I almost fell asleep during the Aurora Borealis screening. It’s simply not the same. And by no means does art bore me; I visit art galleries all the time. I’m an artist myself.
The problem was that the more I was staring at the screen, the more I saw the inside of an avocado or the green lantern setting up curtains. I’m not in the right frame of mind. I know I flew all the way to Whitehorse earlier this year to catch the last bit of the northern lights season, but I saw none. The northern light season in Alaska is supposed to start towards the end of July. I suppose you’ll have to stay up till three a.m. to see it. I shall see how it goes in Denali National Park. The hostel I booked for one night could only offer me a wall tent, which means I will be sleeping outside on my own with no heat and no light.
Apparently, when you’re in the Denali, you hardly ever get to see the Denali mountain (also called Mt. McKinley) because it’s hidden in the clouds most of the time. In certain parts of the park, they have snow throughout the year. There won’t be any snow where I stay, though. And it shouldn’t get any colder than 6-9°C during the night.
This is somewhat of an uneventful week, which is fair enough. I figured that I need one week to switch off. I don’t sleep well. The moment I close my eyes, I hear people from all around the world speaking in my head. Some voices I recognise and other voices have a familiar ring to them, but I don’t know them. Nonetheless, those are irritating voices. It’s not schizophrenia, nope; it’s from being around talking people too much. Also, these voices aren’t speaking to me. Not yet, anyway.
I have found a spacious desk on which I can write in peace. I’m currently inside the Anchorage Museum with no intention to visit the other interior parts. However, I’m sure the planetarium here is a lot more interesting than the screening I’ve just seen.
At this stage, I’ve become antisocial again. The sight of people approaching me to talk makes me want to puke on their faces.
I thought I had the dorm room to myself last night until someone checked in after midnight. That chick looked kind of rough but appeared to be friends with the staff. She seemed nice and such, but I had no interest in having company. However, I was blending in well like I often do these days. This morning she was trying to extend for another night and asked me to lend her $6 so she could pay the full amount, which I did, unwillingly. I hate lending anything to anyone because I never get it back. Moreover, she is a stranger. She is dodgy in her own kind of way. Something is going on in her life, which she is keeping to herself. She is a Slovakian married to an American guy. Obviously, something happened, and she has nowhere to stay. The only reason why she needs to extend for a second night is that she has an appointment at the immigration tomorrow. I honestly don’t want to know the details. It all feels wrong, so I’m not surprised why the government constantly changes the rules and regulations for visa applicants. Very soon, marrying an American or Canadian won’t be sufficient anymore to become a citizen.
It’s the first time in years that my blog posts sound like an actual journal. This is what I would usually write in my handwritten journal.
Yet, the depth has lost its meaning. Or there is simply none evident. I’m too far up the surface where even poetry can’t reach me. For some pathetic reason, I find my moment of despair quite hilarious.
I seem to always need a home with books all over the place, a library, for instance. If I could live in a library, I wouldn’t really need a home. Yet, homeless people hang around at the library.
I could never work as a librarian. There’s too much customer service involved, and you have to put books back on the shelves, and I never find the right shelves. In the simplest terms, I can’t place books back on the shelves. I find my books, and I grab them. Then I leave them open on the floor.
I was hoping to reconnect with my book as soon as possible, but the only way to do that is to read and write as much as possible to warm up, but I don’t seem to have the necessary focus. Remember, I was talking about mindfulness and concentration. The only thing that helps my focus is music; next, it’s movies, GOOD movies. Perhaps one that’s similar to my novel, such as, Mysterious Skin or anything with love, pedophilia, self-denial, orgasm and scalpels.
Does anyone want to watch Child of God with me? It reminds me of Freddy Krueger, but instead of pedophilia, you have necrophilia. It looks shit, but I remember how I couldn’t put the book down. With a short attention span like mine, I rarely have the patience for scene settings. I might have to work on that—just a little bit. I don’t think I could ever read an epic; I don’t usually do more than 500 pages, and I can’t handle more than three to four characters in a book.
Though, regarding thick books, I did read Great Expectations twice.
My book needs editing. And I’m running out of time… When I experience a day of no writing, I feel how a part of my creativity crumbles into dust. And that’s a part of me gone.
I’m fuming for no reason. It’s probably the lack of control that I have, the lack of control over things that one can’t control. If you give anyone details, they’ll tell you to be positive. I have hope, so I don’t need you to tell me to be positive. I’m done with the details. You’re better off not knowing a thing.
I don’t care about the Aurora anymore. Our magnetic fields attract solar winds – they make love and emit these orgasmic lights that dance in the sky. Whistle at them, and a Native would strike you in the head for disrespecting their ancestors. Astronomers see physics in the sky. I see nothing but art, sex and fiction.
