On returning from the holidays...

Writing again comes a bit uneasy, as there is so much that could be the subject of explorational musings. Some of it might be of no interest to anybody else but myself. But as I have learned until now, you can never do stuff just for yourself. Sometimes you write so that the voices inside be finally fixed somewhere, some other times just to make a point, or just to see how the words you are thinking form into a poem right in front of you :)


Anyway, I’ve thought about it and I’ve decided to keep the blog. Seems that I’m not writing for the walls and the toys and the joys, there really are some people out there reading it (thanks guys!). Since I’m not exactly an e-mail communication techie, writing here will just be an easier way to let you all know how things are going.

Welcome back to the freakshow @Sundance!

Help me when I fall to
Walk unafraid
I'll be clumsy instead
Hold my love or leave me high.
Walk unafraid
I'll be clumsy instead
Hold my love or leave me high.
(R.E.M., Walk Unafraid)

We have reached a meaning

I’ve written before about things you cannot say – nor otherwise express. We cannot say what we mean unless we do it and sometimes it is better to keep some things untouched by words unless we mean them.

Slowly, the Sundance Kiddo Blog has reached its initial purpose – to bail me out of a world I had gotten into by accident. It has done so over the past two years – helped me to clarify my thoughts and make sense of a world I had thought of bigger than my grasp. Some of the happenings I’ve written about here are so dissolved into words, that sometimes I cannot remember what shelf to put them on, or what they were really referring to in the real world.

It was a good journey.

And it's draining all of me
Oh they find it hard to believe
I'll be wearing these scars
For everyone to see
(Leona Lewis, Bleeding Love)

On mountains' lessons in thinking

There is a certain indulgence in writing a blog. You take the risk of being read by people who will not understand what you are writing about and will take their own round of interpretations, suited to an individual degree of knowing and interest in you. It's easier when you accept that all that you are writing falls into an abyss of words – sometimes not spoken and at times only uttered during daytime. Some may call it hypocrisy of the thought, while it is more a certain lack of direction. You write for yourself, sometimes launching messages incorrectly understood by the ones who read you. But that doesn't matter, because for you the act of writing unleashes the sort of internal energy which lets you whisper “yes, and now they will understand”. Well they don't.

Last week I returned from Austria with the clear vision and lasting happiness only snowy mountains and cold mountain lakes could give me. Certain things cleared up like the clouds from the hills in the morning, and sadness vanished as though it never was there. My friends and I have often had debates regarding the futility of persisting in dreaming the dreams and not living them out. So I was very glad to feel how cold thinking can really push dreams further into reality. Just like putting on the right pair of glasses, future now unwinds clearly and though unforeseen, the path is not frightful anymore but rewarding.

Wrapped in your arms where it's peaceful
Back in your arms where I'm happy
I would do anything gladly
Only to see you again
(Gloria Estefan, Wrapped)

Taping, measuring, evaluating

And by the way I loved the following post from Ancuta: http://nareda.blogspot.com/2008/03/you-can-always-sell-any-dream-to-me.html

Could it be that things are really that simple? That you measure out the other's life, only to see if it fits into yours. That you employ measurments of words, of coffee spoons and of looks to quantify to what extent we care. That you always take into consideration all accounts, and calculate and ellaborate - and finally reach an economically sized business decision on whether or not people fit in.

I think somebody's playing tricks on us :)

Somehow you make it better

Most of the people who write blogs do so, I gather, either because they are selfish exhibitionist ass-holes who don’t find a soul in the real world to listen to them anymore, or simply because their writing ambitions have been killed off at some point – maybe by the need to earn a “decent” piece of bread, or maybe they thought they were not good enough for the part. I find myself in none of the categories, though maybe some of you who do read me have another opinion. Two years ago, when I started blogging, I was trying to cure an advanced phase of workaholism, which I’m sure hasn’t passed for good. Even now, most of the posts I write are based in some way or the other on my work, although I try not to give out any real names or point to any *real* seeming situations. Most of the times, the posts are some kind of dumb attempts to fix broken things – be it in my life, or in other’s lives. Sometimes, they are even a good replacement for it.

There were evenings when, on returning from either work or getting drunk with friends, I thought that I should finish the blog – just tell you that the fun is over and delete all the posts – but couldn’t help myself not to. In some way, it keeps alive one of the things I’m thinking about doing sometime in future: writing. And so I move on, boat against the current, excelling and finding an own sort of happiness in words never spoken.

A silly girl with silly ways I hear this I'm pitiful
I'll be that girl can you give me the strength to be free

Lifting me I don't know how you do it but it's lifting me
Keep lifting me I don't know how you do it but it's lifting me, yeah
(The Corrs, Lifting Me)