The Philosopher’s Attic

I found this nice site while I was thinking about something nice to do for my Tristan: http://adventskalender4you.de/?page=startseite

It’s in German, but well, nothing is perfect. Just as well, since the calendar for the advent is a German tradition anyway. Usually it is a paper calendar with 24 little windows and either a holy picture behind it. Over the years and after more and more laicity in the western world, a lot of different versions have emerged, the one filled with chocolate being the bestseller at the moment.

I was amazed that the ‘Internet based’ version was only thought of as of this year and started to be hooked right away. Since I won’t be seeing much of my beloved one, this month and meeting will be quite hard, it’s a nice way to keep in touch daily. There are just some things that you can’t share over a Voice Messenger service

After the clash with the Turkish Footballers, the first snow and its innumerable car accidents (somehow everyone loses their ability to drive a car as soon as the first snowflake show themselves) and all other smaller or bigger troubles, I am here and the year is almost over.
I’ve been to Paris and back, I did the one thing I could to make a wonderful relation work and I still haven’t finished my story. Hm… was that the right order ?

Eckhard’s comment on my last poem prompted me into action just now. Truth is there are two pieces in a row in this blog that simply reek of doubt, insecurity and all the really bad emotions that are just dragging everything downwards, deeper and deeper. For people that do not really know me or don’t have a day to day contact with me, it must seem that I am either on the edge of a borderline syndrome or deep in depression. That really is not the case.
It really is more a combination of ‘what do I want to write’ and the insecurities of the moment. As a poet (and yes, so sorry… I am such a confident little gal that I call myself a poet) I can actually get myself into any situation I want to write about. Just like an actor. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I am actually suicidal, just because I wrote that I am dying. A lot of people make this mistake… I remember B. calling me up when he had read Ice. He really thought that I was bad. But actually ‘Ice’ was just a little thing I had I couldn’t use in the Arthur-Story any more, so I rewrote it as a single piece. Things like that happen.

It’s true, things move on and on. And with a new idea for a project that will actually be useful (sic! it happens in my field as well) that I will hopefully realise with my beloved one, I have one more thing on my eternal to do list. And isn’t that just great ?

If there ever was that one word,
if you ever only needed the one second to say it…

One morning, above the single line of trees,
where once the spirit of the eternal thought had dwelled,
where all that ever was or had to be, sat by the opening,
a simple icon now lights up the earth below.
I’d speak, if only I had something to say.
I’d listen if there only was the simplest sound.

There is no sound and there are no words.
Where the mind goes there can only be silence.

If only I could tear up my doubts,
my thoughts
and
all that fits between the lines, the border of all sanity,
blow it off,
grind it down,
and scatter all of it across the wind.

It is not fullfillment, nor ease or even peace…
only pure emptyness… of words,
absence.
Nothing to say… nomore. No Substance or essence,
no nature of things or purity in unity.

Only… light.

It’s that time of year again.
The time of year when I think I should start writing again. Anything. Another story, another book, a better story, better poems and pieces. I really have no idea why it’s always when the nights become longer, when the day starts to redraw earlier that I get this urge to simply sit down and pour it all out.
And since one thing never comes alone but rather in a pair, it’s also the same time that I get overrun by the strangest doubts about everything… mainly about work of course. It’s the same story over and over again. I don’t even know what’s first. The doubt ? The urge to write ? Probably doubt. And probably the writing is a way to overcome the doubt or stall for time in addressing the urgent matters about my work.
It’s not like there wasn’t any reason to doubt. A lot of things seem hazy at the moment. Unsure and pretty dim to say the least. I don’t feel like I have accomplished much this last year and writing the thesis is just a terrible bore. Why did it ever become such a terrible drag ? I remember being actually quite good at this. And now its one phrase after the other, I can’t do anything without asking me if it’s even worth it. I somehow fear that it’s a tad bit more than just the usual doubt crisis that comes with the workload (smuggled in somewhere between publication - yay ! - and the title - wow !). It’s like I’ve lost the passion, or developed another one that takes me into another direction completely.
And in a year’s time I’ll be without any pay and still stuck with this project that nobody really seems to care about, least of all any of the responsibles. It used to be my heart blood and still is, but I somehow feel pushed onto the little bench in front of the admissions office: wait, wait, wait… sorry we’re closing.

I can only hope that nobody from work reads this, but since I’ve been quiet quite a while, nobody will think of checking in here anymore. So I guess I’ll be OK. I’ve always said that my studies and the profession I chose was rather out of curiosity than anything else. That combined with the urge to see how far I could go, I start to think that maybe this is it. This is how far I was able to go. Not another step further. Who knows.
Another day tomorrow and another cup maybe.