ink.

Being in such distress lately has been pushing me into some hardcore doodling. Many times I felt the need to transcribe my occasional fits of rage, and I dare say we should all be thankful I didn’t. Whilst serving the www community by being AWOL for so long, I’ve caused great harm to myself, and it was high time it all came to an end. I’m in no way engaging into reinventing the wheel at this precise moment (though I might do it at some point in my life), and unless you’re here to read my useless rants, go away.

This blog won’t save your life.

It won’t save mine either, but it’s a good and comfy way to pass the time. Being a slacker has never felt this good.

After losing my card on my way to the pub, being the burger queen and getting sick, realizing I’ve got 2 weeks left to write a paper on some American film of my choice (might just give Lynch some praise here) and buying almond butter, I’ve come to realize what I truly madly deeply need is a haircut. Mind you, this may not be the righteous way to productivity, but I’m starting to think in more creative ways, thus I believe it’s a good start.

If I haven’t felt any culture shock (teh horror!) whatsoever upon moving to the UK, there are a couple of things that baffle me. No, I’m not talking about the hilarious amount of hair salons in Luton (although walking down the street and coming across one every 3 metres is a bit frustrating), I’m talking about the hilarious amount of services they offer (at quite a hilarious price, I might as well add, but I’m in no way going there). I can’t remember jack, but they did strike me as uncanny. I don’t know much about hairstyling and all that girlie hooey, but why on earth would I need a cut and BLOW, if my hair was dry in the first place? It sure does more sense when you add the word (and a couple more quid for that matter) WASH, but otherwise it all turns into womanish crap. I don’t know where I’m going with this, what I do want to know is why can’t I have a plain and simple cut, why do they have to wash and dry blow and restyle and whatnot my hair. Why, Mr. Toni&Guy, can’t I pay that ridiculous sum of money just to get rid of this curly nuisance that my hair has become?

I’m thinking of adopting a DYI attitude and get it over with. Too much stress. What a hassle. If only I knew what being a girl involved…

Not that I could’ve done anything.

And one more thing before I get back to Samuel Beckett. I occasionally wake up in the middle of the night and write things on tiny yellow post-it notes. Woke up this morning and one was lying around on the floor, stating I would enjoy living in a world where people could feel the pain of others for a second just by touching them. I know exactly what this thought cues to, and I won’t go there; let’s just say sometimes I feel bad because I feel bad and there’s no way I can prove it.

Later on however, it dawned upon me some of us might become serial killers. Funny how our pain, be it physical or not, might be unbearable for others. Hard to classify, harder to explain, impossible to imagine.

Just don’t call me little miss mass murderer.

People call me many things these days, and i’m glad they do, for they helped me improve my vocabulary quite a lot (although i’m not sure in which way knowing 5 synonyms for the word geek is going to help me in life, but i’m still grateful). However, in 20 years of fragile existence i have never been called old, or ancient, or outdated, or whatever (nevertheless, i refer to myself as being oldskool, but that’s a different matter). Well, not until today, when i turned 20 years 4 months and 1 day. To put you in context, somebody at school couldn’t fail to notice how clean my Converse trainers were, and after proudly declaring that i did in fact wash them, i had to answer a flurry of rather rude questions (not that i mind them, truth be told).

you cook

you clean your shoes

you never come to parties because you’re always reading

you take notes

just

what kind of student are you?

I don’t know man, a good one?!

I do have a record of evasive responses, but i think this might be on the top of my list.

The problem with me is, i’d rather be old than starved. Intellectually challenged than physically. Etc. Maybe i’d make a good mother, i’m not keen on finding out that part. Even smart as a whip as people think i am, i’m still having fun, so just stop worrying about my clean shoes.

On another note, i’ve always imagined people gravitating towards each other in concentric circles. Most of them manage to reach the centre, while others feel more safe at extremities. What the centre people don’t seem to understand is the fact that the others are not really struggling to get where they are. What the centre people fail to see is the fact that the others act as their life buoy, even though at some point we all drown, one way or another, for that floating idea of safety in numbers is a mere deceit.

(Marty: Thirteen. But I have an old soul.)

- At his back the light’s gone blue at the hills

and what’s oncoming night continues to rise from the valley floor ,

enduring slopes and small crested villages,

until what is not under blue, that deepening scrim of blue,

surrenders its final dapple and winks out, breathing away from the windows, dark

and completed

to complete: a breath that bears reflection.

Don’t ever get old. -

8 years ago I was lucky enough to meet my significant other, a Parker fountain pen, and yes, it was love at first…touch. However, the pen belonged to my desk mate, so our relationship couldn’t pass the timid glances stage, and as it wasn’t precisely cheap, I had to get used to the thought that i would never get one.

Last year in August i had some spare money and i convinced myself it was high time i had that pen, so i went into the shop, looked at it and went back home. 2 months ago i found it here at half the Romanian price so i said yeah, why not. 1 minute ago i realized i’m using Word for basically everything, so the pen was a dream come true, but i don’t feel happier having it in my pencil case. Thus i thought maybe sometimes we invest too much into our dreams, wishes, desires etc; so much that when they actually start to materialize we cannot be happy anymore, for they cost us too much soul.

Anyhow, 2 weeks ago i had to meet someone and that person had to write something down so she asked me for a pen. I gave her my fountain pen and i was amazed to see she didn’t know how to use it. I tried not to be judgmental, after all i cannot expect everyone to hate ballpoint pens and love neat notebooks, but the situation saddened me. I know i don’t know many things, but what i know for a fact is that my life would be so much more empty without the occasional stains of blue ink. And if you want to hear more, i also know that everyone should try to write with a fountain pen every now and then, even though the process of finding the perfect one might take, well, too long.

You know what i would do, i’d spend a few days on that bridge, staring at people passing by me. I’d try to invent a story for everyone, like i used to do a couple of years ago. In the end, maybe i could see my own big picture. Maybe their looks would feel more familiar. But no, i do not suffer from the displaced child syndrome.

I’ve been having some serious issues lately. I can’t really tell if it’s me being stupid or the same me growing up, but everything seems fake. I’m mainly talking about the films i watch, because that’s how i basically spend my days (note to self: get a job, ftlog). I don’t think i dig this whole tv shows meet mtv extravaganza; ok, they’re fun to watch once, but the second time, when i start looking for other things besides entertainment, i find myself staring blankly at the screen thinking that if i’m ever to be a filmmaker (tho i have some mixed feelings about that as of late), i should steer clear of all this trendy fuss. I don’t know. I don’t even know why i’m writing this, but it wouldn’t make me feel better if i knew so heh.

Anyway, London’s been quite nice last night, Explosions in the Sky owned my heart, for some obvious (they are obviously obvious when i’m too lazy to elaborate) reasons. I don’t think having a nice camera pays off, the Astoria bastards kept mine at the box office. They probably think pocket cameras cannot count as proper cameras, for those aren’t real pictures. Oh they would be so surprised. I’m planning to get a Ricoh Caplio one of these days. We’ll see.

d: are you still alive?

t: i hate this country.

patterns.

straight from flikr, to be honest. I’m quite in dire need of time lately, but i could still go out and take some pictures. Unfortunately i live in the least inspirational place, so instead of taking pictures i stay in and draw storyboards. One should always have an occupation. Always.

_watchtheautumskiesfromafar_