I’ve just finished watching No Country for Old Men and I now miss hearing William’s voice. I am glad for the movie, it’s been a long while coming. That is, and what I mean is, I’d hoped for the Coen Brothers to go back to where they started from. And actually – they’ve probably surpassed some of their early work now, with this one.
It’s the type of movie that makes you look at the titles of the e-mails caught in your spam mail filter and actually almost find some profound meaning in them, only that it just about escapes you around the next corner. (There’s profanity here, but that comes with the territory.)
Betreff: ID MSG:74452 You have new mail from Olga
Betreff: V|a_gr-a 100mg x 10 pills = $ 59.95
Betreff: Prices cant be lower
Betreff: Hot blonde gives blowjob and swallow some sperm
Betreff: Available for you period
Betreff: Transaction failed
Betreff: RE: Le logiciel populaire, localise pour le franca…
Betreff: eliminate credit card debt
Betreff: Thanks for reading
I remember there’s been one spam mail message that I’d kept around for a while. It was one of those automated ones that had pulled out lines from random webpages to mask itself and trick some of the spam filters out there. What amazed was that it was poetry. But I’ve deleted it a good while back, so no quote here.
Today (my old rule of the day not being over before I go to bed still is valid; I am a couple days younger then my passport says) was a day that somewhat escapes words. It is that feeling I struggle with – of not quite feeling things are real, where I watch myself, where I don’t quite feel I fill my body. Where I am not really “me”. But I’ll start with yesterday.
I’ve discussed my dissertation with my personal tutor – and chances are it will turn towards a critical theory approach; not a prescriptive intervention, not me working as a researcher but a participant in a collaborative research project on Adventure Therapy. Where the group decides what Adventure Therapy is (which, naturally, implies a critical perspective on therapy forms that do exist). Where the group forms the methodology. The problem: I am anxious about pushing this forward. I know I need to, as I need to start producing data. But yes … when trying to formulate all this in words (spoken) it goes down the “it’s all too ridiculous line”. Another day.
Back home – late night – the main fuse went off. It’s only Anne and me here right now, this being reading week, and everyone else (including Gopi. back to India, to attend a relative’s marriage) gone. Anne was already fretting about having to finish an essay on rhododendron and with the power off, being forced to call it quits, was getting wound up about the whole situation. Thing is … the wiring in this house is messed up, somehow, majorly. We don’t have lights on the ground floor (and didn’t have any on the first floor, either, for some time). They’ve been here, trying to fix this frequently, it might work for a while, then some fuse refuses to cooperate. It’s never been the mains, so far, however. We tried getting power back on for a while but gave up eventually and used candles (and early bed time for each soon after).
Today … well, one of the amateur builders (they all seem best buddies with our landlady’s agent) came in, switched the fuse back on, and it stayed in. I had to leave, I don’t know if he actually called an electrician.
But also, today, was a day where I couldn’t communicate (meeting Silé, not being able to express myself well). We both walked over to the Liverpool Mental Health Consortium’s general meeting – one of those conferences that are important but largely pass you by. It might become more meaningful a year down the road, once having more of an insight what the Consortium is actually up to.
Once back home … I needed to just crash down. One of the weirdest realisations really is that you feel you are just a brain stuck in a hard skull, it’s all very cramped, physically feeling how claustrophobic it all is. And yes, that feeling of … a distinct lack of reality as indicated in the first paragraph.
The weird thing is – it’s always books or movies or fiction in general that grounds me. That reaches me in a more real way than reality – my reality, my existence, my being, my being a physical form, me existing in a space, in a sense, in well “here” this “place” – does.
I am still trying to figure out how not being me feels like. If there’s common ground between what me individual feels like and what them (other individuals) being them feels like. I guess that distinct thing I am trying to express here is not a common feeling – but it’s not dissociative, not quite (or not even close) – it’s just a keen sense of observing oneself and how unreal and bizarre the way live just always winds and moves forward is. It’s also based on an incredible amount of confusion.
But well. It’s time to end this day.
