The First Step

I just found Eli! And this is not the big, scary, black guy that carried the Bible all across North America (following Gods command) in a post apocalyptic world…and then you find out he was actually blind the whole time even if he could fight like Bruce Lee, John Cena, the Matrix all wrapped into one. Come on, he was good, even if he was just a character in a movie. No, I’m not talking about the guy in “The book of Eli”.

I’m talking about my Eli.

My Eli is a 8 week old German Shepherd (Alsation). I have been searching for the right one for…well, about the last eleven months of my life. He had had so many different meanings, this search has had it’s ups and downs and uncertainties, wondering, hoping, moping and crying.

It’s has been far more than a spoilt young girl wanting a puppy.

This search begun as the result of the most awful, wounding, painful thing that has happened in my life so far (a positive result however). It may sound overly dramatic; but it is my truth.

The person that I was closest and most connected with died last year March. I won’t name names, because it doesn’t really have life or energy in it left. It is a done deal that I have dealt with.

At first I wanted this German Shepherd as a replacement for this person, but I moved past that. At some point I also wanted this dog as a sort of reminder, but even just that idea became utterly unbearable…

Time ceased, and my reasons changed. But the search continued. I knew that I wanted it, far beyond reason. Some days I didn’t even know why.

The name changed about a couple of months ago when I realized that this search for my Shepherd wasn’t really attached to what I had lost. This Shepherd was a part of my current life and my future, not my past. Even if he had been the one gently steering me through and away from my loss. He had literally been my Shepherd, guiding me on my journey back to myself. Over hills of healing, rivers of tears and caves of longing.

Hence; I renamed him Eli. This was before I actually even watched the movie, not that the movie really matters all that much, it’s just what the name means to me. Besides, Eli (from the bible) never died, he went up to heaven in a chariot of fire. Maybe my Eli will also never die.

It is quite ironic to me though, that I named him after his meaning before I actually knew what it meant.

Eli has been guiding me, blindly, on this journey. And I have come to be exactly where I need to be, at exactly the right time. It is time that he becomes a part of this journey that I am on.

I have been seeing pictures, and notes, and pieces of movies with German Shepherds everywhere for the last while. I even had a dream about him last night. I’ll take it as signs.

It is maybe not exactly what I had in mind, or what I had planned, but I believe that this IS the right time. The right puppy, from the right place. Besides, I’ve been wanting something big to change in my life…something has felt lacking. I’ve been dealing with allot of frustration and patient waiting (waiting for my own place and space) and I fully believe that by bringing this ball of softness and energy in to my life, this last piece of “patiently” waiting will be quite manageable. This is what the universe have handed me, knowing that otherwise circumstances would have been unbearable.

My world is on the verge of changing completely, by bringing Eli with me to my new life it seems less scary. I will have a Shepherd after all!

I will meet my Eli, my Shepherd, on Monday morning. And then I will bring him home

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Writing, not speaking

It is now Wednesday afternoon. And it is HOT! Damn you Africa sun.

I was having lunch on the front porch, reading and catching up on some of my blogs and news, but the heat became unbearable. Earlier this morning I was hoping for a cool cloudy day, the weather sure was leaning more to that direction. Fooled me well.

Great. I’m writing about one of the most cliché small talk topics: weather.

I’ve been rummaging my brain for the perfect topic, this being while I was reading outside in the unbearable heat. I got quite a few ideas in my head, I was starting to write about them up there too, I’ve had whole paragraphs written up in my head, but they all disappeared, got replaced, baked away by the sun.

My greatest objective is not to find something to write about, its to pick something to write about. I can’t do that. Too many choices. So I will just scribble on about everything and nothing. What is going on inside my mind? Its a mystery, even to me.

I was thinking earlier about choice of words. The words that we decide to speak aloud. Well, some people don’t think about it, they just say everything that passes through their minds. Such a waste. I’ve never been able to do that. Talking is an obscure thing to me, I think everything to death before I say it. I rearrange my sentence at least six, seven, eight times before I say it, that by the time I actually get to saying it aloud I feel like a robot. Or a parrot having repeated the same sentence over and over again and again…end of the day (or sentence) I usually decide on not saying anything. It has become a strange sort of obsession to not say anything unnecessarily. Why? I don’t know. I did however read somewhere in the Bible only to speak when words are needed (something like that anyway), I guess I sort of took it to heart. It stuck. With one pretty permanent type of glue. It must be years ago that I had read it, it still hasn’t left my mind.

Writing is different. Maybe because you can fix it. I think I like it. Once you’ve spoken…you can never have those words back, never change them ever again. But on this paper…

When you write something you keep it to yourself, and you can actually keep it! It is not like some misspoken words that are just said and then forgotten. I will go ahead and insult all non-writers by writing this; but maybe writers are the only people that actually think about anything that matters. Maybe not. After all, I have spent countless hours writing and thinking about the dumbest crap possibly imaginable.

Maybe its just me, but spoken words are sort of insignificant…compared to those written. Everyone may not agree. But when you think about it (really think about it) most things you say are things of utter unimportance.

Can you remember the last sentence that you spoke? Was it something meaningful?

What was the last thing you wrote?

I am on one very strange stage in my life. I fully believe that whatever you do (or say in this case) must matter. Even if it only matters to yourself. At the end of the day it is the only person’s who’s opinion will matter, is it not. No one else will ever get to live your life. Or think with your head, or choose which words you should speak.

So go on with whatever it was that you were doing before finding my written words. They matter to me, they don’t have to matter to anyone else.

It’s personal.

Just…before you say anything, think about it. Do you really want to say it? Do you even know what you were just about to say?

One homeless foot and the echo room

What is home? The very sound as I utter it seems like a lifeless shout into an echoing void of loneliness and abandonment.

The meaning of home is different to everyone. Home to me…well it’s a non-existent dream world, it exists only in my mind. It’s an unreachable fantasy, for some far off, distant, unrealistic dream that I have carried with me for so many years. It’s like pulling a dead corpse with me, in hope that it might come back to life again someday. My idea of home is that dead corpse.

I’m not homeless. I’m not starving. I’m not poor (even if poor could be defined). But despite the things that I don’t lack, I still feel like a lost little kid out in the Sahara desert in the middle of the night, bare foot, with only a light summer dress. It’s getting cold out…does it get cold at night in the Sahara at night? I don’t know; proving just how little I understand my own situation. And there is the knowing fact that tomorrow as the sun rises, higher and higher, it will get hotter and hotter. Until my feet are burnt raw and skinless from the scorching sand, my skin will be roasted off my body. Crunchy. Like barbecue chicken. There will be no shade, the night won’t come soon enough. My insides will dry out. I’m unprepared. In a habitat that I have no knowledge of, I’m not adapted to. I’m a Mediterranean kid for crying out loud!

I’ve been preparing to move out to my own place for months, one foot always out the door. My parents place isn’t quite home any more, but the place that was meant to be my home by now is only four heaps of mud, a couple of rocks stacked on each other, overgrown grass, a roof full of holes that needs to be replaced…and dirt. Lots and lots of dirt and stacks of old wood and a couple of planks.

It’s literally the only place where it feels enough like home for me to actually relax, but not quite home enough to stay there. I spend about two hours a day in there. In the mornings for an hour, it’s where I do my Yoga and meditation (although the meditation hasn’t been going so well lately, my brain has gone into official rebel mode, it’s like a teenage girl). And I spend about another hour in there in the late afternoon sitting on a paint tin in my imaginary bath. But these hot summer days has been sweating me out of my own home.

I watched the movie; Tracks a while back. It’s about a young woman that crosses 1700km over the Australian desert with four Camels and her dog. It’s based on a true story, I thought it was pretty amazing.

Some nomads are at home everywhere. Others are at home nowhere, I was one of those. I quote.

So maybe moving out and being on my own (amongst my coffee mugs and jasmine scented candles) isn’t so much about finding and having my own home. Maybe it’s simply a stepping stone, figuring out what kind of nomad I am. Maybe I am one of those who are at home nowhere.

Even if that place is only my home for a few years, or months (depending on how long I still need to wait), we all need a blank open new space for our minds to roam free once again without the clutter of al the thoughts, fears and feelings of years gone by, stuck in this space where we live our lives from, think all our thoughts, do all these things, learn these words, feel sadness, hope, joy, grace, anger. It’s like the brain has left endless shouts in the spaces that we live. It never goes away, it is like an echo. An never ending echo. A whole pile of echo’s, eventually it becomes so loud and confusing that there simply is no more room for another thought (echo).

And I need those new thoughts. We all need a change of scenery at least once in our lives. And that time has come. But for now I shall delve in my frustration and pile over all these echoes, I shall escape to the mountains and gaze upon the skies. It is, after all, the only thing I, with my one homeless-foot can do.

Defining Writers

Writers block; for a while I thought I would never feel it again. It feels like its been weeks since I wrote anything remotely real or close to me heart. Wrote anything that mattered. I’ve been rummaging my brain for days now, trying to find literally anything that I felt inspired by to write about.

My mind came up blank.

I missed those days when I felt like I could write novels and pages full of the most simple, normal, topic. From a rock I saw in the road to a murder I read about on the news.

I have road trips and all nighters to write about, but I just can’t find those words inside myself to begin to describe them. Every time I try all I can think is; what makes it worth writing about? What is worth telling?

A few weeks back I had a journal entry, about what my definition of a writer was, when would I believe that I am a real writer. I have this theory that all writers have something different; some would believe they are a real writer after they’ve had a piece published, others might only be satisfied with a best selling novel. It’s like a goal we set up, and only once we’ve reached that goal will we be satisfied. It wont be good enough before we have reached that goal.

But maybe it’s just me. I’ll call it my writer goal: what I need to achieve before I will be a real writer, in my eyes.

I want to be so full of life and experience that I could choose any topic, anything at all and be able to write about it. Fully understanding and knowing every corner, the ins and outs, the feelings, everything, about my topic. To never feel this horrid sickness that we have named as “writers block”, giving it a life inside ours… To be wise enough and passionate, and alive enough to write about all and anything.

Only then will I believe that I am a real writer. Perhaps it is utterly ludicrous, impossible and insane. But I will spend my whole life trying to reach that goal. Nothing is more important to a writer than to be a real writer.

Whatever the deffinition.

Goodbye Youth

Nineteen years.

It’s a long time. My entire existence has been weaved and pressed into the last nineteen years…

Well, not quite yet.

This is my last night of being eighteen. I know nineteen is still supposed to be young, I’m not supposed to be worrying about age yet, or feeling old, but I do. Nineteen? The feeling of that sound as it moves over my lips as I utter it here in dark all on my own, it sounds like a goodbye to youth. “Goodbye youth.” I’m waving it away with sadness, wilfulness and sorrow all at the same time.

I have no choice. Do I? I can’t stop that ticking clock, ticking my life away.

Tomorrow I will wake up a year older. Actually, in about thirty minutes I’ll be a year older than what I am now.

I had given my eighteenth year to being reckless, careless, selfish and irresponsible. I won’t say why, or where I made this decision…but, lets look on the bright side. I learned a hell of a lot of good(painful) lessons.

First one; love is a dog from hell. Thank you for the line Bukowski, I could never have come up with something so accurate by myself.

Second; smoking is bad for you! Still worth it, but bad.

Thirdly; well, if you keep waiting for life to happen, you’ll be waiting for the rest of your life. It feels like I’m quoting someone else now, I don’t know who?

Reading a Psychology book at two in the morning is never a good idea. Neither is reading crime, thriller novels. Apparently they give you nightmares, and you start to think that you have split personalities, anxiety, Bipolar disease, the whole package deal.

It was a fun year…sort of. It had it’s days.

I grew and changed and found allot of things in life that I could love, I found little pieces of myself while I was breaking myself down…doing stupid things that most young people do.

I never would have found my love for Philosophy or Psychology if I didn’t spend so much time thinking about trying to stop thinking. I found something that I could believe in…or not believe in. I guess in some sense I always just believed whatever anyone else told me to believe. Now I fully believe that I was set on this earth to question all those things that I used to just “believe”.

And I did find a way to stop thinking! Simply by sitting and thinking about everything that goes through my head…and then letting them just slip away.

I might not know who I am, or exactly what it is that I want, but I think in this past year I’ve at least learned a piece of what I don’t want. All I know that I do want is to go and find out!

So tonight is my last night of being irresponsible, careless, selfish, ignorant, I won’t study for anything, I won’t even glance at those books, I won’t feel guilty. I’ll just sit by this window and dream, I won’t think. I’ll try going to sleep before three, this is the last day of this “penance”,

Besides, soon there won’t be space, time or opportunity for acting out all those “youthful” things. I’ll be moving in to my own place in about a month, I have to find a second job on Monday, exams are in a few months, I have to figure out what to do with the rest of my life, learn French(I’m going back to the motherland, its been decided), adopting a dog…and a chicken. I’m glad in some sense that my irresponsible days are over, no more wondering, I decide, It’s time to do those things that I want to do, to go live that life that I decided I wanted: to find out what I want!

Growing older; responsibility has never been my strong point, it’s too much like commitment.

But life has given us no choice whatsoever.? I’ll do what I can. Soon birthdays wont even matter, I’ll start buying myself gifts. Sitting at home alone, and eventually my own birthday wont even matter to me any more, I’ll forget what day of the year I was born, I’ll forget how old I am. Celebrating birthdays are for the young, so having lived for fewer years matter more?

I’m also going to buy a really nice bottle of wine and a Baguette. And not eat cake!