An opinion from the past

“When I think writer I think stereotype. I see someone with a cigarette between fingers, lips blowing out smoke. A half drank cup of black coffee, cold. I see someone with big black rimmed glasses. I see someone with a sort of personalized bag, someone that always wears the same jacket. Someone that is a little of a mess, complicated. Hard for others to be around. I see someone that doesn’t care about what the world think. Sort of messy, half dirty hair, wearing the same jeans for a week. Heaps of books, an old typewriter perhaps…

Someone that is scarred. Not on his skin perhaps, except maybe for like a trademark like a little cut on the finger, or a large freckle below the chin. But I see someone that has been through something in life. Something that has left them wounded in a lost sort of way. And whatever that scar is, it is what sets the tone of their writing. It is their definition.

It is a tragedy to me, to feel so defined by my opinion of what I am. Or at least of what I want to be. I’ve always walked around with this very idea. A part of me screaming: “You’ll never be a writer if you’re not those things!”, but all along, I haven’t even realized, I haven’t noticed that the only thing that made me feel like a real writer was because I was on a journey to becoming just that. It was my yearning to be those things, (so that I could finally say that I was a real writer).I solemnly believed, and lived, to be a writer. And I couldn’t believe that I was a real writer until I had achieved all those things, until I had all those things.

But now, I found that I am all that. I have everything, from the coffee to the half dirty hair, to being a complicated mess of a person with a heap load of social issues and anxieties, but I still don’t feel any more real than I did ten years ago. I feel like a plastered on person, that everything about me is fake and forced.

I think that there are allot of people like that. In a sense; living inside their own heads, like me. They probably just hide it better.

There is a part that still believes that there is just something, a tiny thing missing. I mean, I don’t wear black rimmed glasses, maybe that’s it? But then there is this whole other part, the part that I know to be right, that knows that none of those things can magically turn me into myself.

Maybe all of us lives like this. We have such strong ideas of what we ought to be to be ourselves that we sometimes lose ourselves in the process of achieving those ideas. And then after all the struggles we find that we still feel empty. We still feel lacking. But in truth; we still lack ourselves.

The real struggle is to then break down all those ideas; put aside everything that you used to define, or create yourself with.

Do that and set yourself on an adventure, a wondrous journey; not to find who you truly are. Not to find what really drives you. You cannot find yourself.

You can only find the the roots of your emptiness.

That is all.”

That was a piece that I wrote about a year ago, and if not a year then maybe some other amount of time.

I spent this morning looking over some of my older writings, little notes and folders that I keep on my computer. My writing is probably the only thing in my life that has any sort of sentimental value to me. And it also doesn’t take up any space on the shelf. Still, I was looking to sort out all the “old” things on my computer, I got a new laptop, so I figured I’d just get rid of all the stupid stuff that came along from the old computer.

This is one of the pieces that actually still found value in. I can still relate to it, I’ve mostly moved beyond all those opinions, but that was greatly the work from just writing this piece that helped me move on. I still remember so clearly how I felt, how I saw it.

But I’m no longer wounded or scarred. And I feel more like a “real writer” than I ever did before.

And of course, just to comment on my own writing. Those last few last at the end: total bullshit. You can find yourself. You just can’t find that perfect version of yourself that lingers in that idea that you have of yourself.

We don’t need to be wounded to be writers, yes, because you are wounded can make you a hell of a lot interesting and it could be what inspires you to write. It is not a necessity.





Crunchy Oatmeal Cookies

Office Lens 20160602-191105

This is my first recipe in this book, of this project, and it will forever be labelled as Crunchy Oatmeal Cookies. Chewy ones at that.

The winter just started yesterday, literally, it’s the 2nd of June. It’s freezing, I just spent the day in my dads Quick Silver sweater and my moms slippers, spent my morning watching Life Unexpected and doing research on chakras…and I finally got to planning this whole project/journal.

I got this recipe from my own personal Cookie Book. The books name is “The cookie book”, I got it from my mother quite a few Christmases back, this was her way of trying to encourage me into becoming a professional cookie baker so that I could sell cookies and become an entrepreneur. That plan did not work out very well for her, I am applying for Chef School however. Maybe the Cookie Book did work it’s magic after all.

It’s probably not the best start, it contains sugar (unhealthy), it also has egg and butter which I’m not awfully fond of (it’s not vegan), but its like life. Bitter sweet and unexpected.

And it certainly would not be what you expected and it might not necessarily be what you originally wanted or planned. But it does end with a sweet twist.

So I had all my Ingredients ready placed, only now realizing that I probably should have taken a photograph, I finally had it figured out exactly how much 175g of butter was. But I think that the butter probably should have been room temperature because as soon as I stuck that electric mixer into the bowl with the sugar and the butter…and the egg yolk, I didn’t read the instructions properly, the worlds bumpiest mixing process began, I thought that the machine would burn out, I thought this numerous times. The cold had effected the butter pretty badly, it was too cold and hard and it wouldn’t fluff or become white.

I just decided to work with it as these balls of sugar and egg infused butter. It worked, I simply sifted the dry powder ingredients into the same bowl (minimum dishes to wash afterwards), added some oats and a mix of granola and popped rice that my brother bought, he recently moved out of his tiny, miniature flat in the City and brought all his things back to the farm, this included. I don’t think he’ll mind that I replaced his breakfast with cookies!

Anyway, I let it stand in the fridge for twenty minutes, the dough was pretty powdery, I had to form little balls with my fists. They ended up not so little and became rather large, thick cookies in the end, I also didn’t use a glass to flatten them in the tray, I simply used the palm of my hand.

The heat of the oven almost immediately softened their buttery hearts and they came out half an hour later, crunchy, soft and delicious.

The world should know from early on, I’m not a big fan of following recipes. Just not my thing. I have too much confidence in the kitchen, and I believe anything is possible and fixable and flop proof.

Is there anything better in than the smell of cookies baking in the oven late on a winter afternoon? There might be a few. But there is something special about those bright, old, orange muttons pulling out that tray of cookies from the oven. Golden brown and sweet smelling, slipping them off onto a rack and nibbling on falling crumbs. The only way this could end is with buttery fingers!

Cookies always remind me of Christmas, and my grandmother. And both of them happen to be warm.