As I am working hard for a BA in English and US Civilisations, I' m left with very little time to do anything meaningful at all. Buried under books, books and more books. I'm loving it but I do miss my little Blogger rambling. Back in 6 months.
I have just discovered that Blogger must now be forcing some automatic enhancing to photographs as this picture appears much lighter than it should; or my color management is no longer synchronized; or I'm wasting my time.
I was not made for domestic life. I have sturdy legs; I am meant to be climbing mountains and swimming naked in clear water lakes, stroked by sunlight and dizzied by the sound of silence.
All my life I have attempted to reenact the one instant when I felt whole: It was berlin 1988, I was dancing in a very dark night club with the boy I loved to the sound of electronic music. Love banished the need to talk for ever. After that, I always listened to the music and not so much to the voices and to this day, I don't really know or care what men are talking about but music has taken me places where heart and mind dissolve, to big cities where the music always plays, loud and clear, taking away all fears of wrong doing. I was made to dance.
Sometimes I fear I am done and over with taking photographs and that I must succeed to speak in words when suddenly I fear living in the void and that only will I master my most cherished darkness by staring at the light. Are you with me?
...to what I should compare such a mental state, (...) I could find no closer analogy than the condition of those people who have got over a long illness, but are still sometimes mildly affected by onsets of fever and pain, and even when free of the last symptoms are still worried and upset(...) -Seneca
I fancy the idea of living in a bunker or in a troglodyte house. I would walk from darkness to light and back. That's what I would do all day long: walk from darkness to bright light and try to recover my senses and the thrill each time, passing from darkness to light and from light to darkness to try and regain normal vision. I would like to recover my senses. I read Edward Bunker twenty years ago, he gave me shivers.
On my desk lay a piece of paper with the name Mr Mouse written on it in blue ink, followed by a telephone number. I have not met Mr Mouse. It is down to me to call him or not. He does not know of my existence yet. The only certainty being that we both exist. if I dial his number, I set forth the possibility of easing the pain. The pain being self inflicting, I come to wander how Mr Mouse's phone number ended up on my desk. it seems I command a chain of small events upon which mr Mouse has no control. Would I call on him, I would then give him the opportunity to become an event in my disorderly life and therefore the possibility of controlling my life. Because to this day, I know that the pain can not be eased, I will not call Mr Mouse and I will be left with the uncertainty of why exactly his telephone number lay on my desk.