Roll on, Roll off… My Transformation into Creative Critic Balloons. Look!.

Dear MF’ing Diary: Exhale…

I am joyfully exhausted.

Painting the apartment up for the last four days has revealed a part of me I would not have discovered while sitting in front of my laptop:

I zone out during simple, directed, and repetitive activity.

And I mean zone-out in that “meditative and metropolitan-zen” sense.

Today I did the last room, and I will miss it, I think I’m going to look into working around such taxing fields (as long as no heavy duty exertion is required [I’m way too skinny for that]).

There’s something ironic about making assumptions about oneself…

I figured my “place” on this spinning globe was toiling away at something cerebral (and that I would find said “zen” in an intellectual space)

But no; it is rather painting where I exhale with a sense of exultation and say: aaah. How relaxing that was, how decluttering (for my a.d.d busy body thoughts), how soothing and reassuring (each spread of paint leads closer to the end and this serves as a drive/encouragement produced by the activity [as opposed to having to pump myself up])

How philosophical (the act of transforming a large space with incremental [and repetitive] action, and that very modification of a physical area changing me as I take the fruits of my labour).
And the sense of achievement maintained as long as the memory of how the place looked before remains fresh in my mind.

And how Existential! (the memory of what the place looked like will invariably wilt away; and soon enough i will acclimatise to the new (which, truth be told, became old soon as the paint dried)…
Questions arise about the concept of new, and the desire for new, and the inner critic in me is sucking on a pacifier I can’t help but feel giddy at the prospect of becoming something I never thought I would just a mere five days ago.

Asperganoid (down), and OUT.


I am terribly impatient

(Shhh! nevermind my ramblings onses!)

I find Victorian literature drags on for two chapters and truly begins on the third

Books written for children in those days seem rather heavy indeed, compared to more contemporary fiction, but I find the content most suitable for my endlessly gyrating mind.

Peter Pan by J. M. Barrie (a very funny book!)
*Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery (should have been shorter but positively heart-warming!)
Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter (if this book were a cake it would be a red velvet cake comfortably tucked in a toffee boat drifting on a sea of honey.)

The victorian voice of that era grabs my attention like no other time (present included)

Other than Dracula, The Time Machine, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde, and Carmilla I find the rest of the “grown up” literature of those days incredibly cumbersome.

I skipped several chapters of ‘The Picture of Dorian Grey’

The first chapter of Octave Mirbeau’s Calvary was the most engrossingly psychedelic read and then, quite tragically, the book falls apart beyond that

Émile Zola’s two short stories Captain Burle and The Death of Olivier Becaille will forever warm my heart, concise tales and if only most stories could pack such vivacity in a few pages how much richer the literary canons would be.

As far as repeatability is concerned; Alice in Wonderland is never beyond my reach. Laughter is an invaluable quality in a book. And nothing tickles my ribs like a good load of nonsense!

I ought to finish some of the classics I have mentioned (and there are more uncompleted books I have not mentioned) but it’s terribly difficult to read when a wave of lethargy threatens to drown you in a pool of boredom as the narrator describes quite superflously every particle in a setting!

Perhaps some day, should still be alive, science would have created an APP which allows one to maintain their concentration for long periods of time.
That would truly be living!