you can't quite explain except that it gives you a temporary moment of RELIEF. Relief from the guilt you feel about your inability to solve your given situation. Relief from all the chores you put off and all the achievements you couldn't accomplish. I'm in the middle of some weird fucking age crisis, or something, bloody hell knows what it is. I feel weak. I feel exposed. I feel disliked. I feel unloved. I feel alone. I feel completely, utterly, fucking INCOMPETENT and POWERLESS.
I guess the only reason I feel soothed by spilling this out into a blank text box online is that the written word doesn't judge me. Doesn't call me cowardly. Doesn't mock me. If, you don't count the fact that I've been dying to write something more CREATIVE without it ever spilling into this blank, empty, text box online. Let's say we don't count that. Let's say those veins of creativity are still flowing and are going to just pop open when they're ready. Because I swear to no particular deity, if those veins don't pop open soon, I'm going to have to resign my calling as a self-appointed world observer a.k.a. verbal describer of personal, subjective emotion and thought.
4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. Yep, I'm watching LOST. I can't even write a bloody blog post without the comforting background sound of the TV, assuring me that there are voices in the room, presence in the room, that the room isn't empty, that it's not just me, it's not just my voices.
The sun's up. I've got to be in university in... 3 hours. We'll see if I've got it in me to wrestle my own arch nemesis, called Sleep.
POET IN THE CHIPPED GLASS JAR
Tuesday, April 23
I Provided For Myself
Hell, I'm such a wreck. Can't sleep, can't sleep, can't sleep. Funny how stress can make you feel so catatonic. There's a hell of a lot of things I could spend my time doing that would be more productive than how I've spent the last week. Games. Comics. TV shows. They all seem more important than straightening out my own life. How is that? How did this happen? I want to get my old energy back. I wonder where it went.
I was going to do Camp Nano for April, hell, I was looking forward to it. Haven't written a single word and won't write one. I feel so frustrated when I can't write. I have so many ideas, but every time I try to put it in words it's like I've lost my magic. Lost my touch. Words just come out wrong, sound cliché, every line is tired old crap. It's become somewhat... achievement-focused, my writing, and when I feel I can't achieve, I am blank. Out of words. It's like that time I used to spend thinking has gone haywire and I'm instead filling it with fictional universes, fictional characters, delving deep into plots behind make-believe stories. I guess this would be a good thing, if I was actually using it for something; but it's become a replacement for writing. Don't get me wrong... not looking for sympathy or for writing tips. Heck, if I wanted writing tips I could just follow my own. Heck knows I've got a lot of them. Doesn't help. I've fallen into a black hole of creativity. When I want to do something, everything else that I have to do piles up on me, and kills that little joy of creating that once flourished.
I mean, I could do so many things, I don't even need to write. I could draw or animate, whatever. But I just don't DO any of these things. I just feel so emptied. And what bugs me the most is, that I feel like I'm wasting every minute of every day. I have no idea what the future looks like for me. I don't know what the NEAREST future looks like for me. I'm trying to decide whether or not to give up this apartment, and I have to decide before May. It's risky trying to keep it, seeing as I don't even know if I'll be able to provide for myself after I graduate. Everything... not just school... my future... my summer... my life... my family... everything, everything, weighs on me. Maybe I shouldn't trouble myself... but I do.
I've been up all night, my sense of day and night is so fucked up. When I couldn't sleep at like 5.30 because I kept crying; I decided I might as well stay up all morning. Fuck sleep. Who needs to sleep? I'll try to get as much done today as possible and hopefully I'll fall down into bed exhausted tonight. Hopefully. Today I still have to finish my laundry, work on my thesis, clean up the apartment, prepare and host a work session for my extracurricular group and spend a few hours doing that. I need to apply for a couple of jobs and make a couple calls. This is what I plan to do and still I know I won't do them all. I'm always avoiding some chore or task. I've had enough, I don't even feel like an adult the way I'm living my life right now. I feel especially guilty that I haven't been to the office for over a week. But what can you do, right? I had to wait for my grade, so there wasn't much I could do really; but I should still have gone. Without a place to be each day it feels like my life has just been slipping away. And still I'd love to do what I choose with my life. I just want to get a steady income, doesn't have to be much, from a job that I don't hate and that doesn't bore me to death. I just want to feel good about life and enjoy living it. I don't want to be entangled this way. I don't want to be this far away from people I love. I don't want to keep looking back at memories because they make me feel better than the present moment does. I don't want to become frozen every time I even think of straightening out my life.
Funny, huh. Straightening out my life. There are people who would say I've got everything going for me, you know. About to graduate, the whole future ahead. Some kind of talent for some kind of creativity somewhere deep, deep down inside. Able to talk to people. Able to make people listen. Steady boyfriend. All that jazz. They say I'll work things out because I'm ambitious, things will work out. But they won't. I don't mean to be a cynic. They just won't. Things have never just "worked out" for me, at any point, in my life; the times they have worked out it's been because I made them work out. I made it work. It wasn't divine in any way. No one provided for me. I provided for me. And that's where the shoe fits, isn't it. I'm tired of making things work out. I feel bad when my projects and plans fall through; even when I've known from the beginning it'd be impossible to do it all. I feel bad when I don't spend my time doing chores, studying, applying for jobs or working on my portfolio. Thing is school is occupying my mind like HELL. And at the same time I just can't focus on it. It seems so trivial. What does it matter if I get a diploma in my hand in June? It doesn't. It's not gonna get me a job. A portfolio is going to get me a job. It's not gonna pat me on the back saying, Hey, you did GOOD! And it's certainly not going to pay off three years of studying loans. People just don't get that you can be completely broken, under a polished, seemingly alright surface. Why is this? Why don't people get that they're not the only ones who are more complex than a box of cereal?
Oh, I don't know. It felt like the right thing to do to come here, and I've learned so, so much. I thought three years spent at a fun education would be better than five years at an education I hated. I thought that if I spent three years here and then still didn't get a job, I could take any job, I'd still have those three years to remember. This just didn't happen. Now I'm panicking because I can't sort out what's going to happen. I'm unable to look past even a day at a time. I'm going to lose my apartment. My independence. Stuff is going on with friends and family. I worry to BITS. I've told myself to focus on my thesis for now, but I can't even do THAT.
To top it off this may very well be the most disorganized post I've ever made here. I apologize, or rather, I don't. I'm shit tired and I've gotta stay up for the rest of the day too. Yay. Yay!
POET IN THE BREAKING JAR
I was going to do Camp Nano for April, hell, I was looking forward to it. Haven't written a single word and won't write one. I feel so frustrated when I can't write. I have so many ideas, but every time I try to put it in words it's like I've lost my magic. Lost my touch. Words just come out wrong, sound cliché, every line is tired old crap. It's become somewhat... achievement-focused, my writing, and when I feel I can't achieve, I am blank. Out of words. It's like that time I used to spend thinking has gone haywire and I'm instead filling it with fictional universes, fictional characters, delving deep into plots behind make-believe stories. I guess this would be a good thing, if I was actually using it for something; but it's become a replacement for writing. Don't get me wrong... not looking for sympathy or for writing tips. Heck, if I wanted writing tips I could just follow my own. Heck knows I've got a lot of them. Doesn't help. I've fallen into a black hole of creativity. When I want to do something, everything else that I have to do piles up on me, and kills that little joy of creating that once flourished.
I mean, I could do so many things, I don't even need to write. I could draw or animate, whatever. But I just don't DO any of these things. I just feel so emptied. And what bugs me the most is, that I feel like I'm wasting every minute of every day. I have no idea what the future looks like for me. I don't know what the NEAREST future looks like for me. I'm trying to decide whether or not to give up this apartment, and I have to decide before May. It's risky trying to keep it, seeing as I don't even know if I'll be able to provide for myself after I graduate. Everything... not just school... my future... my summer... my life... my family... everything, everything, weighs on me. Maybe I shouldn't trouble myself... but I do.
I've been up all night, my sense of day and night is so fucked up. When I couldn't sleep at like 5.30 because I kept crying; I decided I might as well stay up all morning. Fuck sleep. Who needs to sleep? I'll try to get as much done today as possible and hopefully I'll fall down into bed exhausted tonight. Hopefully. Today I still have to finish my laundry, work on my thesis, clean up the apartment, prepare and host a work session for my extracurricular group and spend a few hours doing that. I need to apply for a couple of jobs and make a couple calls. This is what I plan to do and still I know I won't do them all. I'm always avoiding some chore or task. I've had enough, I don't even feel like an adult the way I'm living my life right now. I feel especially guilty that I haven't been to the office for over a week. But what can you do, right? I had to wait for my grade, so there wasn't much I could do really; but I should still have gone. Without a place to be each day it feels like my life has just been slipping away. And still I'd love to do what I choose with my life. I just want to get a steady income, doesn't have to be much, from a job that I don't hate and that doesn't bore me to death. I just want to feel good about life and enjoy living it. I don't want to be entangled this way. I don't want to be this far away from people I love. I don't want to keep looking back at memories because they make me feel better than the present moment does. I don't want to become frozen every time I even think of straightening out my life.
Funny, huh. Straightening out my life. There are people who would say I've got everything going for me, you know. About to graduate, the whole future ahead. Some kind of talent for some kind of creativity somewhere deep, deep down inside. Able to talk to people. Able to make people listen. Steady boyfriend. All that jazz. They say I'll work things out because I'm ambitious, things will work out. But they won't. I don't mean to be a cynic. They just won't. Things have never just "worked out" for me, at any point, in my life; the times they have worked out it's been because I made them work out. I made it work. It wasn't divine in any way. No one provided for me. I provided for me. And that's where the shoe fits, isn't it. I'm tired of making things work out. I feel bad when my projects and plans fall through; even when I've known from the beginning it'd be impossible to do it all. I feel bad when I don't spend my time doing chores, studying, applying for jobs or working on my portfolio. Thing is school is occupying my mind like HELL. And at the same time I just can't focus on it. It seems so trivial. What does it matter if I get a diploma in my hand in June? It doesn't. It's not gonna get me a job. A portfolio is going to get me a job. It's not gonna pat me on the back saying, Hey, you did GOOD! And it's certainly not going to pay off three years of studying loans. People just don't get that you can be completely broken, under a polished, seemingly alright surface. Why is this? Why don't people get that they're not the only ones who are more complex than a box of cereal?
Oh, I don't know. It felt like the right thing to do to come here, and I've learned so, so much. I thought three years spent at a fun education would be better than five years at an education I hated. I thought that if I spent three years here and then still didn't get a job, I could take any job, I'd still have those three years to remember. This just didn't happen. Now I'm panicking because I can't sort out what's going to happen. I'm unable to look past even a day at a time. I'm going to lose my apartment. My independence. Stuff is going on with friends and family. I worry to BITS. I've told myself to focus on my thesis for now, but I can't even do THAT.
To top it off this may very well be the most disorganized post I've ever made here. I apologize, or rather, I don't. I'm shit tired and I've gotta stay up for the rest of the day too. Yay. Yay!
POET IN THE BREAKING JAR
Wednesday, April 3
Emotion Explosion!
I'm having one of the strangest surges of emotion in my life. I'm bursting with pride, with sadness, with frustration, a glimpse of hope, a pinch of anger, and with an overwhelming topping of happiness and self-confidence. I wonder if other people are like this sometimes, or if it's just me. Seems to me that if a normal person had all these emotions at once they would explode. And I also feel as if I might explode any second - but I'm trying to keep it back, because I don't know if this explosion would take the form of laughter or choking tears. Life stretches out ahead of me, and it beckons with its inviting fingers, beckons me to better times and greener fields; but the road is lined with fear, fear of death, fear of age, fear of worse times, and withered fields. The future is a treacherous term. It should be treated with care and respect. Instead it has been hailed to the skies. "The future" is always something positive, something we should work towards and want for ourselves; but what is it really? Seconds that tick by counting down to the day we leave our bodies and this existence; seconds that fly by the older you get, seconds that are grains in the hourglass of human life and not even worthy of mention in the greater perspective of the universe.
Recently I applied for an animator's position at a local, rather successful, game development studio. I passed the first round, and got asked to do a work sample. Passing the first round was an achievement for me, seeing as it proved somebody had seen potential in my showreel, even though the reel had older material and wasn't optimally or professionally presented. With full time in school, I spent as much time on the work sample as I could, yet I told myself I wouldn't put any more time into it than I felt that I could afford. A decision thereby followed by an all-nighter before the deadline, creating animations in as little as four hours per animation. When I handed in a quarter before the deadline and stumbled exhaustedly into bed, I didn't feel achieved. What I did feel was a hunch that handing in despite the quality of the material, didn't mean I had wasted my time. And it turns out I hadn't. I didn't get the position, but I didn't expect to. What I did get, and what I didn't expect; was a written feedback on what was good in my material, and what I could have improved. Somewhere among the lines there was one line that seemed to stand out to me. The line was something like this: "It's clear that you have a good sense for animation". And this is when this email becomes good news - despite the fact that I didn't pass the second round.
Here's why.
A simple "You didn't make it" would have been convenient for the studio, but useless to me. I would know I wasn't good enough for their standards, but I would have no idea of what to improve or what to learn. A written feedback proving they have evaluated my content is generous for the studio, and useful for me. Now I know what I need to work on, and which my strengths are. Hearing this outside of a study environment, is extremely educational for me.
So I'm quite relieved my work wasn't hated, proud that they gave me positive feedback among the negative, happy that I took the chance to hand in and learning something, frustrated that I didn't put more time and effort into the sample, and finally I'm hopeful, because I know that I'll eventually learn these things, and eventually work with what I dream of working with - when I'm ready, and when I'll be needed.
I bet you couldn't guess this simple email was what caused my introductory philosophical stanza about life and the universe, now could you?
POET IN THE JAR
Recently I applied for an animator's position at a local, rather successful, game development studio. I passed the first round, and got asked to do a work sample. Passing the first round was an achievement for me, seeing as it proved somebody had seen potential in my showreel, even though the reel had older material and wasn't optimally or professionally presented. With full time in school, I spent as much time on the work sample as I could, yet I told myself I wouldn't put any more time into it than I felt that I could afford. A decision thereby followed by an all-nighter before the deadline, creating animations in as little as four hours per animation. When I handed in a quarter before the deadline and stumbled exhaustedly into bed, I didn't feel achieved. What I did feel was a hunch that handing in despite the quality of the material, didn't mean I had wasted my time. And it turns out I hadn't. I didn't get the position, but I didn't expect to. What I did get, and what I didn't expect; was a written feedback on what was good in my material, and what I could have improved. Somewhere among the lines there was one line that seemed to stand out to me. The line was something like this: "It's clear that you have a good sense for animation". And this is when this email becomes good news - despite the fact that I didn't pass the second round.
Here's why.
A simple "You didn't make it" would have been convenient for the studio, but useless to me. I would know I wasn't good enough for their standards, but I would have no idea of what to improve or what to learn. A written feedback proving they have evaluated my content is generous for the studio, and useful for me. Now I know what I need to work on, and which my strengths are. Hearing this outside of a study environment, is extremely educational for me.
So I'm quite relieved my work wasn't hated, proud that they gave me positive feedback among the negative, happy that I took the chance to hand in and learning something, frustrated that I didn't put more time and effort into the sample, and finally I'm hopeful, because I know that I'll eventually learn these things, and eventually work with what I dream of working with - when I'm ready, and when I'll be needed.
I bet you couldn't guess this simple email was what caused my introductory philosophical stanza about life and the universe, now could you?
POET IN THE JAR
Saturday, March 9
Do I Write Because I'm A Wreck Or Am I A Wreck Because I Write?
What could be said that hasn't already been said? What could be done that hasn't already been done? Welcome inside my head, it's a pinball machine, it's a storm of chaos and rage. I can't stop to think or I'll break. I can't stop to feel or I'll break.
There's a million things I should be doing right this moment, rather than typing this. A million things all weighing on my heart together with questions asked, questions unanswered, questions with answers I never wanted. Everything blurs together, races, is limitless. It's like my head is a ticking time bomb and sooner or later it's going to explode.
I can't stop to think.
I can't stop to feel.
The only thing I feel like doing creatively is writing and yet I haven't touched any of the stories I've been dying to write. There's so many options as to what I could spend my time doing, so many areas in which I need improving, so many things to practice, so many things to learn. It's all too much, too heavy. It's fucking with my head. I don't know what to think anymore, don't know what to do.
Today I read a passage from Stephen King's masterpiece handbook of how to write fiction. It said remember your character's back story. It felt like a whole world opened up to me. It felt like I could see all the lives of the characters I've created, each life as jagged as mine, each life so unruly, spreading out in multiple branches. It felt like I could just reach out and touch their darkness. Touch my own darkness.
I recognize these feelings, recognize the dark well of potential they are opening. It's like I'm being revisited by my muse. The one that used to burn so bright. The one that spread throughout my mind as if it was cancer but instead seemed to grant me an unlimited supply of words.
This is what I do when that happens. This is where I turn. The only craft I ever felt like I was close to mastering. The only craft so subjective, so persuasive, so tempting. The only craft that was ever fully mine. That felt like the area where I belonged.
Writing is an addiction to me. I've abandoned it and returned to it more times than I could possibly account for. When I'm not writing, my fingers are itching, my mind is racing. I feel like a traitor for not maintaining the only thing in the world that ever made me feel like I was immortal. I fight writer's block. I fight my own hubris. Most of all I fight life. With the attitude I've seemingly been gaining lately - the idea that life sucks, and is always going to work against you.
Why is it that when the world seems the most pointless, the words appear; why is it so easy to fall into the fantasy of my own head when life doesn't play out like I expected? Can you call it a muse, can you call it a craft? Can you call it the downside of any creative work? Are all writers like me? Is everyone who appreciates the work of written words a self-doubting wreck? Or do I write, BECAUSE I'm a self-doubting wreck?
I think I turn to art when I feel lost in the world. When the way of things seem meaningless. When there are things going on out there that I don't understand. When the world saddens me. When I feel like I'm miles behind everyone else. When my life makes no sense.
I feel like I'm not in control of my own life. I feel like it's spinning ahead without my consent. Like I couldn't affect it even if I wanted to or if I tried. I have to rewrite parts of my report for my thesis in order to get a passing grade. My practical work is fun and teaches me so much, but what I create is hardly state of the art. I've defined to myself the kind of artist I would want to be, but how does that help, when I've realized there's no way I'll ever become that artist?
Good news pour in with the bad news. If I go into any detail about the bad news I'll break. I feel so confused, so split in half. I'm doing great at the same time as I'm doing terrible. I feel more and more distanced from the world at the same time as I feel more and more connected to it. I think this might just drive me crazy. The only way I know how to deal with it is this. Writing. Again. Maybe if I pour my racing thoughts onto paper they'll stop haunting me inside my head. Maybe if I leave the real world long enough to enter a fantasy world... things will stop sucking. Or at least provide me with some kind of concrete escape. Something more tangible, something more respected, something more valuable, than escaping into a game world for hours on end. I have to do something with my time. I have to create.
I have to create or I'm going to burst.
See you at Camp Nanowrimo.
POET IN THE JAR
There's a million things I should be doing right this moment, rather than typing this. A million things all weighing on my heart together with questions asked, questions unanswered, questions with answers I never wanted. Everything blurs together, races, is limitless. It's like my head is a ticking time bomb and sooner or later it's going to explode.
I can't stop to think.
I can't stop to feel.
The only thing I feel like doing creatively is writing and yet I haven't touched any of the stories I've been dying to write. There's so many options as to what I could spend my time doing, so many areas in which I need improving, so many things to practice, so many things to learn. It's all too much, too heavy. It's fucking with my head. I don't know what to think anymore, don't know what to do.
Today I read a passage from Stephen King's masterpiece handbook of how to write fiction. It said remember your character's back story. It felt like a whole world opened up to me. It felt like I could see all the lives of the characters I've created, each life as jagged as mine, each life so unruly, spreading out in multiple branches. It felt like I could just reach out and touch their darkness. Touch my own darkness.
I recognize these feelings, recognize the dark well of potential they are opening. It's like I'm being revisited by my muse. The one that used to burn so bright. The one that spread throughout my mind as if it was cancer but instead seemed to grant me an unlimited supply of words.
This is what I do when that happens. This is where I turn. The only craft I ever felt like I was close to mastering. The only craft so subjective, so persuasive, so tempting. The only craft that was ever fully mine. That felt like the area where I belonged.
Writing is an addiction to me. I've abandoned it and returned to it more times than I could possibly account for. When I'm not writing, my fingers are itching, my mind is racing. I feel like a traitor for not maintaining the only thing in the world that ever made me feel like I was immortal. I fight writer's block. I fight my own hubris. Most of all I fight life. With the attitude I've seemingly been gaining lately - the idea that life sucks, and is always going to work against you.
Why is it that when the world seems the most pointless, the words appear; why is it so easy to fall into the fantasy of my own head when life doesn't play out like I expected? Can you call it a muse, can you call it a craft? Can you call it the downside of any creative work? Are all writers like me? Is everyone who appreciates the work of written words a self-doubting wreck? Or do I write, BECAUSE I'm a self-doubting wreck?
I think I turn to art when I feel lost in the world. When the way of things seem meaningless. When there are things going on out there that I don't understand. When the world saddens me. When I feel like I'm miles behind everyone else. When my life makes no sense.
I feel like I'm not in control of my own life. I feel like it's spinning ahead without my consent. Like I couldn't affect it even if I wanted to or if I tried. I have to rewrite parts of my report for my thesis in order to get a passing grade. My practical work is fun and teaches me so much, but what I create is hardly state of the art. I've defined to myself the kind of artist I would want to be, but how does that help, when I've realized there's no way I'll ever become that artist?
Good news pour in with the bad news. If I go into any detail about the bad news I'll break. I feel so confused, so split in half. I'm doing great at the same time as I'm doing terrible. I feel more and more distanced from the world at the same time as I feel more and more connected to it. I think this might just drive me crazy. The only way I know how to deal with it is this. Writing. Again. Maybe if I pour my racing thoughts onto paper they'll stop haunting me inside my head. Maybe if I leave the real world long enough to enter a fantasy world... things will stop sucking. Or at least provide me with some kind of concrete escape. Something more tangible, something more respected, something more valuable, than escaping into a game world for hours on end. I have to do something with my time. I have to create.
I have to create or I'm going to burst.
See you at Camp Nanowrimo.
POET IN THE JAR
Thursday, January 31
Everything Starts Out Chaotic And Fumbling
Honestly I'm more than exhausted. Everything I see on the screen in front of me is literally blurring and skewing my eyes. But I promised myself I'd be back behind the wheel again soon, and frankly I have missed writing. Even spontaneous thoughts like now. I have missed being able to spill everything out onto pages, into words. Maybe it's just easier to write everything down instead of locking it up in your head, or tiring all your friends with the same old stories and same old problems. Maybe. Or, maybe I just missed the craft.
I have been writing all day, in fact, but on a considerably duller text - my thesis. Things are going rather well at the studio, I really like it there. Everyone's cool, talented and hard-working, and still there always seems to be small talk and break time going on everywhere. People dart between eachothers' offices asking for files and delegating work and fetching fresh coffee. I'm essentially getting an exclusive sneak peek into the daily life of real game developers. Wow, sounds so amazing when I put it like that. Me and Lotta are the lowlives of the food chain, currently. The closest verbal description to what we're doing would be that we're "interns", but we're not really interns. The actual interns are there pitching in to the workload wherever possible. We're just there to get an insight into the worklife, and to write our thesis in cooperation with the company. As soon as the first, theoretical report has been written, though, we'll begin our practical work; and I'm hoping that'll make us feel like we're not taking up all their space. (I don't feel like that now either, but it's going to be nice to actually be helpful.) My thesis investigates the possibility of applying typical human movement patterns to non-human creatures, and how this affects player perception of character personality. It's a really interesting starting point, and I'm slowly getting somewhere with my report, but there's still a long way to go. Either way I'll just keep on pushing throughout the week. The first draft is due to my tutor on Tuesday. Hopefully he can tell me whether or not I'm going in the right direction with this whole thing. I thought writing academically would be easy, or well, usually it is. It's just that the whole essay is looming up over me like the exaggerated shadow cast by a comic book villain in a dark back alley. Whenever I start writing and referencing, I tangle myself up in my own arguments that I completely lose myself among all the words. But hey, that's okay. I just read today in a book on research methodology that a finished report may look very polished and perfect, but that it started out chaotic and fumbling; which made me feel a lot better.
I've heard our grades from our individual projects are going to be announced next week, by the way. I'm nervous to get the results. I think I did a huge job on both the practical and the theoretical level, but it all depends on what grade I get on my final report. So let's, let's just drop that for now.
Here's another thing that may look polished and perfect but started out chaotic and fumbling: my life. Nah, except for the perfect part. And the polished part. My point is, my life has been messy from time to time, messy as hell. There have been so many times when I've just seen no way out, and I've been convinced that I'm never going to be happy or be able to fulfil any of my dreams. On paper, things are looking up for me right now. But mentally, I am a shipwreck, an utter and complete shipwreck. The only time I don't feel like that is when Dear One is near. Or here.
This is depressing me. Signing off,
POET IN THE JAR
I have been writing all day, in fact, but on a considerably duller text - my thesis. Things are going rather well at the studio, I really like it there. Everyone's cool, talented and hard-working, and still there always seems to be small talk and break time going on everywhere. People dart between eachothers' offices asking for files and delegating work and fetching fresh coffee. I'm essentially getting an exclusive sneak peek into the daily life of real game developers. Wow, sounds so amazing when I put it like that. Me and Lotta are the lowlives of the food chain, currently. The closest verbal description to what we're doing would be that we're "interns", but we're not really interns. The actual interns are there pitching in to the workload wherever possible. We're just there to get an insight into the worklife, and to write our thesis in cooperation with the company. As soon as the first, theoretical report has been written, though, we'll begin our practical work; and I'm hoping that'll make us feel like we're not taking up all their space. (I don't feel like that now either, but it's going to be nice to actually be helpful.) My thesis investigates the possibility of applying typical human movement patterns to non-human creatures, and how this affects player perception of character personality. It's a really interesting starting point, and I'm slowly getting somewhere with my report, but there's still a long way to go. Either way I'll just keep on pushing throughout the week. The first draft is due to my tutor on Tuesday. Hopefully he can tell me whether or not I'm going in the right direction with this whole thing. I thought writing academically would be easy, or well, usually it is. It's just that the whole essay is looming up over me like the exaggerated shadow cast by a comic book villain in a dark back alley. Whenever I start writing and referencing, I tangle myself up in my own arguments that I completely lose myself among all the words. But hey, that's okay. I just read today in a book on research methodology that a finished report may look very polished and perfect, but that it started out chaotic and fumbling; which made me feel a lot better.
I've heard our grades from our individual projects are going to be announced next week, by the way. I'm nervous to get the results. I think I did a huge job on both the practical and the theoretical level, but it all depends on what grade I get on my final report. So let's, let's just drop that for now.
Here's another thing that may look polished and perfect but started out chaotic and fumbling: my life. Nah, except for the perfect part. And the polished part. My point is, my life has been messy from time to time, messy as hell. There have been so many times when I've just seen no way out, and I've been convinced that I'm never going to be happy or be able to fulfil any of my dreams. On paper, things are looking up for me right now. But mentally, I am a shipwreck, an utter and complete shipwreck. The only time I don't feel like that is when Dear One is near. Or here.
This is depressing me. Signing off,
POET IN THE JAR
Tuesday, January 29
I'm Good At Giving Myself Advice
Writing used to be so easy to me. I mean, at times it was hard; really hard. There were times when I stared at a blank page for hours on end and times I got entangled in impossible plot holes. There were times I dropped a novel because it just got out of hand. Times I didn't write at all. But even in those times, keeping a journal, or whatever you might call this place, has been easy. It's been easy to write about my everyday problems, my thoughts on the universe, and anything that might stray into my mind while I was typing. Poetry and spontaneous blog posts have been easy. Everything used to be so easy to write about, because I clung on to writing. Clung on to the words I could create. They were my lifeboat, and the way I handled everything.
And now I don't write. I don't plan writing sessions. I don't write spontaneously. Every line of every poem I've tried to write in the past few months has felt out of place, stereotypical or plain terrible. My main outlet of creativity has become to obsessively research obscure TV series trivia while I watch said series on TV. This is not good. Not good at all.
I've hit rock bottom of the valley named writer's block, and I've hit rock bottom hard this time.
If you google "how to overcome writer's block", you get 2,580,000 hits. That's right. Two million five-hundred eighty-thousand hits. I could pick up on any one of these 2,5 million hits and magically start my journey out of writer's block valley. Easy as that.
But it wouldn't be as easy as that. Time after time, in this very specific and intuitive field of writing, I've found that writing can't be taught to you. Sure, you can learn the language better. Expand your vocabulary and improve your grammar. You can learn how to analyze litterature. You can pick up tools from your writing teacher at your expensive but most likely fruitless writer's school that have names like protagonist development and the dramaturgical curve. And you can follow the tips on how to overcome writer's block that you find on Google. The thing is, no one can pick you up and lift you out of that valley but you. And if you're not going to work for it, there are no handy tips in the world that is going to help you. There are no quick fixes in writing or in writer's block. There's only you, and the words you put on that page. I have a very simple definition of my own of what teaches someone to write, and to constantly develop as a writer. Since I'm so incredibly adaptive, I shall commit to the popular "bullet list" format for this cause of noble wisdom-sharing.
Here's how to become a better writer in
3 easy steps!
1. Write, write, write.
2. Read, read, read.
3. Experience, experience, experience.
Repeat.
There you have it. It's all very admirable to consciously study the art of writing and the written word itself. I used to study litterature myself. But in essence, I see writing as something more intuitive, more artistic, than technical. All of the writing tools available are great to have at your disposal. Somewhere in the back of your mind, stashed away in your subconscious toolshed, where it can secretly influence your skills without drawing attention to itself. See, whenever I start to analyze my own writing TOO consciously; I'm sent down writer's block valley.
I only know one way to battle writer's block, and I don't need to browse any of Google's 2,5 million suggestions for it to work. It's like writing was car driving, and writer's block was an unexpected car crash in which you were slightly wounded, but you'll live; and the metallic sound of the crash was the heaviest burden you took with you from the accident. If you don't drive again soon after the accident, you're going to start to fear driving that car, fear causing another crash, fear not knowing where the road might take you. If you don't get back in the car right away and drive it off to somewhere things might be better, you're never going to get back in that car. Now imagine there were no buses or trains or other vehicles at all that would get you to that destination you used to go or to take those rocky terrain roads that you used to take. You're going to have to be driven around to your every errand by your off-the-bat uncle.
Beat the hell out of your own fear. Beat the hell out of writer's block. Start writing again. Force yourself to. Because the only thing keeping you from doing it, is you.
So that's what I'm doing here. I'm forcing myself to put myself behind the wheel again and steer out on unknown roads. Forcing myself to write.
Funny how the first thing I write is a guide for writing, when I have been out of business for months.
POET IN THE JAR
And now I don't write. I don't plan writing sessions. I don't write spontaneously. Every line of every poem I've tried to write in the past few months has felt out of place, stereotypical or plain terrible. My main outlet of creativity has become to obsessively research obscure TV series trivia while I watch said series on TV. This is not good. Not good at all.
I've hit rock bottom of the valley named writer's block, and I've hit rock bottom hard this time.
If you google "how to overcome writer's block", you get 2,580,000 hits. That's right. Two million five-hundred eighty-thousand hits. I could pick up on any one of these 2,5 million hits and magically start my journey out of writer's block valley. Easy as that.
But it wouldn't be as easy as that. Time after time, in this very specific and intuitive field of writing, I've found that writing can't be taught to you. Sure, you can learn the language better. Expand your vocabulary and improve your grammar. You can learn how to analyze litterature. You can pick up tools from your writing teacher at your expensive but most likely fruitless writer's school that have names like protagonist development and the dramaturgical curve. And you can follow the tips on how to overcome writer's block that you find on Google. The thing is, no one can pick you up and lift you out of that valley but you. And if you're not going to work for it, there are no handy tips in the world that is going to help you. There are no quick fixes in writing or in writer's block. There's only you, and the words you put on that page. I have a very simple definition of my own of what teaches someone to write, and to constantly develop as a writer. Since I'm so incredibly adaptive, I shall commit to the popular "bullet list" format for this cause of noble wisdom-sharing.
Here's how to become a better writer in
3 easy steps!
1. Write, write, write.
2. Read, read, read.
3. Experience, experience, experience.
Repeat.
There you have it. It's all very admirable to consciously study the art of writing and the written word itself. I used to study litterature myself. But in essence, I see writing as something more intuitive, more artistic, than technical. All of the writing tools available are great to have at your disposal. Somewhere in the back of your mind, stashed away in your subconscious toolshed, where it can secretly influence your skills without drawing attention to itself. See, whenever I start to analyze my own writing TOO consciously; I'm sent down writer's block valley.
I only know one way to battle writer's block, and I don't need to browse any of Google's 2,5 million suggestions for it to work. It's like writing was car driving, and writer's block was an unexpected car crash in which you were slightly wounded, but you'll live; and the metallic sound of the crash was the heaviest burden you took with you from the accident. If you don't drive again soon after the accident, you're going to start to fear driving that car, fear causing another crash, fear not knowing where the road might take you. If you don't get back in the car right away and drive it off to somewhere things might be better, you're never going to get back in that car. Now imagine there were no buses or trains or other vehicles at all that would get you to that destination you used to go or to take those rocky terrain roads that you used to take. You're going to have to be driven around to your every errand by your off-the-bat uncle.
Beat the hell out of your own fear. Beat the hell out of writer's block. Start writing again. Force yourself to. Because the only thing keeping you from doing it, is you.
So that's what I'm doing here. I'm forcing myself to put myself behind the wheel again and steer out on unknown roads. Forcing myself to write.
Funny how the first thing I write is a guide for writing, when I have been out of business for months.
POET IN THE JAR
Thursday, December 13
Stress, And All Things Related
I need to write, my fingers are aching to, my mind is about to explode and burst out streams of words unless I jot them down. As usual I'm trying too hard, thinking of too many things at once, trying to make sense of the chaos in my head.
Lately it seems everyone has come to me with their problems. I guess I should be taking this as a compliment. Like Dear One said, I've got all the pieces in the right places, and that's why. I don't know. I appreciate that I am regarded trustworthy and sensible, but at the same time there's a voice deep down in me just screaming out loud, rageing inside. Who will tell me everything will be alright? Who will give me suggestions of how to work things out? Who will be for me, what I have become for everyone else? I don't know. Like I wished for once, I wonder what it'd be like if there was someone else out there like me. Would I find this person to be great, would we have so much in common? Or, more likely, would we hate eachother's guts because both of us are so damn impossible to understand? Don't get me wrong. My friends are the best in the world and always there for me. It's just that sometimes I seem to be unable to talk of the heaviest things weighing on my heart.
I had a dream last night that bothers me. I dreamt of talking to an old friend, when we were joined by someone who once left me to the wind after a great betrayal committed by someone she was covering up for. (I'm aware this sounds like something from a TV drama series.) And she just sat there, staring at me, as if she was asking me to explain myself. As if she was asking me to lay all my cards down on the table and show her what I've managed in life, where I've gotten to without her. The truth is, once I realized what she and everyone else I used to be around stood for, how blind they were to reality, and the amount of time and effort they were all willing to spend on forgiving unforgiveable things; I haven't missed them, any of them. I don't feel I owe any of them an explanation of my life or the choices I've made. And still, when confronted with this in a dream, I had nothing to show for myself, and couldn't find the words. Analytically speaking I'm thinking this might be a sign of all my busy thoughts about the future that I've been going over lately. Everything's so uncertain. What will happen after I graduate? When I have to stand on my own feet again? When I have to fight and struggle my way through life again; standing without any form of safety, again. I have already studied here for two and a half years. Already at the end of my education. A program I never thought I'd even get to start, back in that year when everything went to hell and back. I've been taking loans for these years, and after I'm done here, it's not possible for me financially to study anymore. It's a shame really, because one of my options was to study for the master's program. Now I'm going to have to look for work instead, something I both dread and look forward to. With any bit of luck, I can get a job in the industry, and I'm working hard to make that dream come true; but there are no such things as guarantees in this business. Hell, there's not even a guarantee there'll be a position I'm qualified for somewhere. My best hope is to make the best of my thesis next term, and take it from there. I dread having to leave the industry and the creation of games and life in my animations. I dread having to resign myself from this apartment, from this life, move back home and take a job that will kill braincells in my head for each day that passes. I dread the future so much right now, and that's despite the fact that Dear One now considerably brightens my future. But in some ways that's exactly what fuels my fear. I'm afraid that Dear One will leave me, that I'll leave Dear One, that we'll fall apart, that love will cease, that one of us dies and leaves the other. I'm afraid of every one of these things, and still, right this moment, I feel like I can do anything when Dear One is with me.
It's confusing, frightening and pleasant at the same time. Maybe that's how love's supposed to be, and I didn't even know it until now. Who knows?
To top off all my post-graduation stress, we're nearing the deadlines in two term-long project courses at the same time as we're preparing intensely for our thesis work. I'm quite proud to announce I'll be writing my thesis in cooperation with Ludosity Learning, a local game studio. I'll be looking at how a given human personality can be implemented practically in the movements of an animated non-human character. I'm pretty excited to get started with that in January as I'll be joined by two terrific classmates of mine also doing their thesis at Ludosity. However, before that can happen, we've got the project deadlines coming up. I'm basically finished with my individual project - I just need to light and render my scenes - and I'm making a lot of progress in my mini project as well. For that project, I'm lipsyncing a character to a voiceclip, and animating him in a modeled environment. So far I've modeled the environment, and completed about 80 percent of the basic lipsyncing. I'll have to tweak the timing and poses a bit once the basis is done, but it'll be fast work. After that, round about next week, I'll be working with animating the rest of his face and his upper body. The result will be really cool I think. A friend from the sound design class helped me record the voiceclips and the result was great, and it's been fun to lipsync to. I only hope there's still time to tie everything together into a good-looking result.
Since all our deadlines are set to mid-January, holidays over Christmas will feel incredibly stressed if I don't get as much work as possible out of the way before then. There's been so many discussions with my family regarding me not coming home for Christmas. But say I'm Hermione, and I'm spending this Christmas at the Burrow. I don't know when I might have time to go home and visit, but it's looking grim to have time for it right after Christmas and I might have to go home after New Year's. All I want to do is visit at home when I have time and energy to. Since when was it so important to stick with dates?
But yeah... I think I've ranted enough for now. See you on the other side of exploded-worry-head-land,
POET IN THE JAR
Lately it seems everyone has come to me with their problems. I guess I should be taking this as a compliment. Like Dear One said, I've got all the pieces in the right places, and that's why. I don't know. I appreciate that I am regarded trustworthy and sensible, but at the same time there's a voice deep down in me just screaming out loud, rageing inside. Who will tell me everything will be alright? Who will give me suggestions of how to work things out? Who will be for me, what I have become for everyone else? I don't know. Like I wished for once, I wonder what it'd be like if there was someone else out there like me. Would I find this person to be great, would we have so much in common? Or, more likely, would we hate eachother's guts because both of us are so damn impossible to understand? Don't get me wrong. My friends are the best in the world and always there for me. It's just that sometimes I seem to be unable to talk of the heaviest things weighing on my heart.
I had a dream last night that bothers me. I dreamt of talking to an old friend, when we were joined by someone who once left me to the wind after a great betrayal committed by someone she was covering up for. (I'm aware this sounds like something from a TV drama series.) And she just sat there, staring at me, as if she was asking me to explain myself. As if she was asking me to lay all my cards down on the table and show her what I've managed in life, where I've gotten to without her. The truth is, once I realized what she and everyone else I used to be around stood for, how blind they were to reality, and the amount of time and effort they were all willing to spend on forgiving unforgiveable things; I haven't missed them, any of them. I don't feel I owe any of them an explanation of my life or the choices I've made. And still, when confronted with this in a dream, I had nothing to show for myself, and couldn't find the words. Analytically speaking I'm thinking this might be a sign of all my busy thoughts about the future that I've been going over lately. Everything's so uncertain. What will happen after I graduate? When I have to stand on my own feet again? When I have to fight and struggle my way through life again; standing without any form of safety, again. I have already studied here for two and a half years. Already at the end of my education. A program I never thought I'd even get to start, back in that year when everything went to hell and back. I've been taking loans for these years, and after I'm done here, it's not possible for me financially to study anymore. It's a shame really, because one of my options was to study for the master's program. Now I'm going to have to look for work instead, something I both dread and look forward to. With any bit of luck, I can get a job in the industry, and I'm working hard to make that dream come true; but there are no such things as guarantees in this business. Hell, there's not even a guarantee there'll be a position I'm qualified for somewhere. My best hope is to make the best of my thesis next term, and take it from there. I dread having to leave the industry and the creation of games and life in my animations. I dread having to resign myself from this apartment, from this life, move back home and take a job that will kill braincells in my head for each day that passes. I dread the future so much right now, and that's despite the fact that Dear One now considerably brightens my future. But in some ways that's exactly what fuels my fear. I'm afraid that Dear One will leave me, that I'll leave Dear One, that we'll fall apart, that love will cease, that one of us dies and leaves the other. I'm afraid of every one of these things, and still, right this moment, I feel like I can do anything when Dear One is with me.
It's confusing, frightening and pleasant at the same time. Maybe that's how love's supposed to be, and I didn't even know it until now. Who knows?
To top off all my post-graduation stress, we're nearing the deadlines in two term-long project courses at the same time as we're preparing intensely for our thesis work. I'm quite proud to announce I'll be writing my thesis in cooperation with Ludosity Learning, a local game studio. I'll be looking at how a given human personality can be implemented practically in the movements of an animated non-human character. I'm pretty excited to get started with that in January as I'll be joined by two terrific classmates of mine also doing their thesis at Ludosity. However, before that can happen, we've got the project deadlines coming up. I'm basically finished with my individual project - I just need to light and render my scenes - and I'm making a lot of progress in my mini project as well. For that project, I'm lipsyncing a character to a voiceclip, and animating him in a modeled environment. So far I've modeled the environment, and completed about 80 percent of the basic lipsyncing. I'll have to tweak the timing and poses a bit once the basis is done, but it'll be fast work. After that, round about next week, I'll be working with animating the rest of his face and his upper body. The result will be really cool I think. A friend from the sound design class helped me record the voiceclips and the result was great, and it's been fun to lipsync to. I only hope there's still time to tie everything together into a good-looking result.
Since all our deadlines are set to mid-January, holidays over Christmas will feel incredibly stressed if I don't get as much work as possible out of the way before then. There's been so many discussions with my family regarding me not coming home for Christmas. But say I'm Hermione, and I'm spending this Christmas at the Burrow. I don't know when I might have time to go home and visit, but it's looking grim to have time for it right after Christmas and I might have to go home after New Year's. All I want to do is visit at home when I have time and energy to. Since when was it so important to stick with dates?
But yeah... I think I've ranted enough for now. See you on the other side of exploded-worry-head-land,
POET IN THE JAR
Wednesday, November 28
The Hammer
All these images of you
All these connections
And strange associations
I thought I had assassinated
Every thought of you, for now
Thought I had eliminated
Every image of you, for now
But the sight of a streetlight can hammer into my chest
Pounding, beating, every mile into my heart
Every minute ticking down, like time does best
Clubbing, whacking, deep angst into art
I channel the voices, channel the words
My only means of protest
And what I do best
These thoughts are too brittle
To withstand my inspection
My inward reflection
I thought I was in control
Of my treacherous self, for now
I thought I had a hold
On my traitorous self, for now
But the sight of a streetlight can hammer into my chest
Pounding, beating, every mile into my heart
Every minute ticking down, like time does best
Clubbing, whacking, deep angst into art
I channel the voices, channel the words
My only means of protest
And what I do best
Can I force you down if I try
Can I sink you down if I try
Can I repress you if I try
Until I'm blind
And I've forgotten why I tried
All these puzzle pieces of us
All these shattered shards
And stitched-up hearts
I thought I had validated
Their existence, by now
I thought I had evaluated
Their emergence, by now
But the sight of a streetlight can hammer into my chest
Pounding, beating, every mile into my heart
Every minute ticking down, like time does best
Clubbing, whacking, deep angst into art
I channel the voices, channel the words
My only means of protest
And what I do best
The very moment I'm away from you
Everything fades, like memories do
All the affection, thwarted transparent
All the confidence, gone insignificant
But when I'm curled up in my most malicious doubt,
Unwillingly neglecting what it's all about,
Every image of you that I consciously reject
Fights its way right back again
Finds its way right back again
Into my chest
And then, the sight of a streetlight can shiver through my chest
Shining, shining, every smile into my heart
Every minute ticking by, like time does best
Beaming, beaming, my longing into art
I channel the light, channel the world
My only means of comfort
And what you do best
POET IN THE JAR
All these connections
And strange associations
I thought I had assassinated
Every thought of you, for now
Thought I had eliminated
Every image of you, for now
But the sight of a streetlight can hammer into my chest
Pounding, beating, every mile into my heart
Every minute ticking down, like time does best
Clubbing, whacking, deep angst into art
I channel the voices, channel the words
My only means of protest
And what I do best
These thoughts are too brittle
To withstand my inspection
My inward reflection
I thought I was in control
Of my treacherous self, for now
I thought I had a hold
On my traitorous self, for now
But the sight of a streetlight can hammer into my chest
Pounding, beating, every mile into my heart
Every minute ticking down, like time does best
Clubbing, whacking, deep angst into art
I channel the voices, channel the words
My only means of protest
And what I do best
Can I force you down if I try
Can I sink you down if I try
Can I repress you if I try
Until I'm blind
And I've forgotten why I tried
All these puzzle pieces of us
All these shattered shards
And stitched-up hearts
I thought I had validated
Their existence, by now
I thought I had evaluated
Their emergence, by now
But the sight of a streetlight can hammer into my chest
Pounding, beating, every mile into my heart
Every minute ticking down, like time does best
Clubbing, whacking, deep angst into art
I channel the voices, channel the words
My only means of protest
And what I do best
The very moment I'm away from you
Everything fades, like memories do
All the affection, thwarted transparent
All the confidence, gone insignificant
But when I'm curled up in my most malicious doubt,
Unwillingly neglecting what it's all about,
Every image of you that I consciously reject
Fights its way right back again
Finds its way right back again
Into my chest
And then, the sight of a streetlight can shiver through my chest
Shining, shining, every smile into my heart
Every minute ticking by, like time does best
Beaming, beaming, my longing into art
I channel the light, channel the world
My only means of comfort
And what you do best
POET IN THE JAR
Sunday, November 25
Eliminate Self-pity
I just read this quote by Stephen Fry about the way to happiness. Fry says he wants to publish a self-help book, entitled "The way to happiness by Stephen Fry". In the beginning of the book he would write "Stop worrying and be happy." The rest of the book's pages would be empty. According to Fry, self-pity is what stands in the way of people's happiness.
I started thinking about it. Self-pity is an emotion that encapsules many other emotions. You consider yourself unlucky, the circumstances unfair, whenever life doesn't go the way you would have wanted; it's easy to blame it on other people and on the world, considering how unfortunate you truly are. It's easy to fall down the path of self-pity, feeling unwanted, underachieving, unlucky, mistreated. But what if you eliminate your self-pity? Would that automatically make you happy? Or would the lack of self-pity simply pave you the circumstances you need in order to be happy?
I pity myself more than I would like to admit. I constantly think of my own failures in life and how I could possibly correct them. I think of all the things I never have the time to do, all the things I can't afford to do, all the things that are impossible for me to do, all the things I once did and that I regret. All dreams dead. All happiness suffocated.
But when I peel all that off, I'm left with a strange sense of calm. Apparently, it took me some time to figure out what Stephen Fry phrases so perfectly in his quote. Without self-pity, without self-blame and self-loathing, the foundations of happiness seem clear. The road seems wide enough to walk. You seem to forget about what goals await at the end of the road or if you'll ever get to see them. You become aware of the air you breathe, the steps you take, the amazement inside your mind.
This is the moment I have wanted to treasure for so long, that one second of insight, awareness, and calm. What I have always meant when I've said, "live in the present!", without truly understanding it myself. When I force the negative emotions out of my thoughts, the voices clear, the fog clears, I feel aware, I feel at ease, or at as much ease as I'll ever be.
Stephen Fry, huh.
Clever guy.
Thanks for the tip.
POET IN THE ANTI-DEPRESSANT JAR
I started thinking about it. Self-pity is an emotion that encapsules many other emotions. You consider yourself unlucky, the circumstances unfair, whenever life doesn't go the way you would have wanted; it's easy to blame it on other people and on the world, considering how unfortunate you truly are. It's easy to fall down the path of self-pity, feeling unwanted, underachieving, unlucky, mistreated. But what if you eliminate your self-pity? Would that automatically make you happy? Or would the lack of self-pity simply pave you the circumstances you need in order to be happy?
I pity myself more than I would like to admit. I constantly think of my own failures in life and how I could possibly correct them. I think of all the things I never have the time to do, all the things I can't afford to do, all the things that are impossible for me to do, all the things I once did and that I regret. All dreams dead. All happiness suffocated.
But when I peel all that off, I'm left with a strange sense of calm. Apparently, it took me some time to figure out what Stephen Fry phrases so perfectly in his quote. Without self-pity, without self-blame and self-loathing, the foundations of happiness seem clear. The road seems wide enough to walk. You seem to forget about what goals await at the end of the road or if you'll ever get to see them. You become aware of the air you breathe, the steps you take, the amazement inside your mind.
This is the moment I have wanted to treasure for so long, that one second of insight, awareness, and calm. What I have always meant when I've said, "live in the present!", without truly understanding it myself. When I force the negative emotions out of my thoughts, the voices clear, the fog clears, I feel aware, I feel at ease, or at as much ease as I'll ever be.
Stephen Fry, huh.
Clever guy.
Thanks for the tip.
POET IN THE ANTI-DEPRESSANT JAR
Thursday, November 22
Little Dear Sister
Hello there, little sister. Little, dear sister.
I know that in fact you're my older sister and I'm the youngest of the bunch, but I'll always remember you as little. I know that you are dead and can't hear these words, and that if you were alive today you wouldn't understand them. But what if, what if things had played out a bit differently, little girl? What if you had been born healthy? We might be playing through the LEGO video games right now together. We might have spent each moment together as we grew up. Things, for the both of us, for the rest of the family, might all have been easier.
Little sister, I miss you sometimes, even though I never knew you, even though I barely remember you. I keep wondering what might have happened if you hadn't been ill, if you hadn't died. Would I even be alive? Would our parents have called it quits once you were born and never given me the chance to live? Once I was told that the reason I exist is because the doctors adviced our parents to get another child while they could. I was told that if it weren't for you, love, I wouldn't be here today. Sometimes those words ring true in my mind. Other times it feels useless to dwell on the past.
I'm sorry I didn't come to see you on All Hallow's Eve. I would have liked to come over and light a candle to chase away some of the storm. I would have liked to drop off some flowers like I did on Midsummer's Eve. I would have liked to pay you my respects, because in all essence, the roles could be reversed. I could have been the one born a year before you, I could have been the one to carry all your pain and burdens. You could have been the one to live my life, and maybe you would have done better with it than I have.
You see, I feel a lot like a failure even when the wind's blowing my way. Even when there's no sorrows to bother with or when my problems are so, so small compared to the world and the great scope of things, I can feel so low, so under-achieving, so hopeless. Like I can't fight the demands I set up for my own demise. Like it wasn't voluntary of me to caress the busy moments, so I wouldn't have so much time to think.
But sister, I would like to take some time to think every once in a while. Take a breather from all the stressed out routines. And maybe then I might light a candle, here in my own home, and take a moment to think of you, or to talk to you.
How come it works so well, talking to someone who's dead? Is it because there are no replies? Is it because what I really want to do is just to spill my heart out, in any way, to let the words flow through my fingers when I'm too sore to speak?
If you had been born free, free and healthy, I'm just certain that everything would have been different. I'm certain you and I would have so much in common. With just one year, one tiny little year, to set us apart, we could have become eachother's comfort, eachother's heals. Maybe in some other dimension, some alternate reality where this option really did play out, we're comforting eachother as I speak. Maybe we know nothing of hardship or death there. Maybe we know all too well, but can find comfort in our loneliest moments. We can stand against this whole world together, in that reality.
If everything had just played out differently.
I won't take more of your time now. I'm sure there are greater, grander things in play where you are right now, than my small and insignificant problems here. In many ways, sister, you won this game. This world has gone insane. So full to the brim with evil that you would be too innocent to understand. It would just harm you. Leave it to me to fight these images in this age of information. I promise I will fight for you, and I'm sure your memory will give me strength to pull through. We never give up, little sister. In this family we never give up.
I love you. Even the faintest memory of you. It reminds me how brittle everything is. How quickly it all can just go away. And it reminds me that even when the odds seem impossible, we can keep fighting. Keep fighting until the last drop of blood, even when everyone believes the war has already been lost.
Until next time, little Carolina.
POET IN THE JAR
I know that in fact you're my older sister and I'm the youngest of the bunch, but I'll always remember you as little. I know that you are dead and can't hear these words, and that if you were alive today you wouldn't understand them. But what if, what if things had played out a bit differently, little girl? What if you had been born healthy? We might be playing through the LEGO video games right now together. We might have spent each moment together as we grew up. Things, for the both of us, for the rest of the family, might all have been easier.
Little sister, I miss you sometimes, even though I never knew you, even though I barely remember you. I keep wondering what might have happened if you hadn't been ill, if you hadn't died. Would I even be alive? Would our parents have called it quits once you were born and never given me the chance to live? Once I was told that the reason I exist is because the doctors adviced our parents to get another child while they could. I was told that if it weren't for you, love, I wouldn't be here today. Sometimes those words ring true in my mind. Other times it feels useless to dwell on the past.
I'm sorry I didn't come to see you on All Hallow's Eve. I would have liked to come over and light a candle to chase away some of the storm. I would have liked to drop off some flowers like I did on Midsummer's Eve. I would have liked to pay you my respects, because in all essence, the roles could be reversed. I could have been the one born a year before you, I could have been the one to carry all your pain and burdens. You could have been the one to live my life, and maybe you would have done better with it than I have.
You see, I feel a lot like a failure even when the wind's blowing my way. Even when there's no sorrows to bother with or when my problems are so, so small compared to the world and the great scope of things, I can feel so low, so under-achieving, so hopeless. Like I can't fight the demands I set up for my own demise. Like it wasn't voluntary of me to caress the busy moments, so I wouldn't have so much time to think.
But sister, I would like to take some time to think every once in a while. Take a breather from all the stressed out routines. And maybe then I might light a candle, here in my own home, and take a moment to think of you, or to talk to you.
How come it works so well, talking to someone who's dead? Is it because there are no replies? Is it because what I really want to do is just to spill my heart out, in any way, to let the words flow through my fingers when I'm too sore to speak?
If you had been born free, free and healthy, I'm just certain that everything would have been different. I'm certain you and I would have so much in common. With just one year, one tiny little year, to set us apart, we could have become eachother's comfort, eachother's heals. Maybe in some other dimension, some alternate reality where this option really did play out, we're comforting eachother as I speak. Maybe we know nothing of hardship or death there. Maybe we know all too well, but can find comfort in our loneliest moments. We can stand against this whole world together, in that reality.
If everything had just played out differently.
I won't take more of your time now. I'm sure there are greater, grander things in play where you are right now, than my small and insignificant problems here. In many ways, sister, you won this game. This world has gone insane. So full to the brim with evil that you would be too innocent to understand. It would just harm you. Leave it to me to fight these images in this age of information. I promise I will fight for you, and I'm sure your memory will give me strength to pull through. We never give up, little sister. In this family we never give up.
I love you. Even the faintest memory of you. It reminds me how brittle everything is. How quickly it all can just go away. And it reminds me that even when the odds seem impossible, we can keep fighting. Keep fighting until the last drop of blood, even when everyone believes the war has already been lost.
Until next time, little Carolina.
POET IN THE JAR
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