22
Dec
08

The new, the old, the young, the bold

A great title to a post about nothing.

Quite obviously, I’ve made a change to the appearance of this place. I like it, I think, for now, anyway. Not really very much new here, just sitting here fiending on some Devotchka, who I like the more I listen to. Also, back in amerika, which is my new way of spelling that word. Can’t really say why, just like the way it looks.

Christmas is almost here and I know what I’m getting–just a hat and scarf, which is fine by me. I don’t much want anything except for a new translation of my Dostoevsky books, or just new copies of them. All these books, just love ’em. But, yeah, just the scarf and hat. They’ll serve me well until I inevitably lose them. Not really a fan of Christmas or most holidays for that matter. Meh, another day, another year, time goes on, and so shall we.

Amerika, back here and I don’t much like it, I don’t think. I don’t know really, just feel listless since getting back. I fear there’s really nothing for me in my country. Though seeing my friends, few of which I’ve really seen yet, was very nice. Sometimes you don’t realise how glad you are to see someone ’til they’re right in front of you, smiling like an asshole. As happens, a few minutes after re-uniting, everything’s back to normal, almost as if you never separated. But, to be quite honest, I feel troubled. I think I’m getting depressed, as frequently happens. Almost like clockwork, really, it strikes for a while and just hangs about, bothering me. Don’t worry, I’ll be quite fine–am quite fine–just a little down in the mouth. I guess some things just aren’t the way I wanted them to be. Nothing to be done about it, just a homecoming that’s a bit strange, leaving me restless and listless.

I still have three essays to write, really should get on that. They won’t write themselves and the due date’s coming quickly. Haven’t been putting pen to paper lately, really. Just lazing about. And I think that’s the surest sign that I’m falling into a bit of melancholia, just can’t be bothered to do much of anything. I guess another sign is that I can’t sleep. I was up for about 45 hours and only slept maybe five today. I don’t feel tired or anything, just, I don’t know, walking dead stagger, I guess.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about literature, as I often do, and have decided that most stories are about two things: your father or love. Now, father here’s a bit more broad than just your biological father, as love is a bit more broad that romance. Let’s start with father. The father here can be many things. He can be your biological father, the one who raised you. He can be god, or your model for god–religion, if you will. He can be the force that created you, made you who you are–government or culture, to put a nice name on it. Now, I think most stories are about this. Well, really, most of life is about this, so it stands to reason. Love now, love can be a love story–Tereza and Tomas–or it can be the love of the land, the love of the sea, the love of the stars. I think all stories are about one of these two things, not just broadly, but specifically. Also, I think the greatest of stories, the one’s never forgotten, always retold, are about both. Think Shakespeare or Dostoevsky.

Just a thought I’ve been kicking around.

Really, not much more to say. Staying pretty bored here. I feel like I’m missing something very important, and I don’t mean a phone or car, something feels amiss here.

Le sigh.

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