October

Mental breakdowns have a rhythm and structure, like a pop song or an animal's digestion.

In the eye of a storm that's been slow going... Tears welling in the corners of my eyes and staying there all day. Staying in bed for all hours of the day as though I'm in the third day of some trans-continental jetlag or world-class cold but no, it's just that thing that happens on the regular. Every few months now I find myself in this state. It stays for longer or shorter periods of time, claiming rule for however long it pleases. It beats me up very bad and I suffer a total loss of confidence to accomplish anything but the bare minimum - putting on my pajamas and reading books in bed.

I have to look desperately in my bookcase for anchors to hold my attention because sadly I have collected a lot of subpar books. In times like this there is really nothing else that can help except something... good. Good not in the sense that it has won awards or is written by a celebrated author nothing of that sort at all. I just need to hear the right voice edited with respect and care. Taste is subjective and god knows I happily purchase books with all kinds of stickers or recommendations on the cover but no, no, no, No, NO, I can't do another page by the end of Chapter 2. The characters annoy me and I completely distrust the author. I think about never going back to the bookstore again. These disappointments take their toll on me and put me out for days. Anyway, I can't afford to spend more money on books at this point in time.

Thankful that there are stars like Patti Smith and Jack Kerouac that I in better days had the good sense to stock up on. Time to give Jack his own little bookcase and I will look for a little cross to hang in its corner. Sweet Saint Jack. Patti is still alive, and I'm very glad for it. The thought of her writing in a cafe with a notebook and cup of coffee on the table is comforting at a time like this.

I respect writers and I envy their writer lives. But I only write when I am very sick or very sad.

October, 2016

The great sky nation
Where I dreamt I would spend
An entire life
On the road
Driving through
The wide open land
Staring into
The horizon and
Endlessness

For a week we were free from everybody else
But holding onto each other one night I realised 
You would not let go

Childish

Starting listening to his music a few years ago but nothing really stuck, but now I'm obsessed.

He's right about a lot of things. But a lot of it is vague. Aesthetics.

I appreciate it. It's a relief to have art in this world that speaks with honesty.

I started writing poems recently. 

Sunken Places

Writing about one thing just makes me crazy to write about a whole bunch of other things. The nights stretch long but hours run short. I'm in a mood. What qualifies as a real object or a real action? Social media is all about distraction, racing through the easy but unsatisfying dopamine hits. When something rings true I get these chills. It's not always pleasant or unpleasant but I live for these moments.

If we had more time, we'd be able to know everything and then perhaps we'd know real truth, all of it. But we don't have time, so we have to write and make things and hope that we left something for other people to move forward with, you know?

I really wonder who reads this nowadays. I keep thinking that I should polish things up more before taking my writing to an audience but looks like I won't be doing that anytime soon... and sod it. I'm just going to write the same way that I think. I hope you like it.

Thot Thot Thot

Human consciousness today is probably really different from thirty years ago, and that was also really different thirty years ago too. Not having to remember driving directions. Being able to communicate so much to people who aren't in the same room.

I don't think it's something we're aware of enough. There's a lot of pattern recognition involved in empirical perception. Most of the time we gravitate towards sameness and familiarity when we operate visually. It's a coping mechanism. It's comfortable.

Neuroscientists probably have a better grasp on what's happening.

===

I started taking oil painting classes this year and they're enjoyable so far. I would like to paint more and draw more. I can write all I want here but it's not real until it's a physical thing, I think. There really is a lot of crap in the data universe, and it's forgotten instantly. The internet ends up a lot like our brains... storing a whole lot of useful things that can't be found just as you need them, and totally meaningless after you're gone.

Writing is just a process for now. A way to develop ideas and build my own system of beliefs. A lot of it is already there, but I need to get it out so that I can read it back again. Slash and burn and regrowth and again and again.

===

Today Mummy and I took the lift after dinner. She said something about there being a bookstore on Level 4 and I said no, there isn't. She swore it was there, if not she'd cut off her head and give me to me. She pressed the Level 4 button and the lift moved upwards. I continued staring at the shop directory and I said nope, there isn't one here. The doors opened. She said really, I guess not then. I pressed the B1 button and we headed back downstairs. We ran some errands and walked towards the taxi stand. She said she needed to check something. She walked towards the information counter and asked the lady something. I already knew what. She continued walking on and I caught up with her. She said okay, I'm going to need my head back. 

Pooh Bear

Is there such a thing as truth then?

Yes, of course there is.

And can we know it?

Yes, we all know it. But not in the same way. There are so many different types of things in this world, and each specimen unique to itself. We're all connected to the truth, but a different aspect of it. That's why we know different things and say different things. That's why we disagree.

But are those different things all true? If they are derivative from the truth?

I think there's truth in every expression, but not necessarily as we intend. When we act or speak we make a dent on reality, on truth. We're part of it. The truth always comes out. When we tell stories the truth wiggles its way out. Even if it's a made up story. Lies express so much more than the truth does because they are stories which are inextricably linked to truth. Those relationships tell you more than the truth does.

Is the truth important?

Of course it's important. But it's not important to know all of it. We're all trying. In our own ways. We don't know what path to take. So it's important to go your own way. 

Mama Mia

Had a bad panic attack last night. It's been a regular thing for the last few years. I get depressed and anxious and then I have a meltdown and then hover delicately around these two states. Long story short we have abandoned our Airbnb and moved into a hotel down the street.

I know what my triggers are. Those risks are not worth taking. When things aren't working it takes a lot of energy and time away from my work. The cost is too great. Life is too short.

Only some people can be trusted to take care of me. I only feel safe when I'm inside my fort, with a fire-breathing dragon on patrol, and a moat full of bloodthirsty sharks.

Italy

It is my first visit to the country of Italy, half for work and half for some quality time with my architect half.

Bologna was exciting. I enjoyed the children's book fair very much. Having time to think helps me move forward. My mindset has developed positively over the few days of the fair.

Naples was interesting and charmed my socks off. It took a while to get used to it but I have fallen in love with the little streets that wind up and down. The buildings have a closeness that is shared by the people and cars as well. There is so much history in the city, and yet so much fresh life. I felt very privileged being able to visit and work amongst the designers including X.

And Capri! It is one of the loveliest places I have ever visited. Yesterday we hiked around for most of the day and got ourselves a little sunburnt. Every time I catch a view of the ocean I cannot bring myself to look away. The little streets and lemon trees are wonderful as well. But the best thing of all is rambling with X on a sunny day. 

Sunday Night with Mummy

Mummy and I are sitting in the living room. She is reading a book of Tang poetry so that we can come up with some ideas. She reads me a poem that she had memorised since she was a student, acting out the words with her hands.

前不见古人，
后不见来者。
念天地之悠悠，
独怆然而涕下。

She starts giggling immediately after and says that this poem always makes her laugh, "Who does he think he is, man!"

La Cour Jardin

Cold's getting better so no phantom smells today. I lit a candle instead.

Last minute meeting with Z tonight. Man, he really has a lot of interesting stories and ideas. It's challenging at times working with artists but it's tons of fun. I learn a lot.

走火入魔 continues. When I start writing one thing I start going crazy and the words start pouring out of me all over the place and I can't stop - this weekend I have written all kinds of things in here and there and everywhere. I can feel my mind going a mile a minute and my blood pounding in my head when I close my eyes to sleep, which I can't. 

Batik Smells

Something strange is happening these days. There is a faint scent of flowers and incense following me around, making itself perceptible when I don't expect it at all. I have not been able to locate the source of the smell, as it disappears as soon as I start sniffing at it. Mostly these incidents are happening in my house, or in my bedroom, which leaves me less disturbed. But when it happens in a noisy bar late at night I am totally mystified.

Turns out this condition is a kind of hallucination, most likely a byproduct of my cold, and has a cool name: Phantosmia

What surprises me is how pronounced the smell is from the first time I detected it. It was clearly the same smell as the Batik we bought from Yogyakarta. Of all the phantom smells to hallucinate, why this?

Croaking

Writing here is a kind of relief when I am ill and my mind has gone hazy from medication. When I'm in such a state it's a terrible thing to do work, but writing down what I think comes a bit more naturally.

I have been reading a book about comic art and it talks about how to "control" time, how an artist can frame and compose each panel to create the tempo and time path for a reader to follow. This sets up a reading experience that requires the cooperation of the reader, like in a dance. On the other hand, video and film give the reader no such control, and requires no such cooperation beyond keeping his eyes open, in front of the projection screen.

It makes me think about the nature of perceptual experiences and a human being's control over their own memory, i.e. time + perceptual experiences. Being obsessed with a memory feels suffocating because more and more detail is lost every time you access the memory. All the subtlety fades away and you are left with a more and more ridiculous caricature in your mind. Cartoons. 

2018

This year's resolution is to write more, but not here I think. There's too much nonsense here from the past few years. It's a little bit of a bother now as I have to hold myself to a pretty high standard while working in the publishing industry.

What I write here is usually quite minimally produced and I don't intend for that to change much. I'm still thinking what to do.

The week gone by was of some significance. Old things and new things too. It was nice walking on the Mid-levels escalators in Central.

Is there anything more to life than obsession?