Ok, so I failed again. I can't focus on proper blogging it seems. My diary lays untouched either. Sometimes I think it doesn't matter really if I try to remember random situations from my life. No breakthroughs, no unexpected ups. I do pop into some wanker every now and then- two in a period of one month so far. I keep on making polymer stuff and getting better in it. Painting...uhm, well I lost my heart for the whole exhibition thing. Should push it forward but...have no encouragement from within. Have some prospects for my Wolin photo series, hope it'll work out, and if so, there'll be a good starting point for making serious photo documentation for medieval events in UK.
I think of England, the prospect is drawing near.
There is no particular joy about it, except I'll be with my Dear Boy at last. We should never have split for more than few days. One must embrace what one has.
Have a lot of plans: archery, Sussex Guild, attending as many medieval events as possible during the year, some drumming and singing, maybe some horse riding too. Everything seems to be a tad too late. I should have done it years ago...
Watching Game of Thrones, listening to Paradise Lost, Ulver and such.
Copying Grandpas memoirs on my PC which is rather tedious job as my dear Grandpa isn't a great writer. Sometimes can't refrain myself from changes to the syntax, minimising endless repetitions and fill up whole text with necessary punctuation. Which makes entire process quite time consuming. It must be done though, as nobody in this family has as much time on one's hands as I have.
Also, reading those memoirs does make me realise how different are times that we're living in. I'd really love to see all those pathetic cockfaces who nowadays complain about their 8hour work in front of the computer as they go to war, aged 17 or 19. To see as they work they hands to the bone to get a scrap of food since early childhood. How they wear one set of clothes for months and stuff their shoes with old newspapers and such. And they fear for their life as the enemy armies march through their country, burning killing and raping as they go. I'd like to see all those spoiled bitches with full makeup, fancy clothing and long, fake nails as they dig in the living soil to find a rotten potato to fill their bellies. As they mother a flock of children, which came to them year after year, and as they struggle to survive each passing day. No place for being pretty, sexy, trendy, rich and desired. You could be desired by a bunch of dirty soldiers and then live with the burden of filthy memories or be killed shortly after every one of them scums satisfied themselves with your body. That's war. It is happening now, somewhere. And it's been happening then, when my Grandpa was merely a teenager. Constant struggle to survive, to BE someone.
Spring is in a full move. Air smells of lillies of the valley and lilacs, every now and then some apteryx falls out of the nest and gets killed by chilly night air, cat or simply dies of starvation. The rains are heavy.
Am thinking of leaving this place.
O. said yesterday : "Don't leave. I'll be sad without you" which did touch my hear, as it was unexpected.
Speaking of O.-have some pretty awesome bruises on my both arms, and my thumb seemed to by relocated but it is fine now. So much for the brotherly love.
I AM WEIRD. I always liked to wrestle a bit.
Ach, and here's Dante and Hel (those two characters are not connected in any way) :
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