ps: I agree with yeats

the fascination of what's difficult
is drying the fucking sap out of my veins, and rent
spontaneous joy and natural content
out of my heart.
(...)
my curse on plays
that have to be set up in fifty ways,
on the day's war with every knave and dolt,
theatre business, management of men.
I swear before the dawn comes round again
I'll find the stable and pull out the bolt.

oh man, really.

coffeetime!

why do you always want what you don't have? and once you get it, you want something else?

swamped with work, I slept through the entire afternoon, all my laundry and dishes undone. I was so hungry when I got home that I ate the pasta only half done right out of the pot. now I feel sick and try to use that as an excuse to not go to the gym. the movie I tried to watch was so predictable that I fell asleep after ten minutes, woke up to the last scene and got the whole plot anyway. damn 3 bucks I wasted. my ipod played weird stuff, and alanis morissette quite convincingly sang about "the only kind of love that there really is". but why doesn't it seem to work in real life? when it should?

yes, I am procrastinating big time. the big fat scary scene needs to be learnt, and I am still sick from that pasta al concrete. I might go to the gym instead...

and I am not unhappy! I wanted it this way. maybe just a little fitterhappier. I need air.

this time of year again

crowded with nut munching dumb folk, the city has turned into the hellhole again that is the dreaded pre-christmas period. ugly women and their obese, bespectacled hubbies, equally clad in santa hats (every year!), parade their eternal cluelessness. I want to run amok now (again: every year!). I don't feel jolly. it takes me ages to do my grocery shopping, because a neverending grandmarathon bovinely blocks the streets with sullen glee. there is even a santa robot, singing christmas carols 24/7 in a tone that makes the deaf hurl. damn you, coca cola, for bringing that onto us. sweet, poor baby jesus, little did you know they make you in chocolate now, so that acne blessed girls with braces can bite your head off in between two smokes. you should have a dime for every dvd horror flick box set that is cellophane wrapped in the name of your birthday.

I just want my quiet, be with my family for a couple of days, and that's it.

old questions, new affirmations

having recently been freed of the illusion that wisdom or serenity are in proprotion to age (woo hoo, the world is full of bastards), I feel better. in my profession, bitchery and diffident disdain are common accompaniments, but when you finally decide to open up to someone you believed was great, and they prove to be the human equivalent to this morning's power dump- well, it crashed me. my bad, I guess, I should have known better.

what makes art good?

someone saying it is good?

what makes your vote count?

age?

famous name?

sheer arrogance?

money?

fuckability?

I am so mad. if you want to upset me good, act like you can figure me out within one minute and judge me.

well. in german, disappointment is ENT-TÄUSCHUNG. which actually means DE-DELUSION. good thing, eventually, that.

what am I learning from this? (because I still try hard to find something valuable in wasting my momentarily very, very precious time to some very, very old man's deranged illusion of grandeur)-

don't look for approval. just don't. do your work. do it well. and that's it.