29.3.2000

Note: I couldn't access Crosswinds yesterday. I don't know why because apparently nothing was wrong. (Un)fortunately I'm rather happy about it because the last two days I've been feeling like I talk too much and that I have nothing worth saying. It's a terrible combination, always believe when you feel you talk too much that everything's still worth saying.

I went to bed last night listening to a tiny voice in my head that sang 'Isn't he beautiful, truly a dream come true?' I usually don't like Finnish pop bands, because they can neither sing nor play. Also, whenever they try to sing in English they sound ridiculous, and they rant too much about how they want to go abroad and get famous (which apparently is why they even play music, they wanna be famous). Lab is an exception. Lab has an extremely stupid name for their album but they can sing and they can play. Lab is my new hero.

I've been wondering. Consider this, I date person x for quite a long while, actually. Then I dump person x because I've had enough. Now, why would I almost nine months later be upset when person x suddenly decides they don't want to have anything to do with me anymore? Why?
I don't get this. It's totally irrational. I dumped them, anyway.

I want to talk about books. I've read many books, more than anyone else I know. That's because it was my dominant way of dissociating for years. You can probably imagine how many books one can read, if one reads every day (depending on the book, but usually at least one per day) for five years (no wonder I had no social life *g*).
I don't remember much of the majority of them, which isn't at all surprising. There are, however, a few that have stuck on me. One, and the most important of them, is Philip Ridley's 'In the eyes of Mr. Fury'. I read it the first time when I was 13. Some books just have magic in them. They take you with them and you can't let go of them. I read it straight through, and even now when I read it I can't let go until I'm finished. I don't know why it affects me like it does, but it makes everything clearer. It's like I had done a months worth of intense thinking. If you ever have the chance, read it. I doubt you fall in love with it the way I did, but it's always possible. He has also written the adorable children's books 'Mercedes' and 'Dakota' (among others).
Then there's Franz Kafka (I know 'Metamorphose' is on-line somewhere, in case you're interested). I love his short stories. I once had to write an analysis on one of them. They're impossible to understand (in an anlytical sense) but (that's probably why) I enjoy reading them.
When I still read poetry (and printed poetry is safer anyway) I was given Sylvia Plath's 'Mirror' and 'The Rival'. I had read 'Under the Bell Jar' earlier but I couldn't connect the authors at that point. It's possible that I have a slightly skewed view on the poems (because of the person who gave them to me) but I still think they're exellent. I recently got ahold of her diary but I haven't read it yet.
A few other authors who might be worth reading are Salman Rushdie, Anton Tsehov, Hanif Kureishi, Paul Auster, Oscar Wilde, Eliel Wiesel, Fay Weldon, Roddy Doyle, Joanna Russ... There's also Bharati Mukherjee, whose 'Jasmine' is my most recent purchase, and millions of others.

I have to confess that I find all the 'classics' to be intensely boring and not worth reading. Take Dostojevsky, for example. Yes, he can write (don't we all?) but he lacks magic. I don't sit still and just read. Of course, what they tell at school is that you're not supposed to get lost inside the book but instead analyze it all the way through. *sigh* I think they definetely got this one wrong. You're supposed to fall in love with the book. That way it loves you back.

Perhaps this isn't proper diary material. There's nothing to say about myself though. I might whine about how horrible I've been feeling but saying that is enough of that subject.

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I feel like I deserved a hug but there's no one here to give me one.
Not that I'd let them touch me anyway.

Index.