Reminder to self:
If I hadn't gone back to the sea, I wouldn't have lost hope to ever find a decent sea shell in the delicate , desert-combed by wind, Northern sand. Wouldn't have gained hope that I can keep challenging time, sculpting my own Dali clock. Wouldn't have covered my ears for pain from the wind on the way up the tower, above the water. Wouldn't have contemplated an apparently endless wild shore in the distance, angry waves around, and The Hague skyscrapers in the vivid sunset to contrast it all. I probably wouldn't have got rid of the lately daily insensitive and heavy stone-like state I was in. Nothing got to me lately, but the sea. There's still hope...
The sea within.
The sea above.
'The sea's evaporated
Though it comes as no surprise'. (Lyrics from Placebo and further ironical note to self: wouldn't go on sleeping with ghosts).
Later post, after things 'got to me': For related-to-disillusion states of anger, whether or not hormonally sprinkled by outburst of salty sadness, I turn to 'Brechtian punk cabaret' (Amanda Palmer, Dresden Dolls).
I take pleasure in studying my own moods from the outside, perhaps in order to avoid patterns rather than to find them. And to avoid any trace of pathetism, I actually think I'm allergic to it. I'm often, although rarely really visible, angry, and sarcastic in my blaming all, especially myself. Dresden Dolls are so much about betrayal, bitter loneliness, sweet revenge. Breaking chords, breaking things (although the best anger management solution I got to so far is putting water colours on my palms and hitting the door hard enough to set clear prints). I want more, goddamn it, or at least a decent argument.
You'll miss me...
(what a selfish post when Poland is mourning and a volcano in Iceland sending Europe ash)
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