What you hate is what you are. Perhaps even more than what you love. Any kind of feeling of tenderness can be mistaken for love without rationalization. Hate and displeasure are actual. They cannot be mistaken. So if I say, and I’m quite certain I can affirm it by now, that I dislike people and that my dislike most of the time borders hatred, I cannot be told it’s only the spur of the moment. I cannot be treated like I’m a psychotic monster. I’ve been running away from certain sort of people, from a precise typology of human kind. Yet I’m being reminded for I don’t know what reasons I shouldn’t be so sure of my feelings, that these feelings are not certainties. Well, I do like some very selected individuals. It’s not an elitist reasoning that comes into account when I sense I do not dislike somebody, that I even like this somebody. It’s a very instictive feel, and it’s not necessarily possible to explain with a few words what are the elements that are part of the “I like” equation. Dislike on the other hand is both instinctive and rational. I can feel a strong and uncontrollable displeasure in the presence of some person, but most of the times I can clearly point out the sources of my dislike. I do not know why I should be apologetic, why I should find replies coated in sugar when I’m forced to reveal myself and admit, in part or entirely, that I’m not willing to deal with people I don’t like. What do they expect? I try to be empathic and civil, but I can only be as long as I’m not supposed to associate, to mingle with them. Is it so hard to get? I’m not that upset when it happens to me as well. I’m aware I’m not completely peculiar about this sentiment. This world proves more and more narrow everyday.
Year: 2010
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Forcibly unsigned
The day’s end is drawing near. For somebody out there it’s about to start. The socials, the well-offs. A whole parallel universe of human specimens exists even in this place. Parallel, as in separated from myself in an utterly irreparable way. But I’m not saddened to be stuck to this side of things, to my own sphere. One creates its own universe, the one he’s going to live in, and it’s a construction whose progress is never-ending. Hypocrites complain, stupids complain. But they’re builders as much as I am of their own cages. Whatever takes place on the other side, in the parallel life where others live, it’s not really our concern. Pretending it is helps us making our boundaries firmer and our roots stronger. But that’s all there is to it. And only the fool can go astray, crossing the borders.
As I write my thought inflates and deflates in a rhythmical sequence with no established rules to be followed. I can feel the pulse of the many thoughts coming and going, merging in a background of nothingness or getting starker in the limelight. I do not feel at ease with myself. I can’t follow my own line of reasoning, maybe because I don’t really have one. I touch the temple, first the right, then the left, and perceive a warm zone right where it hurts more. What is that causes that pain? Lack or overabundance of something going on? Maybe it’s just casual and it’s caused by nothing at all. The feeling is bothering me all the same. Doesn’t matter to have actual reasons for everything. Sometimes things just are, and that’s enough for everybody to realize there’s nothing to do about it.
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Alone in the house
I keep on waiting for a sign, but signs are not meant to comply with my selfish wishes. I scan the day with a foggy eye and smell the scent of nothing that spreads in every direction. Rain finally subsided. Condensation sticks to the windows like a layer of glass covering another layer of glass. I hear the neighboring door opening and closing behind another closed door. And then it’s silence again. All the hopefulness I struggled to develop vanishes with the thudding sound of the wooden door. The neighbor is a shadow that greets me on the stairs once in a while, but for the rest of the time he is just a nobody like me, like myself looked at from the outside. Alone in the house I remember I am afraid. Afraid of what, I am not sure yet. I have a clue, a sensation. The kind of fear I experience when I am asleep and I dream about going back. A nightmare. The thought of exile disguised as a comeback. I’m not part of that anymore, but I keep on dreaming about it, I keep on living in fear. Nighttime extends itself endless like a formless stain. The room becomes a crate, in which light but no air penetrates from unwanted slits. The upper story tenant walks restlessly from bed to bathroom and from bathroom to bed, making rustling noises over my head. It’s early and it’s late. It makes no difference anyway. I wish tomorrow were here. I wish I will be here tomorrow.
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When will updates come? I wonder.
I shall do something about this page. I’m trying to find a new look that won’t completely put everything I do to shame. I’d like, more than anything, to keep things clean and simple. I usually lose myself in stupid appendages I don’t even like. I’m not sure why. Must be some kind of compensation.
I start working on this task, then after three hours I find myself absorbed into something completely different, like reading how to make tortillas or what is the life expectancy of African Grey Parrots. Or I discover I am playing with the iPhone and I’m at once filled with horror for my vanity.
I changed the layout at least five times in the last months, and as everybody can see no new layout is emerging from the recesses of my computer. I haven’t been drinking either, because I am paranoid about ruining myself financially. So what’s with this impossibility to focus and get things done? Simple tasks like having a new layout up for example?
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It feels good to be here
A place for little things, a place where time has its own times and space its own spaces. Free from hypertrophies, the swelling illnesses of the self-indulgent egos. Free from the prejudiced denials. Distress and foreboding aren’t roaming the streets with indecent voraciousness. Possibilities outgrowing their shell. But it’s still too early to confidently surrender to this encouraging and tender benevolence.
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So much to do, so little time (here we go again…)
A lot has happened during the last month. First of all the change of residence. Not anymore the land where all catastrophes are taken as a big joke, but a land where catastrophes are taken into consideration. And taken care of, when possible. Where not almost everybody is a clown or a selfish bastard trying to screw their fellow citizens over. Where morals have gone to hell a long time ago in favor of prostitution at all levels. From Italy to Iceland. Yep. Waiting for papers to be approved and everything in order to make the change legal and, for now, definitive. And whatever happens, even if something comes up and I’ll be forced to move again, I’m not going back! Adios assholes, as the wise man once said.
Traveling through Europe by car to get here was fun. Also fatiguing, but mostly fun. It took a week to recover from the three days of journeying by ferry across the northern seas, and I suffered from motion sickness… when I got off the ferry. Overall it was something I could do again though, despite lack of internet connections, lack of toilets at the right time and place, lack of collaboration from polar bears when I was expecting to see them.
Now I am staying in a guesthouse. We – my partner in crime and I – need all the necessary documents and an officialized kennitala in order to find a better accomodation. The most difficult thing will be getting used to the crazy prices of alcohol and to the lack of any imaginable vegetable in supermarkets. But these are things that hopefully will take care of themselves with the passing of time. It’s very likely I’ll get fatter. Like I care. Here people dress in a considerate and quite dignified manner, as I could see. You can find actual clothes in stores. Not every girl here is trying to squeeze herself into impossible pants hoping a stupid kiddo with a shaved head that cannot even spell his own name will pinch her butt.
We opened another blog to document our life in Iceland. It’s called Iceland Chronicles. A pretentious name. That’s what one needs nowadays when opening a site. So yes, here we have a pretentious name and we like it. Not a personal blog though. Something more about what’s going on here and what we discover in our almost aimless strolls.
Now I am going to have a VERY EXPENSIVE drink. A Martini will be nice. Stirred because in any case I don’t have a shaker.