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January 16th, 2016

Jan. 16th, 2016

[To livejournal or not to livejournal... I've been writing private entries on and off for myself recently, and maybe that's what I should stick to, because I'm not sure I can still write in a way that is fit for public consumption. Every time I start writing a (possibly, maybe) public entry, it keeps getting mired in filler words & phrases & general procrastination without ever actually getting to any kind of point...]


So, a point.

A longish while ago, when I read the Aubrey-Maturin series, I came across a sentence that stuck with me. I can't recall the exact context, but at some point during their tumultuous relationship Stephen Maturin sits down and writes in his diary: 'If I no longer love Diana, what shall I do?'

I remembered this again after I'd read the news about David Bowie's death.

The thing is, I was a huge Bowie fan, embarrassing teenage crush, life-sized poster on the wall and everything, from about age 14/15-ish until... I'm guessing the early 90ies? I found some still pretty emotional diary entries from after the 1990 Sound & Vision concert, but at the same time Black Tie White Noise is the album I genuinely forgot existed until I checked the discography. The follow-up Outside I did like, even managed to get an autograph when Bowie played here in Vienna, but also vividly remember thinking that this was all a bit of a ridiculous fuss and would have meant so much more a few years ago.

The point?

What I also still do remember is the first moment of doubt creeping in, that even something as emotionally all-encompassing as teenage fangirl crushes tend to be, was perhaps going to change and disappear, and I remembered it again when I read the news Monday morning and didn't feel much beyond a very brief moment of incredulous shock.

Perhaps there is no point to any of this, perhaps it's all platitudes and common sense not worth wasting words on, but what I've been thinking about these last few of days is why you start developing feelings, often quite intense feelings, for a thing, a person, a work of art, a piece of music (but only ever specifically this thing, person, book, piece of music, and not any other), and why sometimes those feelings change, and sometimes disappear altogether, barely leaving any trace at all. (And, I guess, the other eternal dilemma, why sometimes they insist on staying, when you want nothing so much as for them to finally go away.)

The brain is a strange place...



solitary summer

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