Very Little Matters
It does not matter whether they care. It does not matter whether anything goes right or doesn't, for decades at a time. It doesn't matter whether girls cast me down like Lucifer from hell. What matters is my integrity; doing the right thing consistently.
Last night it stormed for the entire duration of darkness. It resembled a discotheque out there, and in the back of my mind I must have surmised the beginning of world war 3. I did not sleep very well with the flashing lights carrying on as they did, and without any noise. That incongruity actually disturbed me a great deal.
The art of Nabakov's writing cannot be gainsaid, although I feel a little sad about the subject matter. Maybe other of Nabakov's works are more appealing. I am thinking now of the girl who also loved Nabakov, but wasn't pretty enough to hold my attention; although that is not quite fair to me. I always give girls a chance who are subpar. She is guilty, however. It was she who did not give me a chance after realizing some success in advertising. She won some award or other and changed her attitude in the matter of a few hours.
But back to Nabakov... Yes, you will never need television once you've glimpsed the greatness of his mind. You will never have an excuse for boredom once your genius is awoken by him. You will never again find yourself wondering if there really is anything that surpasses mundane, dumb, childish reality as shown on television shows like Married at First Sight.
Last night: A strange dream of a short version of Chevon. She was serving food at a camp and Gavin Schreiber who... I should slow down. What I remember of the camp was it was centered around Stanford at the turn of the century, although we ourselves were moderners. And she was taking care of the food. I do not remember the exact details of the camp except that there were a lot of other male figures, and this made the company of pretty Chevon a dear thing to behold.
Anyway, at some point, we were all waiting in line for food, and my particular order was stolen by Gavin Schreiber who was none the wiser about the whole process. So Chevon came upstairs specially from the ladling place and gave me the bowl in which the pie was prepared, and so I scooped out what was left onto my plate while I talked to her.
She was carrying on about how the flowers and things were so vivid in her home town. A good Afrikaans lass, she did not mind telling me the details of what was dear to her. She resembled a few people, this blonde: Meyer's girlfirend, Evdokia from Facebook and Chevon. She called me a gentleman.
I often crawl down to the depths of my own misery nowadays and find that I'm able to cope with it, provided I don't bear down too heavily on myself from above. But rarely do I find joy in earthly things, although I'm very grateful for the delectations that come my way.
I am also learning that I am a writer. It's taken a long trawl through the desert and much renunciation of sin, but now I find that I'm able to hold my own in a conversation with Berliners. I need to find my own way in life; and somehow this seems to be centered around books and culture.
That is all I know, and if you ask for details I'm afraid I will be a considerable disappointment to you. The grief I've had tells on my face. It's no mystery. There is a sourness that gives way to an overall sweetness, but the many aspects of bitter suffering are definitely there, as is the aging process, as are many things that in and of themselves give no reason for happiness.
I do not want to write anymore, this bit sounds perfect to me, feels perfect. I do not want to go into details that will not interest me later on. All I will say is that I'm going to Cheryl this afternoon, to finish my Tefl course. I'm feeling quite anxious about going to Vietnam. I don't know what to expect. IT may be the worst experience of my life. Too noisy, too polluted; but who knows. I want to understand other cultures and I may be there for a great deal longer than I plan. 3 years will bring me in the region of 500,000 in savings. It does seem like enough, given than another half can be set aside for travel.
I will finally come into my own there. Think of it: no more boredom, no more fear of wasting my life. Just pure excitement from one day to the next. I will have my youth and I will no longer go mad. Let me then prepare for this next chapter of my life with diligence and great centredness of mind. Let my faith guide me to those places I do not yet understand, but which are needful to my soul and spirit.
I think all the agitation of last night has twisted my stomach in knots again. I do not know what to do about that. I just hope it will pass. Already there's been a vast improvement in the state of my stomach. I owe that to getting out and doing things that don't involve sitting at home alone; reading. It's necessary to face the chaos. That chaos is a vitamin and I must take my full share.
Now my mother has awoken and I feel that my privacy has been interrupted, so that writing has lost its gleam. But no matter, write I must. This weekend shall be interesting. I hope that a lot of good comes of it. I don't want to sit in my misery anylonger and these weekends help a great deal with that. I will be a writer, I will be a writer, I will be a writer, I will be a writer, I will be a writer, I will be a writer.
What's helped me to write lately is that I'm more positive about things. I found that I got bored very easily if all I did was complain; but looking at things in a balanced way, I have to be grateful. There is very little to complain about. I have a mother who goes and puts tires on my car; who looks after me with her money and never complains. The only condition was that I go to work.
I have also put aside many of my childish lusts and I'm finding something stirring anew within me, some new voice of ambition that was perhaps too far away at first to hear. But I know that I must put aside those things and I must be the best man I can be. Perhaps God will exceed my expectations.
Last night it stormed for the entire duration of darkness. It resembled a discotheque out there, and in the back of my mind I must have surmised the beginning of world war 3. I did not sleep very well with the flashing lights carrying on as they did, and without any noise. That incongruity actually disturbed me a great deal.
The art of Nabakov's writing cannot be gainsaid, although I feel a little sad about the subject matter. Maybe other of Nabakov's works are more appealing. I am thinking now of the girl who also loved Nabakov, but wasn't pretty enough to hold my attention; although that is not quite fair to me. I always give girls a chance who are subpar. She is guilty, however. It was she who did not give me a chance after realizing some success in advertising. She won some award or other and changed her attitude in the matter of a few hours.
But back to Nabakov... Yes, you will never need television once you've glimpsed the greatness of his mind. You will never have an excuse for boredom once your genius is awoken by him. You will never again find yourself wondering if there really is anything that surpasses mundane, dumb, childish reality as shown on television shows like Married at First Sight.
Last night: A strange dream of a short version of Chevon. She was serving food at a camp and Gavin Schreiber who... I should slow down. What I remember of the camp was it was centered around Stanford at the turn of the century, although we ourselves were moderners. And she was taking care of the food. I do not remember the exact details of the camp except that there were a lot of other male figures, and this made the company of pretty Chevon a dear thing to behold.
Anyway, at some point, we were all waiting in line for food, and my particular order was stolen by Gavin Schreiber who was none the wiser about the whole process. So Chevon came upstairs specially from the ladling place and gave me the bowl in which the pie was prepared, and so I scooped out what was left onto my plate while I talked to her.
She was carrying on about how the flowers and things were so vivid in her home town. A good Afrikaans lass, she did not mind telling me the details of what was dear to her. She resembled a few people, this blonde: Meyer's girlfirend, Evdokia from Facebook and Chevon. She called me a gentleman.
I often crawl down to the depths of my own misery nowadays and find that I'm able to cope with it, provided I don't bear down too heavily on myself from above. But rarely do I find joy in earthly things, although I'm very grateful for the delectations that come my way.
I am also learning that I am a writer. It's taken a long trawl through the desert and much renunciation of sin, but now I find that I'm able to hold my own in a conversation with Berliners. I need to find my own way in life; and somehow this seems to be centered around books and culture.
That is all I know, and if you ask for details I'm afraid I will be a considerable disappointment to you. The grief I've had tells on my face. It's no mystery. There is a sourness that gives way to an overall sweetness, but the many aspects of bitter suffering are definitely there, as is the aging process, as are many things that in and of themselves give no reason for happiness.
I do not want to write anymore, this bit sounds perfect to me, feels perfect. I do not want to go into details that will not interest me later on. All I will say is that I'm going to Cheryl this afternoon, to finish my Tefl course. I'm feeling quite anxious about going to Vietnam. I don't know what to expect. IT may be the worst experience of my life. Too noisy, too polluted; but who knows. I want to understand other cultures and I may be there for a great deal longer than I plan. 3 years will bring me in the region of 500,000 in savings. It does seem like enough, given than another half can be set aside for travel.
I will finally come into my own there. Think of it: no more boredom, no more fear of wasting my life. Just pure excitement from one day to the next. I will have my youth and I will no longer go mad. Let me then prepare for this next chapter of my life with diligence and great centredness of mind. Let my faith guide me to those places I do not yet understand, but which are needful to my soul and spirit.
I think all the agitation of last night has twisted my stomach in knots again. I do not know what to do about that. I just hope it will pass. Already there's been a vast improvement in the state of my stomach. I owe that to getting out and doing things that don't involve sitting at home alone; reading. It's necessary to face the chaos. That chaos is a vitamin and I must take my full share.
Now my mother has awoken and I feel that my privacy has been interrupted, so that writing has lost its gleam. But no matter, write I must. This weekend shall be interesting. I hope that a lot of good comes of it. I don't want to sit in my misery anylonger and these weekends help a great deal with that. I will be a writer, I will be a writer, I will be a writer, I will be a writer, I will be a writer, I will be a writer.
What's helped me to write lately is that I'm more positive about things. I found that I got bored very easily if all I did was complain; but looking at things in a balanced way, I have to be grateful. There is very little to complain about. I have a mother who goes and puts tires on my car; who looks after me with her money and never complains. The only condition was that I go to work.
I have also put aside many of my childish lusts and I'm finding something stirring anew within me, some new voice of ambition that was perhaps too far away at first to hear. But I know that I must put aside those things and I must be the best man I can be. Perhaps God will exceed my expectations.
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