On language and its implications

I had an interesting exchange today with someone, revealing that even though we were speaking in the same language (but one none of us is a native of) using the same type of words, we were managing to be completely tangential as for the meaning. After the initial shock, I started to think, maybe a common language is not what connects us as people, but rather creates an illusion of clarity, an expectation of instant transfer of understanding, which in turn causes a larger disappointment when this does not happen.  Intercultural and interpersonal differences still play a huge role in our perception of others' feelings and thoughts, and the fact that we are stringing together words drawn from the same pool is not enough to close that gap. On the contrary, misunderstandings become not only much more common, their effects are much more drastic as well. Since the resulting confusion cannot be blamed on the language difference per se, one starts to assume malicious intent. Then things start to get tricky. In any case, slinging personal insults carries pretty much the same meaning across the board: it is unproductive, bad form, and frankly, a sign of immaturity.  Those should be avoided at all cost, if the goal is to reach to any understanding at any time in the future. Also, fuck you.

About a rant that I just wrote and then took down

I just finished writing a long rant about this person that makes me pretty angry these days. I put it online for a minute, and felt the satisfaction of it. Then thought better and took it down.

It doesn't matter how many times I say 'fuck you' or 'fuck this', how many times I lay out every single thing that bothers me or how many swearwords I sprinkle it with, a rant is a rant is a rant.

I may not know how to deal with this problem right now, and I may feel overwhelmed and maybe a bit fed up and even wanting to blow it all to hell, it is not what a responsible adult should do. I just need get over it, suck it up, put up my big girl panties, and do what needs to be done. I can surely limit my involvement, too, maybe that's a good idea.

From 6/26/2009

I am in a really interesting place right now. It's a moment in my life that I am not facing any important decisions, no life-changing experiences, no crazy trips to Europe or drunken stupors. Everything has a pleasant routine, streams are flowing calmly in their beds, there is nthing to stress about too much. It's like every outside stimulation is shut off. So, I'm having an internal journey. I'm going on to an adventure in my own mind, with the ultimate purpose of self discovery, but I am determined to enjoy it all the way through.

What's going on?

I feel like writing, all of a sudden. It's easier to do, since I'm doing it in a forgotten place, what's better than a blog inactive for the past 8 years, right? Nobody will read this.

Then why not write it into a notebook? Well, here's the thing: My needing to write comes from a need to share. I don't have anyone in my life at the moment that I can say all these things I'd like to talk about, or maybe I'm just not that person anymore who likes to talk about her feelings. It leaves me vulnerable.

Also, when I'm talking, I get lost in the beauty of words and expressions, and the meaning starts to take a back seat sometimes.

Also, when I'm talking to someone, I start mirroring their take on things, my mind slightly molds, adapting into the shape their minds crave to make a contact with. This makes me the perfect listener, but I end up saying things that are not exactly not true but maybe not the things I wanted to say. I am physically not able to be hundred percent honest when talking to another person. I find myself second-guessing every word, analyzing every reaction, playing a game. I enjoy it, it's amazing and satisfying, but at the same time, it's both involuntary, like an automatic reaction, and definitely not what I need.

Also, I do sometimes have an ulterior motive. I can't help it. If I like the person, I like them to like me. If they're pretty, even more so, I want to impress them.

If it's a stranger, I have an image to project. OK, that image is not really all that different from who I am, a neat mixture of who I am and who I really want to be. And it's a work in progress, I'm trying to become who I want to be any way. But anyways, I'm not going to talk to a stranger about my private thoughts and feelings, right? Hah, but I'm perfectly willing to put them up for anyone to find. It's like a kid hiding their diary but hoping that the mom will actually find it and see how unfairly they are treating their precious kid and repent. I did that all the time as a kid. Complained about my mom and dad in writing, then accidentally 'forgot' the diary on their dresser or something. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) for me that they respected my privacy. Life's funny like that.

Eh, so yes. Writing in a forgotten blog, then. Let me know if you find this, it would surely mortify me :)

Sometimes poetry is not the right way. But then again, without it, I'm afraid that I might give too much away.

Dear Diary

One day. It only took one day, one day of hard work, one day of getting dog-tired, brain half shut down, one day of doing actual work, getting lost in it, sinking, losing sight of the surface, then kicking back, breaking out, finding yourself again. Turns out, you found more than just yourself, hurt and battered, with invisible scars and the ghost of an headache. Or you just truly found yourself. When you have no energy to think, no energy to care, things look so simple. It's all trivial when you think about it.

Hasn't it been that way this whole time? Can you remember this? Can you keep this in mind the next time another pretty face bats his eyelashes at you, the next time a mean, jealous comment burns a hole in your psyche, the next time you feel the bitter taste of your own jealousy clouding your mind and you start to think like a character from a book you'd stop reading the second you saw such behavior in?