Genauigkeit und Seele

Music and other drugs.
I feel like I were waiting for my Holidays - but I'm on Holiday now. Four days left.
And I feel so bad when I think I'm leaving my mother and my dog and my cat here, like a runaway.
I feel so bad when I think that my mother can speak only her (useless) mother-language - like she's got no way of escape. Yes, I'm being unbearably tragic - but I know she's not happy here, and I do think she'd happier in another place. But she can't choose - that's what makes me so angry.

I'm being lazy. Too much to study and no temperance. I'd lie on my sofa watching TV, easy way to empty my mind - I'd read and write - I'd read, it'd be better, it doesn't ask me to think about anything concerning myself.
I'm reading some short stories by Bruce Sterling, whose non-fiction works I'd never read before, and I enjoy them even though they're so badly translated. I'm getting interested in sci-fi again. I forgot how much sci-fi can be a way to interpret the here and now without impediments like politically correct informal rules.
And I miss irony. Sometimes I say that irony is the only thing I can take seriously, and I'm being so damned serious when I write fiction. My prose is lively like a corpse. And boring. And complicated. Never-ending sentences that say nothing because there's too much to say. A pretty horror vacui, decorated with empty words.
And I took a bad habit: I write "as if" every ten sentences. As if. As if I weren't able to convey what I mean. I don't worship the present indicative - too much propaganda tries to persuade me to speak in a "for dummies" way, "the simpler the better" - but it's not so comforting to think you depict worlds only in the subjunctive. Am I so doubtful? Am I so unable to state something achievable? Why am I putting an end to this entry with a question?

---

Song of the day: Primavera (Ludovico Einaudi). Watched the movie, read the book - and every time I listen to it I remember why I'm so interested in the law.
Societies think they operate by morality, but they don't, they operate by law.
(And I don't want to remember I must take two written exams, "international law" and "protection of human rights", in German.)

Long time no see.
Two or three years - and I'm here again because of some "Lost in Translation" (never watched the movie) sensation that now I feel - let me clarify this "now" as "Erasmus-Student in Kiel (Germany) since September, now in Italy for some days, who feels she's sort of homeless".
In the past I tried to blend my two LJ-accounts (this and the Italian one) together, but it didn't work. When I need to write I just need to write, without impediments, so I turn to my mother language - and after a little I just happen to have no time, no ideas, no I-don't-know-what's to write in English. As a conclusion, my Italian account hasn't seen an entry in English for ages.
Now I had wonderful reasons to avoid this language: my mind is thinking in German, which poisons the other Germanic language I know. Strange word order, strange structures - and I make such stupid mistakes, like writing "Bier" instead of "beer", like saying "I'll be by M. at 8 PM". Not that usually I master it with talent, but what I've improved in these years is being ruined day by day.
But let me come back to the "Lost in Translation" sensation.
I've been writing for days - since I came back to my Country - against my country-people. Not against the Government, not against the laws, not against a few bad fellows in this Country - no, I just spit insults out and then summed up with something like: there's no solution.
As a logical consequence there should be no sense in writing in my mother language anymore.
I know things aren't that black-and-white picture I just depicted, and that I can't give up conveying things just because I don't love my country-men, but I somehow felt the urge to write in another language. No way that I can do it in German - I can barely stutter some common sentences, and blabber on about incomprehensible matters, incomprehensible even when I speak in my mother language - and so here we are.
I miss my room in Kiel, my toasty room, and the pond and the rabbits and the bucolic environment and the embarrassed kindness of the German.
I miss the sea.
I got interested in seamanship, as a thing to delve into. And I don't know why. I'd like to learn something more about how to sail, but that's not the core of the fascination I feel.
I like to have a seat in some Kneipe in Kiel, the old-fashion Kneipe with sea-people with flip-flops in December and a bottle of Jever. I like seagulls despite their chant, that hurts my ears and makes me feel somehow uneasy. It's like they were being slaughtered.
I miss the silence in my room there, when the windows are closed and all the stress - so stressing to study there, because I must translate everything - slips out of my limbs.
Not that life there is easier than here - but in Kiel I can find some oasis where to rest.
In Kiel I'm not always on the alert - like I am here, and I do ask myself why, why to be always on the alert? There's no sense, I don't live in a dangerous city - but still I am.
The stay in my Country is stressing me, and I feel so weak that I can't gather enough energy to feel safe. I'm frightened - and feeling paranoid.
I'm frightened because I know that the situation isn't as easy as I depicted it; I can't just move to Kiel, because I know that I can enjoy that city as long as I don't know it well. Kiel helped me in finding and inclination out, something that I already knew but never felt so strong, the "Stranger in a Strange Land" (never read it) syndrome.
Kiel let me draw a comparison as well, and I ended up unable to bear my life here, but knowing that the matter is not as easy as a substitution.
I'm frightened because there's no place, now, that I can somehow call "home".

When I was a child I often took a sheet, blank sheet waiting for something. What do you want to write, Q.? The sheet waited for a phrase, the first one, the phrase that gives a beginning.
I'm talking you about the sensation that you feel when a surface is praying you for the first step of its creation. The surface stares at you, impatient. It cannot be real if you didn't give it a sense. What do you want to tell, Q.?
What do you want to do?

A blank sheet makes you divine. "Right" and "wrong" are nothing but empty words until you won't give them a meaning through other words. You, the writer, are there in order to write what's "right" and what's "wrong". Words are nothing if you don't use them as if they were bricks, and the building will be your idea, your main concept, the thing for which you took a blank sheet instead of drinking a beer.

... But sometimes you took a blank sheet before you realized that you have something to write. You want to articulate an idea even if you have not an idea. Maybe 'cause words are charming; there are phrases that you read and read again 'cause they sound pleasant, not for their meaning. The birth of the music. And the God Syndrome: ideas are more elegant on the sheet than in you brain. They've a sense. They are other than a confused mix that whirlpools in your head.

But...

... The blank sheet is here, in front of you. It's the screen of you laptop. It says: "Hi, I'm your LJ!"
You're in the habit of saying what you want to say. You know your mother tongue and have not problems with the right form of a phrase, you knew all the words that you need, you don't bear your poor control of this language.
Say "hello" to the English language.
Sooner I'll study it at the university.
(And German; never studied German.)

I'm happy, do you know?

I'm not writing on my Italian LJ.
I don't really know why, but I know: when I opened this LJ, I needed to have a space in which writing with a language that didn't smells like something familiar. Can you understand me? I hope yes.
This evening I said:
"It's something strange and new... I feel like anyone can understand me. I don't know a person to whom say what I am knowing that I'll be understood."
But it's not something new... But this time I appear like a calm and without-problems person. I'm not a recluse who runs off - and the whole world will die. I am here, but I'm like a frame: if you come near me, you see that I'm the reflex of myself. I talk and smile, and walk and say "hello" - I make actions, but I have not reactions. You can smile, laugh, cry or joke: Myself won't change.
Isn't it grotesque?
People go ahead, streets are full of human beings; I feel them, I feel the idea of their emotions, intentions, wishes, believes. Sometimes I feel this idea so hard that I'm waterlogged, the container is going to burst - but if you look at me while I'm with people you see that I'm calm and placid, kind and pleasing.
I hate this kind of sensation.
I hate the black hole complex - a cool hole in which lava's boiling.
I hate the moments in which I love humanity if it's away from me, because the old doubt bobs up: so I don't love humanity, isn't it? Or rather... I love humanity but there's something in me that I must solve; is it the right answer? Is it the first one or the second one?

I'm in the habit of exploiting my brain for every things that touches my life. Bad habit, I know. I began writing when I was a stupid brat who wanted to save her thoughts. No-sense thoughts, without connection; thought of a stupid brat with a voracious ego. You can talk with yourself for an age; o wonderful dialogue, you cannot think that the other one is stupid. Bad habit, what a bad habit. Writing on a LJ instead of thinking silently doesn't change the fact: I'm not confronting myself with someone who's not myself. I can act like I'm doing it, but it's a fake; people give thanks to me, they give thanks for the words that I write, that I said; for the things that I do; for the person that I am. They give thanks to a wall, decorated and baroque - and take a look at these wonderful low reliefs, o interesting decorations!

Today a test asked me what's the most important thing. Being true to yourself, I answered. I have to do. But what will happen if I'll find out a freak?

Am I still able to write in English?
I fear the periods in which I feel my English sounds acceptable even if I don't write a thing. I suppose it's the typical fear of who doesn't really know her/his skills.
At the 3th of September I'll test my skills&knowledges: the university that I've chosen needs a test. There are math and physics, art and architecture history, etc etc... and English. To be honest, the latest subject for which I'm preoccupied is English - and this fact can be a little memento mori given that I'm surely not the Shakespeare of the 21th century.
But...
... It doesn't matter.
I'm studying all the damned subjects that I hate (math and physics), and I keep studying them. Everything will be all right (<--- how to encourage myself).

In the meanwhile I'm working part-time in a made-in-Italy clothing shop, the Sonny Bono - please, don't ask me why the hell an Italian clothing shop has the name of a Californian politician, I suppose it's because he was son of Italian immigrants (he was Cher's husband O_o).
By the way, it's a good job. Not hard, neither complicated. Good salary and nice associates. An air conditioner - damn, here it's sultry. In Italy we say: "I'm melting down". Like a popsicle, do you know?

More info: http://www.rootfilm.com

Where the wild roses grow...
A friend of mine, the cicisbeic (neologism) cauchemar_73, posted the video of this song (here for you). Never seen the video, I neither knew the female voice is Kylie Minogue's.
I've already gave my thanks to Cauchemar, but this song is still sounding in my ears.

One years ago, more or less, my mind linked Nick Cave to Cody Horton. Obviously you cannot know who is Cody Horton, 'cause he's not famous; he's not real: he's a character. Oh my bitter Cody Horton... Cody Horton is a police-man. The undersigned doesn't love the class, but we have to open our mind. Investigate the possibilities it gives us. Et cetera...

Cody Horton is a bitter and sweet character if the sweetness is given by an artificial sweetener. He has, like it has to be, a dark and buried under sand past, in which rumors tell about a blond lady and about The Lady - Miss I-choose-for-you - say 'hello' to Miss Death. Nothing new.

I care about Cody Horton, my memento mori; Cody Horton is my what if, the hypothesis in which all the things that could go wrong, went wrong.
Cody Horton is the result at which I see when I ask to myself what's going wrong in this world.
He cannot lose 'cause he'll never win.
He cannot lose 'cause he has nothing to lose.
He's a placid, quiet, untouchable piece of humanity that know only himself and the sacred survival instinct.

... I know, I know, "frequency" isn't a word made for me, for sure.
4.44 A.M.
Good morning, world!
... The coffee maker looks at me. It's a true fellow; it spits out the holy drink slowly; little zen coffee maker for a little zen coffee addicted.

This time I have a good new, and it pertains to my next year in this world: Q. will be at the university. Communication design will be my course of studies. I'll study design (OMG! Really?!), computer graphic and publishing, history of visual communication, marketing, etc etc... It's the course of studies that creates the art directors - but it's a wide area, you will be ready for several jobs - if you're skilled, able, and armed with a sharp self-esteem, I suppose.
(Damn. Why the hell do I end up without cigarettes every times I'm writing here?)
... But I was writing about self-esteem. At the university I'll study English, and I think it could be a good thing. I throw over my good intentions to studying English every day. The grammar books lie down on my desk. Too many stuff to do, I suppose. My incapacity to organizing the 24 hours I have every day, I suppose.
(No way I stay here without cigarettes.)
...
(God blesses my mother, who at 5.15 A.M. comes back home with cigarettes.)
... But I was writing about organization - the skill I don't have.
In this time I'm drawing (say "hello!" to the new pen tablet; tomorrow I'll have it; it's this), entertaining myself with graphics, studying CSS (as usual) for a two or three column layouts.
Look at this cover:



It's a part of my new graphic era (wow!). No, I'm not satisfied, but it's a good first step. The translation of "Come Copione Comanda" is "as play script commands", I suppose. (Q.'s leitmotiv: I suppose.)

Anything else?
I watched the TV series Hornblower; watching it lying down in my bed is pleasant; sea, arms and the slowly climb of a young man. Anything else? No, it's all right.

Quiet afternoon in the middle of a day in which I don't really have something to do. Nothing given by a plan.
As usual.

Waiting for the answer of my customer, CSS are waiting for me. I'm not still accustomed to interact with the new notebook (call it LeBaron; it will be lenient).
I'm not still accustomed to interact with my new way to live.

(Damn. I feel my life as if it's always in the meanwhile of something - and no, it's not a spiritual thought.)

Okok, I must admit the time I have not. All my good intentions went fuck and I deserted this LJ. The recruit I am has shouted I am wimp, useless person who should write here and here improve her English.
I know, I answered, but really, have trust, I have not time.

I'm writing articles for the newspaper (no money, but I will enter in the register as journalist - it's not shit), I'm working at my friend's website - that means I'm studying CSS and first steps of Javascript (I fear Java, it's too much complicated), and working for the hotel and the restaurant, and...
Tomorrow a good guy (...) will come here, ready to teach me how the hell Maya works. The day in which I will be able to design a 3D model, the illustrator who's waiting for me will take me as his co-worker.
Maybe tomorrow I finally buy a notebook - and I don't know what's the name I want for it.

I need someone who says something right and encouraging. I wish this someone will be something like God, or rather me.