And good luck.
It was really beautiful that night and I was still old. Now I’m new. I thought it’s a myth: that last drop, that last straw, until it happens to you.
This chapter and this blog have run their course for me.
And good luck.
It was really beautiful that night and I was still old. Now I’m new. I thought it’s a myth: that last drop, that last straw, until it happens to you.
This chapter and this blog have run their course for me.
Mõtisklesin teadmise kasulikkusest. Ma tean, et mul on eeldus olla tark, säravalt, imetlusväärselt tark. Üheks takistuseks antud teel on minu loomus – olen laisk ja impulsiivne. Teen kirega ja “õigel hetkel”. Kui on tuju jalutama minna, siis lähen ja see ei loe mitte vähematki, et peaksin saksa keelt õppima või akadeemilist kirjandust lugema. Olen ka mõtlik. Mõtlen rohkem kui loen või teen, mistõttu põhineb minu tarkus – see vähene, mis mul on -pigem vaatlustel ning kogemuste süvaanalüüsil. Teadmisi on mul vähe.
Mäletan, et kord hõiskasin ühele sõbrale “Ma olen vist intelligentsemaks muutunud!” Ei suuda enam meenutada, mis põhjusel ma seda ütlesin, aga tõenäoliselt võrdlesin oma vanemaid kirjutisi uumatega. Ta vastas, et intelligentsemaks ei ole võimalik muutuda. Intelligents on omadus ja seda saab kas välja arendada või mitte. Oma vanu kirjatükke lugedes tekib vahel tõesti veidi kummastav tunne. Kuidas ma nii noorelt juba midagi nii tarka võisin öelda? Aga milline õudne kest! Ja arenenud on tegelikult see kest, mitte minu intelligentsus. Suurenenud on minu teadmised ja kogemuste hulk, aga intelligentsus on samaks jäänud.
Tarkusega on aga veidi teised lood. Tarkus on oma loomuliku intelligentsuse väljaarendamine ning täiuseni viimine. Aga lisaks eelpool mainitud iseloomu eripäradele, mis raskendavad mul sellel teel käimist, vaevavad mind ka kahtlused selle otstarbekuse koha pealt. Mäletan, et isegi selline mees nagu T.S. Eliot, keda ma üldiselt oma sugulashingeks ei pea, mainis, et luuletajale ei pruugi liiga suured teadmised kasuks tulla. Ja ma tajun seda. Ja kardan seda. Isegi elule ei pruugi suured teadmised kasuks tulla kui oma inimtüübilt oled pöörane unistaja. Unistada on niigi raske. Kogu aeg kuuled kuidas küünikud kõrva ääres kraaksuvad. Liigne teadmine võib elult tolle müstilisuse ja ilu ära võtta. Võib hävitada elu enese vahetu kogemise. Võib. Ma ei tea. Ma ei ole tark. Aga arvan, et tarkus ei ole vaid võit, et sellega kaasnevad ka kaotused. Ning teadmine üleüldse – miks on üht tüüpi teadmine teisest üle? Võib-olla ma ei peakski nukrutsema oma akadeemilise edasijõudmatuse pärast, sest see teadmine, mis mul on, see on väljasolija oma, luuletaja oma. See võib tasukaalustada…ehk peitub selles minu väärtus?
Samas tunnen end võimetuna oma seisukohti kaitsma, kuna puudub piisav haridus. Ei ole kerge vaikides kuulata, kuidas avaldatakse mõtteid, millele tahaks väga vastu vaielda, aga ei saa. Sest ma kaotaks vaidluse. Mul puudub see teadmistearsenal, millega võitlusesse astuda, kuigi mu mõte ei pruugi iseenesest halvem olla. Ja nii ma hoian kõrvale, vääneldes teadmise käes, et too väide pole õige, suutmata seda ümber lükata. Oh see on piinarikas, uskuge. Ja ma nukrutsen vahel, ja mõtlen kas ma peaks end käsile võtma või ei ole see kõik seda väärt. Kas ma olen luuletaja ja unistaja või revolutsionäär ning maailmaparandaja? Kas ma pean end kehtestama, laskma oma vastuolulistel seisukohtadel kõlada? On see mu kohus inimkonna ees? Või olen ma pigem luuletaja, kes kirjutab neile, kes mõistavad, julgustab ning inspireerib neid, kes võiksid mõista. Kes ei tea Foucault’st ja Iraagi sõjast tuhkagi aga teab elust, armastusest, kurbusest. Kes ei pane asjade kallal toime teaduslikke eksperimente, kes loob tähendusi, selle asemel, et neid põrmustada või trivialiseerida.
Teadmine näib mõneti ka inimlikkust vähendav. Muidugi minu arusaam inimlikkusest on minu arusaam. Aga see ei tundu mulle päris õige, et siiraste tunnete asemel suhtutakse inimesse kui teadusobjekti. Inimesele peaks ju jääma mingi väärikus. Mõtlen vahel sellele, et kuidas üks soolisusest huvituv inimene oma eraelus toime tuleb. Kas ta tõesti langeb oma teaduse tasemele ning vaatleb oma suhet vastavast vaatepunktist, selle asemel, et lihtsalt olla ja armastada? Ma loodan, et mitte.
No vot, kõige selle tõttu olengi akadeemiliselt saamatu. Ma ei ole otsustanud kumba teed minna. Kas teadmise ja suurema mõjuvõimu teed, või luuletaja ning elaja teed. Just. Elaja. Inimene, kes elab ja kogeb elu vahetult. Kas mul on üldse see valik? Kui suur mõju on teadmisel loomusele? Kas kardan ilma põhjuseta? Ma ei tea. Aga ennast tundes, lähen lõppude lõpuks ikkagi seda teed, mis näib loomulikumana….
PS. Kui palju usku endasse, kui palju kuradima usku ja elu veel. Oh sa Juudas.
A muidu ma mõtlen suht samamoodi endiselt.
Very good. I’d absolutely recommend it to anyone, but especially those dealing with – and being frustrated with – their declining elderly family members. It doesn’t much matter if it is Alzheimer’s or something else. It’s very good at making you look at it from the perspective of the old and frail. It lets a person try on the shoes many might not naturally be inclined to try on because the gap between health and old-age-related illnesses is quite big. This film makes one feel how it ultimately doesn’t matter. Fear and anxiety are always there, it doesn’t matter that reality differs and memory is poor. It’s not a totally gloomy film. It’s deeply sad, but there’s a lot of love in there from the daughter to the father. For me, there was even some lightness. At the start I thought Anthony was just a loveable eccentric man. I also loved the sunlit apartment. It gave me comforting vibes.
Million Dollar Baby
Also very good. Stayed with me a while. I like these stories about different kinds of love, not just the romantic kind. I didn’t expect it to end the way it did, of course. I was expecting typical sports film tropes but as such it is definitely more interesting, albeit much less cuddly. Very good supporting characters too.
That’s a cuddly sports film. In the sense that it ends happily and the hero triumphs. Boxing, poverty and hardship aren’t so cuddly.
This one has a good Gladiatoresque soundtrack, which doesn’t seem to fit the film. It’s a relatively modern-day sacrifice and justice film, but quite realistic in characterisation. There’s people trying to fight the system (tobacco firms) as it continually shows itself to be more powerful than them, they are afraid, they are weak and they lose much by it. Let’s say: they aren’t heroed up. At least the chemist isn’t.
Ma ei taha praegu inglise keeles kirjutada, aga ma ei taha ka oma eestikeelset keskkonda sisustada. Selle jaoks on teised plaanid. Seega.
Taipasin täna, kui pehme ma olen. Kui ääretult pehme. Ma vist ei tea kedagi, kes oleks nii pehme kui mina. Mul on kahju, kui teistel kellelgi ei ole. Selles on lausa midagi ebanormaalset. Kindlasti olen ma selle tõttu oma elu tohutult raskemaks elanud, et mul on inimestest kahju.
Mul on kahju joodikutest ja prükkaritest. Kui nad minuga räägivad, siis ma räägin enam-vähem viisakalt vastu, mõnikord natuke nipsakalt ja tõrjuvalt, aga siiski viisakalt. Ükskord sai mul sellisest käitumisest kõrini. Teised naisterahvad ei tee nii. Nad käivad nina püsti mööda. Proovisin minagi siis seda nina püsti käimist. Tuli üks nooremat sorti mees ja kõnetas mind oma ängihoos, vaatasin mööda ja ei teinud kuulma. Hiljem oli mul kahju. Tal paistis päriselt halb. Lorajutt loraks, äng oli ehtne. Edaspidi ma ei ole sedasi käitunud. Kui, siis ärevusest.
Mul on kahju minu ülemusest. Ta on klassikaline ettevõtjast tikkpea. Ta valetab ja ta joob. Kõik vihkavad ja põlgavad teda. Minagi ei pea temast lugu, aga vahel on mul kahju. Ta ei paista mulle päris halb, vaid nõrk ja selgrootu inimene.
Tean meest, kes petab oma naist. Ta on saripetja ega tunne süüd. Ma põlgan tema hoiakuid, aga ta on kõige selle sees nii eksinud ja õnnetu, et mul on ka temast kahju. Ja Michael Jacksonist samuti. Ka tema oli kunagi ohver. Mis me teeme minusugustega? Ma ei tea. Saadame sordiaretustehasse praagina tagasi.
Kui inimesel on halb, siis mul on temast kahju. Ükskõik kui kehvasti ta käitunud on, kui tal on oma supi sees väga halb, siis mul pisut on.
Neist, kes uhked on ja rõõmsalt lulli löövad oma halbade tegude juures, nendest ei ole kahju. Neid tambin koos pööbliga, vahel esireaski.
Siis – näiliselt karjuvas kontrastis eelnevaga – mõtlesin veel seda, et ma olen ikka paras troll portselanipoes ega sobi ilusa hingega inimeste sekka. Neis on sarnasusi ja korraks selle sarnasuse vahel seistes, tundsin end sobimatuna. Ma ei ole nende moodi. Nemad kuuluvad kokku, aga mina olen väljaspool üksinda. Ma olen nagu Martin Eden, kes tahaks nende ilusas maailmas elada, aga ma ei kuulu sinna. Ma olen tahumatum, mul ei ole lihvi. Ma ei julge ilus olla. Selles tundes pole miskit uut ja see vaevab mind vahel, täna siis taaskord. Kõik tunduvad sarnased, ainult mina olen üksinda kusagil väljaspool, sest minus on nii habrast ilu kui tahumatut trolli.
Kui aus olla, siis ma meeldin endale sellisena. Mul on päris lõbus, mulle meeldivad minu trolliasjad, ainult selle va kuuluvusega on raske. Ma eeldan, et ilusad inimesed mu trollikülgi ei taluks. Hinges kisub siiski rohkem ilu poole, nii et võib ju püüda vähem troll olla. Ainult siis, kui kahte sellist kõrvuti näha, nagu täna, tuleb iseäranis esile, et mina olen teistmoodi ja nood seal on match made in heaven.
Trollidest rääkides on mul enda meelest hirmushea raamatupealkiri + tegelaste nimed välja mõeldud. Võib-olla ma kirjutan neile loo juurde ja lõbustan end. Nemad on ka trollid ja elavad võpsikus, aga nad pole muidugi üldse minu moodi.
I miss going to the pool.
I managed the entire winter not missing it at all, not even thinking of the lack, but last two weeks I’ve felt very out of my balance point. There’s a lot of anxiety and even suicidial ideation. At the same time, it feels foreign. It is not me that thinks or feels it, but it is an imbalance, a disease outside of my identity. This makes it a little easier to handle. You can dismiss it because it has little personal source. You can think of it as a very bad viral infection that will go away by next week.
Meanwhile. I got very excited about filming a little video story. It started as I saw a scene in a music video that made me go “that’s so me!”. Then I thought I’ll restage it for a laugh. Then I thought: why just that part, I’ll do it longer. Followed by: I’ll do it as best as I possibly can and do a whole story, with costumes and everything. I don’t know how to film and edit, of course, but it’ll be fun.
It was enlightening to realise some things in relation to it. In spite of my excitement, I kept trying to veto this plan. It’s going to take a lot of resource, in time, some in money, but mostly time. I have better things to put my energy into. I have to write to get better at it. I have to read to get better at writing. I can’t be dillydallying. This is silly.
Then again. Every moment of it, from planning my outfits to camera angles, I’d be in a state of happy flow. I love doing useless things that mean nothing. That don’t lead to anything. That don’t have to be anything but what they are. Also, cosplayers spend a lot of hours on their outfits too. Why can’t I?
I have taken the lightness out of writing for myself. I see it as my only way out. The only thing that could save me that I have any control over. It has become a thing I should do. One of those adult things, responsible things. While dressing up as a footballer or Veronika Lake is childish, silly and irresponsible but really great fun. I figured I’d choose fun and try to learn from it, as it so accidentally landed on my lap.
Writing this, the very bad brain virus is doing its work. I tried to write to escape it a little, without having much to write about. It worried me a little at one point too. If a hormonal imbalance can cause me to have suicidial thoughts while not having been particularly depressed before, suppose it got worse, suppose I was badly depressed beforehand? It’s very annoying, this skinless state where every unsmooth corner hurts and only very soft things are safe. Underneath it I feel my old happy mood though. That’s what makes it feel like a disease. I know it’s a surface thing I just need to go through, not something that had roots or meaning.
Where does a good mood end and hypomania begin? I’m not quite sure anybody knows but I do know I’ve been walking on that line the last two days.
Today I was thinking that perhaps it isn’t so bad to be able to do so little useful in these moods. It’s a celebration. Isn’t it after all perfectly natural that I’d want to celebrate getting a pause from depression sometimes?
I went for a starlight walk by the seaside, remnants of snow were still hanging around by the road. It’s the 16th of March. This means there’s only a month more of winter. I felt sorry for the first time in my adult life, if not for the first time in my entire life, that the winter is leaving us. It’s been my spring. I’m going to miss that time. Once in the future when all the things I now feel are within my reach have turned out to be phantoms and castles of air.
Please don’t, of course. Leave me some.
I’ve been feeling very restless since Friday, grumpy, irritable, unable to do anything but unable to sit still. I had no idea what caused it at first, but later figured it’s an excess of my amazon energy (I’ve switched to that term over saying masculine energy because I’m about as masculine as a tomato). I haven’t had a struggle in a while and I’m somewhat used to there always being some serious unpleasantness breathing down my neck. So when there isn’t, when all I can do is sit back and be chill, some days my brain starts missing my battles.
It’s not a healthy longing but there it is. I only cheered up this morning when I remembered I could make myself a boat licence and discovered they had course material up online. Then I wrestled with that some, full of spirit and dreams, but it seemed so hard for a total outsider to enter into that world, so the excitement soon wore off and was replaced with the conclusion that a paddle board is my limit.
On a good, even great and awesome, note: I discovered I got a button to turn off anxious responses. I cannot use it, of course, but who’d have thought I even had it? It’s like this: I start thinking of something I want to do, then a cascade of anxiety drowns it out, I’m terrified and decide “I can’t do that, oh no way!”, and then, one time I glimpsed a new path, a path that completely cut the anxiety and made me feel brave and able. Just a switch of a button and the thought changes, with a parallel road opening up.
This vision has appeared to me twice recently. It’s no more than a pretty vision at this point, I cannot press that button to take that path, but it’s a new hope. I’m so very convinced that recovery has to be a bottom-up process. I could never have made any progress with my social anxiety if I didn’t build up confidence first. It was always completely ineffective, these countless times I told myself “You be brave, you talk more, don’t be a coward, don’t be shy, you go and do this hard thing”. It never worked. I tried and I failed or immediately went back to the same level after my feat of bravery. It was just operating on a fight or flight mode. It wasn’t doing anything to the source of my fear. Now when I’ve dealt with the roots of it for the past years, things are showing improvement. Not massive great improvement, of course, but it’s at least hopeful.
Also and furthermore: I haven’t been depressed since December. I remember how astonished I was last summer about getting a depression-free month. Now I’m going on my fourth month and I don’t know which is the normality any more. Is that a good thing?
Back in June I was certain I’d be losing it and pinched myself every day – mentally – not believing it is still there. Maybe I did that in December or January, but I’ve stopped by now. I still don’t dare to think it will last because I’ve been struggling with depression my entire adult life, but there are moments when this depression-free state feels like the new normality, whereas the times of depression have acquired the taste of slight alienness. Oh, I remember them well, but there’s an element of looking back sometimes.
Of course I still feel negative emotions and anxiety but that’s a different matter and much more bearable because it doesn’t last very long.
I think I just have to keep myself away from new “battles”. I’m quite certain I’d be depressed in no time if I started car school in April.
All this is awesome progress. There’s been regress too. What started out as an effective strategy of not worrying about exams or presentations in advance, by blocking them out of my mind until relevant, has turned into excessive avoidant behaviour with all things I consider potentially emotionally impactful. I simply won’t do them. I push them far far far into the future, ignore them and excuse this behaviour with whatever excuse is available “I’m too happy today to be dealing with THAT” or “I’m anxious as is, I don’t want THAT on top of things”. This sort of thing has gone too far. It’s not good I push going to buy glasses forward a year or don’t read an e-mail I fear I may not like for two weeks. I understand why this behaviour developed. It was the only way to stay sane under heavy stress, but it’s gone too far. On the other hand, it doesn’t feel like the most pressing fault, even if there’s a lot to be said in favour of getting unpleasant things over and done with quickly.
Such news to report now.
I’ve been reading a lot of adventure stories lately and one of the most striking things is the contrast between the flourishing wildlife and resource of the bygone eras and the pollution and shortage of the world of today.
It wasn’t that long ago when people could drink from streams without special straws, catch fish without a care about toxins, while animals, trees, birds and bees, with few exceptions, thrived. People took from nature what nature could cope with losing.
I read these parts of these novels with a mix of joy about the plentiful world that was described, but also sadness. It’s definitely been one of the biggest eye-openers – not that I needed it – so let’s say illustrations – of where we were and what we have lost.
In Robinson Crusoe, he is afraid to land in a specific part of Africa because wild beasts rule the land there. This is the single most memorable part of that book to me. It’s fascinating to contemplate a world where humans had not quite enslaved wildlife and made it cuddly.
Can I say I liked it, when on its last hundred pages I wanted it to end so I could go back to reading some cozy sea adventures instead?
I certainly didn’t dislike it, but I do have mixed feelings. If I had to rate it, I’d give it a 7/10.
What were my problems?
Overall, the experience of reading East of Eden wasn’t unlike drinking green tea or eating goji berries. I may know these foods are healthy and wholesome, and like them well enough, but I’d much rather eat apple pie.
I might read Grapes of Wrath at one point later, I always wanted to read that and it seems a bit different, but I don’t think I will read anything else by Steinbeck. He just doesn’t write for the likes of me.
I will add things I liked to balance things out a bit: loved the descriptions, the valley, some narrative techniques were good, quite gripping, there were places where I couldn’t put it down, Lee was very likeable for the most part.
It’s good as a novel. I just cannot connect to its worldview.
I’ve for a long time seen myself as a bit of a fickle person. Someone that can go from adoring to indifference within a short space of time. I’ve learnt not trust any of my infatuations. Being so intense, everything just burns up fast. It’s to be feared and expected.
Obviously, it’s not a trait I enjoyed having, it gives me much grief. When it isn’t books or actors, but real people, it’s a terrible trait to possess. I try my best to behave, hoping no one gets the wrong end of the stick. I have for a long time had a two-month-rule, after which an infatuation might be investigated instead of dismissed outright, but before that, I must just behave myself, goddamit. I’m not very good at this. Sometimes I feel like there’s little I was very good at except bad things.
So the other day I got thinking contrarily. Wait one millisecond here. You say you’re flighty. Right now your favourite actors might be these two, but give you a Charlton Heston movie and it’s not much different even if you’re out of the active adoration phase. Um. Hmm. Yes! I love Charlton Heston just as before. And it seems that most of the actors I once enjoyed watching on screen, I still enjoy: Marcello Mastroianni, Kate Winslet, Keira Knightley, Vivien Leigh, Marlon Brando, Marilyn Monroe. The only ones who have lost that extra something would be Leslie Howard and Lauerence Olivier. I’m not sure why, but it is so.
Music. I never thought I’d be loving Elton John’s music as long as I have. It’s given me so much pleasure and comfort. I remember the times different songs came into my life and the places, seasons or people they now take me back to. Some good, some bad. But always, always, I’ve been afraid it won’t last. I was afraid of it in September and told myself to quit listening to him until spring. I quite failed in this (I needed my top cream cake to get me through school) but it hasn’t changed the adoration. I’ve had some weeks of not listening to any music but these have been short spells. Right now I’m trying to find something else to listen to until spring again, because I really don’t want to lose it. I suppose it explains why I take five years to finish Jean-Christophe too. And other mysterious behaviour normal people don’t understand and would find eccentric.
It’s like my good moods. I’m so afraid of losing them that every day I have more of it, I’m astonished, but I have less control, so I can do nothing to make it stay longer. With books and things, I can a bit.
Coming back to flightiness. I’ve been a fan of a few other musicians besides Elton John, mostly in teens and very early adulthood. Morrissey was my last at the age of 19-22. Most of them I’m always happy to rediscover. It’s fun how one still knows all the lyrics by heart. They don’t quite hold the same power over me as they did in the old days, but some of it is still there. Right now I’m listening to one of my high school favourites, Oasis, and thinking Slide Away is so very good, now replaying it for the 10th time or thereabouts. Gone much?
And with people, it’s also often true. Some of it is usually still there. I have soft spots for most people that meant something to me and did not disillusion or disappoint me to the point of no repair. It isn’t flightiness, but rather having the feeling settle down more to normal human being levels. I can’t really say I grow indifferent, as I thought I did, it is only the extremes that go. Seems such an obvious thing really, but I hadn’t thought of it so before and was feeling quite judgemental about myself.
So it’s not so much what happens after that I should feel guilty about, but rather continue to try and govern my extremes to the best of my pathetic ability.