2 November 2011

 There is something fascinating about your own scribblings from the past.

I cannot sleep. My  mind gives me no chance to sleep. I have been watching the ceiling for more than an hour now. The darkness behind the bathroom door which is not closed. The door of the closet isn’t closed either. I don’t like open door when I try to sleep.

                Have been watching the dim light shining through the curtains. The old, vague, tartan curtains. Almost as ugly as the dusty lamp on the dark ceiling. I have been watching this room more than once. The nights when I wasn’t able to sleep as well. These nights are different than the nights back home. It is not the panic, the suffocating realization of things I don’t want to think about but can’t control. These are not the nights when my heart starts pounding, my muscles freeze when I try so hard to avoid letting my mind take control. Think. Of. Something. Different. Please. Stop.

                No. This is different. I used to fall asleep after gaining control again, when the panic faded away. But now there is no point in trying. I gave up. ‘Going to have a glass of water.’ There’s no point in lying actually. He will understand. Maybe it is just lying to myself. Refusing to admit I am not able to control my mind, again. Yes, it is probably like that. But that’s all right. He would understand the lie as well. I guess.

                I’m snuggling in the big leather chair under a blanket. Waiting for my body to get cold, my eyes to get sore and my mind to get tired. Watching around the living room and the kitchen. My coffee cup with some cold coffee in it. I didn’t finish it. Loose paper where he scribbled some things on. I can’t read them from here. I’m not going to try to read it either. It is none of my business. Actually, he is none of my business. Should be none of my business at least.

Doggystyle.

 

Gotta love it.

5 days to Dublin

"The trick is, can you still do these things that are not considered 'classy' and still be classy?"

- Dita von Teese

Grocery shopping

Actually, the distance is a bit too large to walk. But since I don't have bike yet, and it is not that far away that I would bother to take a bus, I grab my backpack and walk to the store.

The shopping centre in my new neighbourhood is pretty big and they have loads of useful stores, like supermarkets, drugstores, clothing shops and much more. This is the first time I am spending time around my new room in Utrecht when there is some sunshine, so I do not mind the walk at all.

One of the first people I pass by is an unhealthy looking man who gives me an unpleasant grin when he passes. He leaves traces of an unidentifiable odour in the air. He is followed by another man, somewhat younger, but who gives me the same grin and carries the same heavy-looking bag. Looking at the trace of empty cans of cheap beer they left on the pavement, I am pretty sure what those bags contain. Thanks for the warm welcome, I say to myself.

The supermarket is huge. Enormous. It feels like I am on a holiday in France and enter one of those hypermarchees for the first time. The only thing that's missing is the freezers full of whole fish and lobsters. I have already crossed the vegetable section three times and still have not found the onions and garlic I was looking for. I did found bananas for baking, vegetables who look like hairy branches and grapes. To protect myself from eating the whole package of cookies when I am home, I go for the grapes.

After paying at the cashdesk, all the things I have forgotten pop up in my mind. I'll buy the salt and pepper tomorrow. And the sugar, and the coffee. 

On my way home I notice a group of young men is walking towards me, blocking the road. As I come closer, I look the guy in front of me right in the eyes (well, sunglasses), because that 'go the fuck out of my way' trick usually works. It does not now. And since I am not really looking forward to getting into an argument with a group of six guys wearing trashbags with Nickelson written on their back, I decide to jump on the cycling path just before I hit his shoulder. I see the same arrogant grin on his face and feel like slamming his face with my bottle of olive oil.

Yes, a nice neighbourhood that sometimes reminds me a little of Limerick. But this is more the Dutch version. And still better than Limerick, to be fair.

But anyway. I'm going to prepare my first meal here in a couple of minutues (coucous! yay) and my friend asked to go out with her tonight. I agreed, what means I will be wearing her party-clothes (who will look a little tight on me) and that she will have to bring me home on a bike (we are so Dutch!) but it's going to be fun fun fun. I'll just leave my olive-oil-bottle-weapon at home and have a good time.

Cardigan Death Metal

'cause I'm done with that.

"What one person sees as degrading and disgusting and bad for women might make some women feel empowered and beautiful and strong."

- Sasha Grey

The Solitude of Prime Numbers

Prime numbers are divisible only by one and by themselves. They stand in their place in the infinite series of natural numbers, squashed in between two others, like all other numbers, but a step further on than the rest. They are suspicious and solitary, which is why Mattia thought they were wonderful. Sometimes he thought that they had ended up in that sequence by mistake, that they'd been trapped like pearls strung on a  necklace. At other times he suspected that they too would rather have been like all the others, just ordinary numbers, but for some reason they weren't capable of it.

- Paolo Giordano