ad_nauseam's Journal

2:19pm: I have just received Boris. Out of all days, today, when I haven's slept for more than four hours, when my eyes and head ache with rhythmic persistency, when I have things to do and things to think about. You say that it's grim down there, and i look around and can't help noticing that it's grim everywhere. crises, pandemics, and on top of everything an excruciating sunlight. human life is a joke, what's more to say?
i got to know a couple of days ago that M. is leaving, at least for a year. good for him, disastrous for me. i got drunk from two beers and was lying in my bed for the whole weekend. once again, i felt abandoned by life.

8:10pm: Dear you,

I haven't written in a while. A couple of days, which feels like much longer.
It's so sad to give up on you as a friend. as a lover - it's painful, but as a friend - it's sad and grey. I would have told you that for the first time i've come close to being excited about my job. i know it's only temporary but, still, the excitement is worthwhile. today i would have come to you and said: let's watch a movie. let's cook a dinner, or let's take a walk down the very same street that you and i know know so well. let's just be here under this serene evening sun, or let's go to a park and watch the ducks strut around.
i got a candlelight as a present, for having done "a good job". it feels and looks solid. i put it on my table, to remind me of gratitude that i once received. once being today. an ordinary one.

8:38pm: This is orgasmic - this cold and bitter Latvian beer. in this moment alone, i feel utterly content. i swallow my exhaustion and wash down the hopelesness.
I don't know. sometimes i'm just haunted by words. they just sneek into my head and buzz around and wrap my brain in a plenty of sentences, of different sizes and shapes. most probably it's the inevitable side-effect of being alone so much and of finally having released the monster. yes, the monster. but that we shall leave for another time to be explained, if ever.
the more i think about it, the less sure i become about the purpose for these unsent letters of mine. what for? for the lack of a good company? not really. for the lack of understanding? maybe. for the persistence of hope? most probably.

9:22pm: It.feels.like.bliss. exactly, it's such a euphoric feeling - to sit here and drink wine and smoke (should stop, will tell you why later) and listen to some classic pop. i could stay like this. just like this, today and forever and ever.
I bought a flower today and put it on the windowsill. I think it looks beautiful. I've wanted to have a plant in here for a long time. I thought i would buy it when i get the 'promotion' at my job, but when i got it i didn't feel glad at all, so i let it be.. and now, today, finally at long last it felt like a perfect day to buy this flower. i had a black dress and i had curls in my hair and colleague I. said i looked beautiful. and, well, i did feel beautiful. cute and girlish and pretty. it must be the curls, i think.
since i'm tipsy enough and i feel more than i can accomplish in expressing what i feel, i though i might just as well post something that i wrote earlier. a month and a half ago, when it was still snowing and when i still hoped for us to grow.

05/03
I almost jumped on the Riga-Vilnius bus. Except that it was about to leave at 18:45, and it was 18:35. And i put my hat and my scarf and my gloves on, and then this stupid coat with the broken zipper. do you remember? most probably not. and just like then, at Sapnju fabrika after Goran Gora concert almost a year ago, it just broke down. a fucking zipper. and i was almost ready to leave, and this stupid zipper just wouldn't work, and i just stayed there and counted down the minutes: 38, 39, 40.. and only five minutes left, and of course it became clear that i wouldn't go anywhere, and of course i had to persuade myself that it somehow was not meant to be, not meant to happen. not now, not today. perhaps some other time. but it just felt wrong. terribly and stupidly wrong. and of course there was an airbaltic flight at 23:30 but it just didn't feel right. and then i thought, what are those feelings anyway? should we rely on them? are they any more than flickers of self-deceptions? and the answer is.. just because i'm drunk and gibberish.. the answer is NO. in vino veritas or whatever. because tonight i wouldn't want to be anywhere else but with you. no agenda, no purpose. just being with you, there and then. wherever you are. just to hold you. just to see you. to feel you. your arms, your skin, your look, your eyes, your voice, your everything. the thing is - you don't even have to fuck me. you're stupid to say that i love your cock. yes it's true and yet it's so far far from the truth. because what i love is so much more. and in this so much more your cock is pretty insignificant. because your cock and your touch and your kiss is such a tiny part of everything that i love. it's not what you do, it's the way you are. it's the way that you move, it's the way that you think, it's the way that you live. if anything, that would be the most accurate definition of what i love. liking needs reasons. love doesn't. love is unconditional. love doesn't ask why. love just happens. love simply is. like your morning coffee, like your smoke, like your english, like your eyes in the morning, like your fingertops, like your sighs, like your doubts, like your dreams and regrets, like your pain and sorrow, like your joy and frustration, like your words, born and yet unconceived. Just lie there and do nothing, and i would still love you. what do i like? cats and cherries and your tongue on my nipples - that's what i like. not much really.
I don't know what's going to happen. maybe not much, or probably nothing at all. Life is short, yes, but people are incredibly slow, and it takes much more than a badly composed love letter to change their minds or hearts."

well, this was a bit longer than i expected. even in my wine-foggy mind i can easily spot the cliches. i guess i felt elated and, it seems, very enthusiastic. i guess i was sure i had so much to say, and that what i had to say was singular and astounding. it wasn't, of course. apart from a couple of sentences. but don't judge this woman too harsh. she was and still is desperate. and anything is better than bitter irony. even the 'love happens' line. of course any sound person would beg to differ. love doesn't happen, it is created and cherished and sustained. or simply imagined. which is beautiful in any case, because it makes artists of us all. and being an artists is the most dignified form of existence a human being could dream of. everything else is a construct.
do you know when i first..how should i put it..noticed you? when i read that article on trafficking. i remembered it! back then i didn't even read that magazine, but just leafing through it and paying attention to what you wrote and how you wrote it caught my attention. i read it and i thought - finally someone is writing about some real stuff.. which isn't a phrase i would use now but which describes exactly the way i felt then. you caught the attention of an ignorant cynic. and someone had been with you on a date, or so i'd heard. and of course i didn't care, but even in my not caring i could vividly remember that i thought: goodness, if it had been me, this man would have simply crushed me. honestly, that's what ran through my mind. before i returned to my daily chores and forgot about you altogether. until a year or so later..

10:20am: I have to admit the morning is beautiful. although the sun is unavoidably bright. and the trams are awake, of course. and the cars. i wonder where people are going this easter morning. probably getting back from their countrysides, the backseats packed with onion-shell coloured eggs and sleepy children and melting chocolate bunnies.
but where were we? i was saying that, yes, it's a still and peaceful morning and i think of you lying in my bed, turning your back on me as usual, and i would try not to mind because even your back is better than nothing, and i would look at this back and would want to touch it. with a finger then a palm and then both palms. and see the sun on my skin and feel its warmth. and i would spread my fingers and let the sun seep through. and that's how your back would get warm. but in all likelihood i would go on lying there and just think about touching your back. and then you would wake up and fuck me.

8:03am: there can be such joy in doing things. i worked a lot during this easter. i worked through it. pages after pages of translation. and the film. i translated a film by Bergman. i'm sure you haven't seen it. its english title, The Good Intentions, is simply not accurate. it most certainly should have been The Good Will. i have a feeling that for some reason people tend to avoid this word - will. because it's old-fashioned? because it's too strong? anyhow. the film was semi-autobiographic, about Bergman's parents. his father was a priest and his mother a 'spoilt bourgeois girl'. and so they fought through life and love. parents on both sides disapproved of the marriage, but they married anyway and moved to the north of the country, to a small village with wooden shacks, freezing winters and sullen people.

but there it comes - a wave of morning lust. it's cunt-wringing.

8:24pm: All i remember about you is words. words that console, words that entice, words that sting, words that seduce, words that abuse, words that humiliate, words that cut. when you leave, words remain. empty like seashells. and all alike, in the end.

4:03pm: I have been thinking. Of course you are right when you say I am lonely and that i desperately need someone to talk or write to. an object. and more often than not, the first person that instinctively crosses my mind in such instances is you. which is like ten times on a good day, roughly speaking. taking into account the circumstances, however, i choose not to contact you again. i don't say ever, which would be little more than stupid and melodramatic. but definitely for a much longer time than usually. not until i feel some ground under my feet, to use a badly chosen metaphor.. because least of all i would want to receive your replies, which, being obscenely polite as you are, you would undoubtedly feel obliged to write. it would just pain me. pain me like your smile. i don't know how many times i have seen c-o-n-d-e-s-c-e-n-d-i-n-g written all over your face, making me feel as pitiable as never before. but i digress.
I couldn't sleep yesternight (amazing. i was sure such a word didn't exist. but it does..). I took my clothes on, opened the window and lighted a Kent. and...there was something in the air, for the lack of more original wording. there really was. no wind. the winter chill gone. just trams rushing left-right-right-left on KB street. my head followed the motion, and for a moment i felt almost meditative. and then, out of nowhere, in the middle of the night, churchbells started ringing. churchbells! out of all the possible sounds one might expect at night, i guess churchbells are not the number one option. it was strange. and i tried to breathe in as much of this strangeness as i could. it felt like the beginning of the last chapter. or something to that effect.