(blasted online translators!)
Heading off to Budapest on Monday. I'll let you know how it goes.
Tonight I saw Pan's Labyrinth, which may, in fact, be the best movie I've seen in a cinema this year. Let me think now . . . Volver was great, Red Road was really great, Children of Men hit close, I still haven't had a chance to see The Science of Sleep, Inside Man was excellent, Quinceañera was surprisingly touching . . . no, so far Pan's Labyrinth has been the best (I've, of course, failed to mention the scores of decent, mediocre, and awful films I've watched in cinemas this year, and failed to consider possible other great films I haven't yet caught).
[except possibly for Orfeu Negro, which I saw during the Seattle Film Festival, though I'm not sure it's fair to count the Brazilian masterpiece, as it is more than fourty-five years old, and it was just by {incredibly} lucky chance I got to see it in a theater last summer.]
Pan's Labyrinth is great, it is beautiful, it is brutal, a fairy-tale for adults, well-paced, brilliantly acted, beautifully shot, well-written, with such a visceral contrast between innocence and brutality, beauty and hideousness . . . It's both the reason I don't make movies (it's the story I might want to tell, told better than I could ever tell it), and the reason I want to make movies (inspirational, thought-provoking). It's not the best film ever made, or the best story ever told, but it's fucking good. Incredibly violent and fairly humorless, but if you can stomach these things, it is highly, highly recommended.
(I think it will be in the states at the end of December. Don't sit behind a tall man, it is subtitled.)
26 November 2006
22 November 2006
control yourself.
I should be sleeping I should be sleeping I tried to sleep I laid my head down, listening to this fairly sappy Irish music crooning softly in my ears, I closed my eyes and sighed deeply, I thought about what I might wear tomorrow, I thought about what I might eat tomorrow, Tomorrow tomorrow how I wish it was tomorrow. It is tomorrow it is tomorrow, it has been tomorrow for three hours already. Quiet the mind, hush your thoughts, drifting from conversations to interactions. I would go to the studio and paint but busses don't run this late, I could walk across time but by the time I got to the studio I would just want to sleep. Walk across town. That was Freudian, I expect.
Emotions, sensations run up and down my body, ride deep into my belly, wrap themselves around my thighs, touch my toes and make them warm. I don't want to sleep, I don't care to do that now. I want it to be tomorrow, and then the next day, the next day is Feast day, it is Thanksgiving, it is wonderful food and strange conversation, mulled wine (too much wine) and vague flirtations. Oh, if it were tomorrow I could paint, I could paint, I could sit in the studio and paint and drink tea and eat oatcakes and watch the day turn to night before the afternoon has even had a chance to stretch its legs. If it were tomorrow I could paint I could paint, it's been three days painting the boring bits, getting them done so that I can save the best, the best (the decapitated pig, the orangutan) for last, like the best bite of thanksgiving stuffing gently soaked in beautiful glistening gravy saved on the plate, in the corner, the best bite after all the turkey and potatoes and beans and cranberries have been devoured. Oh and if it were tomorrow I could eat the leftovers from my tandoori chicken dinner for lunch, succulent discs of bright red chicken drenched in a sauce of garlic and lentils.
Oh EMOTIONS! Who was it tried to convince me that art soaked in emotion is bad art, is female art, is low art, populace art, public art, trite and boring art, unchallenging art? Who told me these things, while I listen to music and view films and these things are FILLED with emotion, and the best ones are filled with as much emotion as the worst ones, the only difference is SINCERITY, purity of vision, the only difference is in the amount of SKILL used in the seduction, and doesn't that so often just come down to effort and intent?
And I feel joy, and I feel sorrow, and I feel pain and anticipation and apprehension and I feel and I feel and most importantly I feel. Here again I come back to one of my favorite dichotomies, one of my trickiest choices – shall I be a romantic, or shall I be a cynic? It is only these extremes that interest me, it is only these extremes that I understand. The in-between is so terribly uninteresting, but how do I chose, NO how do I accept this rapid cycling back and forth from complete romance, filled with EMOTION (in capital capital letters) and total detachment, dry, CYNICAL (clinical?)???
???????
I remember now, I remember my mother telling me "control yourself, control yourself control yourself." I remember now, I remember my lover telling me "control yourself, control yourself, control yourself." I remember now, I remember my own voice screaming in my head "control yourself, control yourself, control yourself."
I remember now, I remember throwing books against the walls, I remember throwing shoes against the walls, I remember throwing punches against the faces, I remember throwing myself against the floor, I remember throwing tantrums, screaming, shouting (control yourself, control yourself!), I remember punching walls and carving lines in flesh, breaking windows, bawling (control yourself), I remember driving too fast and too far without any gas without a map, I remember drinking too much taking too many drugs going mad, going mad, going mad and coming back again.
It is not in my nature (control yourself control yourself). But . . . it is the entirety of my nature (Control yourself. Control yourself.).
Emotions, sensations run up and down my body, ride deep into my belly, wrap themselves around my thighs, touch my toes and make them warm. I don't want to sleep, I don't care to do that now. I want it to be tomorrow, and then the next day, the next day is Feast day, it is Thanksgiving, it is wonderful food and strange conversation, mulled wine (too much wine) and vague flirtations. Oh, if it were tomorrow I could paint, I could paint, I could sit in the studio and paint and drink tea and eat oatcakes and watch the day turn to night before the afternoon has even had a chance to stretch its legs. If it were tomorrow I could paint I could paint, it's been three days painting the boring bits, getting them done so that I can save the best, the best (the decapitated pig, the orangutan) for last, like the best bite of thanksgiving stuffing gently soaked in beautiful glistening gravy saved on the plate, in the corner, the best bite after all the turkey and potatoes and beans and cranberries have been devoured. Oh and if it were tomorrow I could eat the leftovers from my tandoori chicken dinner for lunch, succulent discs of bright red chicken drenched in a sauce of garlic and lentils.
Oh EMOTIONS! Who was it tried to convince me that art soaked in emotion is bad art, is female art, is low art, populace art, public art, trite and boring art, unchallenging art? Who told me these things, while I listen to music and view films and these things are FILLED with emotion, and the best ones are filled with as much emotion as the worst ones, the only difference is SINCERITY, purity of vision, the only difference is in the amount of SKILL used in the seduction, and doesn't that so often just come down to effort and intent?
And I feel joy, and I feel sorrow, and I feel pain and anticipation and apprehension and I feel and I feel and most importantly I feel. Here again I come back to one of my favorite dichotomies, one of my trickiest choices – shall I be a romantic, or shall I be a cynic? It is only these extremes that interest me, it is only these extremes that I understand. The in-between is so terribly uninteresting, but how do I chose, NO how do I accept this rapid cycling back and forth from complete romance, filled with EMOTION (in capital capital letters) and total detachment, dry, CYNICAL (clinical?)???
???????
I remember now, I remember my mother telling me "control yourself, control yourself control yourself." I remember now, I remember my lover telling me "control yourself, control yourself, control yourself." I remember now, I remember my own voice screaming in my head "control yourself, control yourself, control yourself."
I remember now, I remember throwing books against the walls, I remember throwing shoes against the walls, I remember throwing punches against the faces, I remember throwing myself against the floor, I remember throwing tantrums, screaming, shouting (control yourself, control yourself!), I remember punching walls and carving lines in flesh, breaking windows, bawling (control yourself), I remember driving too fast and too far without any gas without a map, I remember drinking too much taking too many drugs going mad, going mad, going mad and coming back again.
It is not in my nature (control yourself control yourself). But . . . it is the entirety of my nature (Control yourself. Control yourself.).
20 November 2006
movie geek
I submit for your consideration:
Rod Steiger as Juan Miranda in "A Fistful of Dynamite" versus Al Pacino as Tony Montana in "Scarface"
Attention should be paid to the fact that the Leone film came out 12 years before De Palma's classic. I suggest no foul play, only one actor building on and borrowing from another. I've always considered Pacino's performance in "Scarface" to be an absolute masterpiece . . . and yet, after watching "A Fistful of Dynamite" (aka Duck You Sucker!) tonight, I have to say Pacino's performance completely pales in comparison to the depth and compassion Steiger gives his tough Mexican. Perhaps part of the beauty of Pacino's Scarface is in the over-acting, the dramatic flair he lends. But considering that it is clearly built on the groundwork set by Steiger, I have to say the subtlety with which Juan Miranda is endued is much more powerful. It is the beauty of the sublime that stands out here against the thrill of the garish that came after.
In related news, if you get a chance to see "Your Vice Is A Locked Room And Only I Have The Key," do not, I say DO NOT pass it up. Complete fucking masterpiece.
Rod Steiger as Juan Miranda in "A Fistful of Dynamite" versus Al Pacino as Tony Montana in "Scarface"
Attention should be paid to the fact that the Leone film came out 12 years before De Palma's classic. I suggest no foul play, only one actor building on and borrowing from another. I've always considered Pacino's performance in "Scarface" to be an absolute masterpiece . . . and yet, after watching "A Fistful of Dynamite" (aka Duck You Sucker!) tonight, I have to say Pacino's performance completely pales in comparison to the depth and compassion Steiger gives his tough Mexican. Perhaps part of the beauty of Pacino's Scarface is in the over-acting, the dramatic flair he lends. But considering that it is clearly built on the groundwork set by Steiger, I have to say the subtlety with which Juan Miranda is endued is much more powerful. It is the beauty of the sublime that stands out here against the thrill of the garish that came after.
In related news, if you get a chance to see "Your Vice Is A Locked Room And Only I Have The Key," do not, I say DO NOT pass it up. Complete fucking masterpiece.
18 November 2006
jim beam
a midnight snack of buttered toast . . . ah, but it's 5 in the morning.
who drinks more . . . artists or priests? the fucking fish and chip shops close at three . . .
a midnight snack of buttered toast. living in scotland has convinced me buttered toast constitutes a meal.
giant painting, tiny animation, ridiculous art parties . . . sandwiched between millionaires and famous artists, talking about the weather, talking about wine, talking about ANYTHING BUT ART. take a hip-hop producer and trap him in a basement courtyard. fire exit? only if you prefer to burn alive while watching the clouds move overhead. scale a wall, climb two fences, run back to the party with a half-bottle of cheap red wine.
smoked two cigarettes tonight. how foul! how uncouth, how repulsive! drank too much. again?! again!? think about pushing double racks into giant ovens, judging when the croissants are proofed but not overproofed, apply enough eggwash, bake for the exact right amount of time, dust with a fine coating of powdered sugar, pack them in boxes efficiently but not too tightly, stay a bit late and run off for a rendezvous with the . . . coworker? lover? friend? accomplice . . . ?
none of that here, all serious art and serious theory, cold nights and empty beds, do it right and dress to impress, remember your audience, chat up the boys but to no constructive end . . . are you winding me up? are you taking the piss?
I loved him. but it was never meant to be.
goodnight.
who drinks more . . . artists or priests? the fucking fish and chip shops close at three . . .
a midnight snack of buttered toast. living in scotland has convinced me buttered toast constitutes a meal.
giant painting, tiny animation, ridiculous art parties . . . sandwiched between millionaires and famous artists, talking about the weather, talking about wine, talking about ANYTHING BUT ART. take a hip-hop producer and trap him in a basement courtyard. fire exit? only if you prefer to burn alive while watching the clouds move overhead. scale a wall, climb two fences, run back to the party with a half-bottle of cheap red wine.
smoked two cigarettes tonight. how foul! how uncouth, how repulsive! drank too much. again?! again!? think about pushing double racks into giant ovens, judging when the croissants are proofed but not overproofed, apply enough eggwash, bake for the exact right amount of time, dust with a fine coating of powdered sugar, pack them in boxes efficiently but not too tightly, stay a bit late and run off for a rendezvous with the . . . coworker? lover? friend? accomplice . . . ?
none of that here, all serious art and serious theory, cold nights and empty beds, do it right and dress to impress, remember your audience, chat up the boys but to no constructive end . . . are you winding me up? are you taking the piss?
I loved him. but it was never meant to be.
goodnight.
14 November 2006
A Universal Language
Am I speaking Esperanto? Am I out of my mind?
A system of symbols used to communicate complex ideas . . .? That is language, fool.
There's another tact -- something about naive art . . . something about art that appeals to the child, the uneducated, the unindoctrinated . . .
I need to rethink.
On a side note, have you ever eaten so much that you began to hallucinate? The dinner last night made me see tracers. Not only that, but I've felt completely hung over all day today. Not from the wine, but from the food. MSG hangover?
A system of symbols used to communicate complex ideas . . .? That is language, fool.
There's another tact -- something about naive art . . . something about art that appeals to the child, the uneducated, the unindoctrinated . . .
I need to rethink.
On a side note, have you ever eaten so much that you began to hallucinate? The dinner last night made me see tracers. Not only that, but I've felt completely hung over all day today. Not from the wine, but from the food. MSG hangover?
Illegal Chinese Restaurant
Dinner tonight in an "illegal" Chinese restaurant, known only to those who are . . . in the know. Disguised as a simple Chinese Take-Away (take-out for the yanks), but with a hidden dining room only accessed by going through the kitchen and down a flight of stairs. Very exclusive (ahem hem hem). The food was amazing and I ate far too much. Conversation was good as well, mostly about the food though occasionally veering towards topics like "city planning," "architecture in Tokyo," and "the institution of marriage."
Prior to dinner there was a sort of exhausting conversation held between 20 people and two languages. Conversing between languages is a task. Got me thinking about communication possibilities in the absence of language. It is clear that there are certain images and symbols that are somewhat universal, like those used in directional signage, and these symbols are generally used to communicate very simple concepts (Stop, Do Not Enter, Watch for People Crossing the Road, etc.). So my thought was this: Is there a way to communicate complex ideas across cultural and language barriers using universally understood symbols? Maybe not . . . I find it a very interesting question to mull over. It would remove all the idiosyncrasies of language, those bits that develop in accordance with the mores and values of the culture in which the language developed. To be universally understood . . . is it possible? Is it even desirable? It's just the seed of an idea, but I expect some heavy experimentation is in order directly.
And now, for your enjoyment, a transcript of the notes I took during this evening's meeting:
Network outside network -- have we improved anything, or just . . .
Q. Why do we want to work with other people?
A. so i don't go mad.
"ecology of the institution" is john henry sleeping?
the limitations of verbal communication, esp. across cultures, language -------- [and then my pen died]
[and then i borrowed a pen from ella]
communication w/o language
Not -- what information does not translate
but
what information does not NEED translation?
is there a way to use simple symbols, childish, to explore complex ideas?
and what
about the
points where
we all go
MAD?
Communication
(or a lack thereof)
INSTITUTION
(some words are the same in most languages. all languages?)
WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? (said jana to her ill-chosen lover)
WHAT DO YOU MEAN?
COME AGAIN?
PARDON? communication between
EXCUSE ME? colleagues, Lovers,
CAN YOU CLARIFY? Friends, Strangers.
WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?
I DON'T GET IT I DON'T GET YOU I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
[and then i turned the page over]
-Research which words are the most universal-
(Academy? Institution? University?)
collectives - what about Newsreel?
Visual Communication
I can communicate to you, but you
cannot communicate to me. Yet
|
|
\/
System of symbols
UNIVERSAL . . .
IMPOSSIBLE?
Prior to dinner there was a sort of exhausting conversation held between 20 people and two languages. Conversing between languages is a task. Got me thinking about communication possibilities in the absence of language. It is clear that there are certain images and symbols that are somewhat universal, like those used in directional signage, and these symbols are generally used to communicate very simple concepts (Stop, Do Not Enter, Watch for People Crossing the Road, etc.). So my thought was this: Is there a way to communicate complex ideas across cultural and language barriers using universally understood symbols? Maybe not . . . I find it a very interesting question to mull over. It would remove all the idiosyncrasies of language, those bits that develop in accordance with the mores and values of the culture in which the language developed. To be universally understood . . . is it possible? Is it even desirable? It's just the seed of an idea, but I expect some heavy experimentation is in order directly.
And now, for your enjoyment, a transcript of the notes I took during this evening's meeting:
Network outside network -- have we improved anything, or just . . .
Q. Why do we want to work with other people?
A. so i don't go mad.
"ecology of the institution" is john henry sleeping?
the limitations of verbal communication, esp. across cultures, language -------- [and then my pen died]
[and then i borrowed a pen from ella]
communication w/o language
Not -- what information does not translate
but
what information does not NEED translation?
is there a way to use simple symbols, childish, to explore complex ideas?
and what
about the
points where
we all go
MAD?
Communication
(or a lack thereof)
INSTITUTION
(some words are the same in most languages. all languages?)
WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? (said jana to her ill-chosen lover)
WHAT DO YOU MEAN?
COME AGAIN?
PARDON? communication between
EXCUSE ME? colleagues, Lovers,
CAN YOU CLARIFY? Friends, Strangers.
WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?
I DON'T GET IT I DON'T GET YOU I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
[and then i turned the page over]
-Research which words are the most universal-
(Academy? Institution? University?)
collectives - what about Newsreel?
Visual Communication
I can communicate to you, but you
cannot communicate to me. Yet
|
|
\/
System of symbols
UNIVERSAL . . .
IMPOSSIBLE?
13 November 2006
Two Dead Sluts
Went to my first show in Edinburgh tonight, a band called "Dawn of the Replicants," which might be the greatest band name I've ever heard. No, that's a complete over-statement. Here are some band names that are at least as good, if not better:
Two Dead Sluts, One Good Fuck
Butthole Surfers
Chicks on Speed
Death Lurks
Goblin
I Hate You When You're Pregnant (R.I.P...)
Fantomas
Yo La Tengo
That was a digression . . . "Dawn of the Replicants" is a great band name, and the band itself was fairly spectacular -- this sort of bluesy, jazzy rock with an incredibly emotive lead singer, drummer who wore a t-shirt that featured a grid of florescent colored (excuse me, coloured) dinosaurs, and a guitar player who also played both the harmonica (mouth harp) and the jews harp (is there a more p.c. name for that instrument?), though not at the same time . . . The performance reminded me of what it might have been like to see Van Morrison perform Street Choir in 1974.
Two Dead Sluts, One Good Fuck
Butthole Surfers
Chicks on Speed
Death Lurks
Goblin
I Hate You When You're Pregnant (R.I.P...)
Fantomas
Yo La Tengo
That was a digression . . . "Dawn of the Replicants" is a great band name, and the band itself was fairly spectacular -- this sort of bluesy, jazzy rock with an incredibly emotive lead singer, drummer who wore a t-shirt that featured a grid of florescent colored (excuse me, coloured) dinosaurs, and a guitar player who also played both the harmonica (mouth harp) and the jews harp (is there a more p.c. name for that instrument?), though not at the same time . . . The performance reminded me of what it might have been like to see Van Morrison perform Street Choir in 1974.
08 November 2006
provide me with some logic
On Monday I met an amazing girl (woman? lady? chick? lass? female? broad?). She is strong and well spoken, sharp and witty, all while being incredibly feminine in a completely natural way. I met her boyfriend first, a few weeks back, and was so impressed with him that when I first met this amazing woman, I thought, "so she's the lucky one!" Within twenty minutes, this had reversed itself completely. "How did HE get so lucky?!"
This woman, when asked what she wanted from a man, had this to say: "I need someone who will gently, but firmly, provide me with some logic." POETRY, I exclaim now from the silence of my fingertips.
9:58 PM
defrag my mind
Remember "defragging"? As in, "I need to defrag my harddrive so Windows 95 will stop crashing every 20 seconds"? Or, "I need to get some sleep so I can process the day and defrag my mind"? Long evenings of conversation lead to insomnia and thus, the mind is not properly defragged. I am running on a highly fragmented system, and will therefore not be held responsible. Proper care of the OS is essential, fool.
Spent a little time last night writing a narrative of the first time I was kissed, back in my freshman year of college. An hour after I wrote it, I learned that the boy who kissed me first is getting married in a week. "Jesus," I said, "I was just Thinking about him!" "Jesus," I said to my self, "Jesus."
As Steve has so helpfully informed me, Guy Fawkes day is a celebration of a man who blew up Parliament. Or, more accurately, a celebration of the killing of a man who blew up Parliament. In honor of the day, Scots (and I imagine the rest of Britain as well) set off excessive amounts of fireworks before burning Guy Fawkes in effigy. Good fun. From the top floor of the graduate studios at Inverleith, I could watch the entire Old Town skyline, where lovely colors exploded in the night south from Holyrood to north of the castle. It was an incredibly mesmerizing display. Failed to locate any burning effigies, unfortunately.
This woman, when asked what she wanted from a man, had this to say: "I need someone who will gently, but firmly, provide me with some logic." POETRY, I exclaim now from the silence of my fingertips.
9:58 PM
defrag my mind
Remember "defragging"? As in, "I need to defrag my harddrive so Windows 95 will stop crashing every 20 seconds"? Or, "I need to get some sleep so I can process the day and defrag my mind"? Long evenings of conversation lead to insomnia and thus, the mind is not properly defragged. I am running on a highly fragmented system, and will therefore not be held responsible. Proper care of the OS is essential, fool.
Spent a little time last night writing a narrative of the first time I was kissed, back in my freshman year of college. An hour after I wrote it, I learned that the boy who kissed me first is getting married in a week. "Jesus," I said, "I was just Thinking about him!" "Jesus," I said to my self, "Jesus."
As Steve has so helpfully informed me, Guy Fawkes day is a celebration of a man who blew up Parliament. Or, more accurately, a celebration of the killing of a man who blew up Parliament. In honor of the day, Scots (and I imagine the rest of Britain as well) set off excessive amounts of fireworks before burning Guy Fawkes in effigy. Good fun. From the top floor of the graduate studios at Inverleith, I could watch the entire Old Town skyline, where lovely colors exploded in the night south from Holyrood to north of the castle. It was an incredibly mesmerizing display. Failed to locate any burning effigies, unfortunately.
05 November 2006
Vulpes Homosexual
The texture of quinoa is the same as fish roe, makes me crave the Queen Anne sushi joint I used to frequent in Seattle. Reminds me of a birthday dinner of delicious raw fish and warm sake shared with a good friend. "This will be the year," I may have uttered. "Holy shit I'm moving to Scotland," I may have silently thought, as birthday was the day I discovered I'd be coming.
I process my experiences and emotional responses to them through visual metaphors, which I can then, if needed, translate into words. I don't know if this is a universal human experience or something more unique. Perhaps some research is in order. Here are some examples:
Devestating weekend with ex-boyfriend = Confused bear holding the remains of shredded psyche dangling from sharp claws
Delusional thinking = Small spider spinning intricate web in the hopes of capturing moths and placing them into a digestible context
Slept until 1300 today and it is a dark day in Edinburgh. Getting dark as soon as it was light. Note to self: Don't sleep so late, and stop listening to so much Kings of Convenience. Today is Guy Fawkes Day. I'm not entirely sure what that means apart from kids setting off fireworks in the Links [read: park + municipal low-par golf greens] across the street from my flat. Perhaps some research is in order. Note to self: Research Visual Metaphor and Guy Fawkes Day. Note to self: Get out of bed.
I process my experiences and emotional responses to them through visual metaphors, which I can then, if needed, translate into words. I don't know if this is a universal human experience or something more unique. Perhaps some research is in order. Here are some examples:
Devestating weekend with ex-boyfriend = Confused bear holding the remains of shredded psyche dangling from sharp claws
Delusional thinking = Small spider spinning intricate web in the hopes of capturing moths and placing them into a digestible context
Slept until 1300 today and it is a dark day in Edinburgh. Getting dark as soon as it was light. Note to self: Don't sleep so late, and stop listening to so much Kings of Convenience. Today is Guy Fawkes Day. I'm not entirely sure what that means apart from kids setting off fireworks in the Links [read: park + municipal low-par golf greens] across the street from my flat. Perhaps some research is in order. Note to self: Research Visual Metaphor and Guy Fawkes Day. Note to self: Get out of bed.
03 November 2006
(w0)man and his symbols
Just woke from an evening's half-sleep of fever dreams, madly untangling the threads of conscious from unconscious, waking to find that I..ve accidentally clawed a hole right through the middle of the cloth. That's what I get for falling asleep while reading Jung? Touché.
Do you ever wake in the morning to find you were someone else last night? Somewhere between waking and sleeping, you morphed into an entirely different creature, only to hit the reset button with sleep and wake up yourself, but a bit confused?
Walking across town last night at one a.m. I saw a fox running alongside the closed shops of Princes Street. A group of drunken men balancing traffic cones on their heads exclaimed that seeing something like that had to be, "out of the ordinary."
Write something about extroversion . . . suddenly I find that meeting new people is not draining as it has been in the past, but is becoming invigorating and inspiring. This is a thrilling change. Social anxiety remains, but as the focus shifts from me to you, the fear begins a retreat into darkened corners. Conversation breeds new ideas, and everybody is interested in doing things. Melancholy is not entirely eliminated, but becoming easier to ignore.
Do you ever wake in the morning to find you were someone else last night? Somewhere between waking and sleeping, you morphed into an entirely different creature, only to hit the reset button with sleep and wake up yourself, but a bit confused?
Walking across town last night at one a.m. I saw a fox running alongside the closed shops of Princes Street. A group of drunken men balancing traffic cones on their heads exclaimed that seeing something like that had to be, "out of the ordinary."
Write something about extroversion . . . suddenly I find that meeting new people is not draining as it has been in the past, but is becoming invigorating and inspiring. This is a thrilling change. Social anxiety remains, but as the focus shifts from me to you, the fear begins a retreat into darkened corners. Conversation breeds new ideas, and everybody is interested in doing things. Melancholy is not entirely eliminated, but becoming easier to ignore.
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