Wise woman,
Well, understanding the meaning of what one writes depends on the clarity coming through. I don’t excel at (a polite expression I use about myself) being clear with my words. Therefore it’s not your fault that I wasn’t clear. The source is within my writing system. Maybe you write the same way as you talk (sic!), by which I mean spontaneously, without editing later. This style bears many advantages. For me, and I don’t know why, since I ever remember, (maybe since I remember myself) I pay much attention to the written words, much more than to those spoken. While I write one word, I look back to the previous ones, and I’m thinking of the ones about to follow. My fingers linger behind my thoughts, and frequently I return and rewrite in a way I seem to believe then that express more exactly and more nuanced what I intended indeed to communicate (not just blah-blah-blah, or maybe against blah-blah-blah). The result of that? Statements difficult to comprehend, perhaps hidden meanings or may be ambiguous, in fact just the opposite of the initial intentions.
Why do I do that? Because I have this unreasonable expectation, that if somebody knows me (not even too much), then that person would be willing to make an effort, to understand not only the sequence of the words (just dry text) but also my thinking background. I continue to believe (this is certainly just an illusion) that I express myself quite clearly. Anyway, with all that, there is no doubt that my writing shows that I’m not diplomatic. I don’t aim to create pleasure or disturb anybody with my words or to say things in which I don’t believe.
I could write about how beautiful place this was to visit, about its amalgamated architecture, which means too little to me. I can answer your question: “How are you?”, with “Well, Thank You.”
Wise man,
I thought about your comments about the subject of my writings. I had a few strange experiences lately. I wrote about them to two close girlfriends. I feel free to write details to them that others could see them as too intimate or too unlikable. I would find much too difficult to write to a male friend. While I was writing to them I was having a silent conversation with you: “please note that I write about such things as well.” I’m not comfortable to put in writing such details as there is such a difference within a conversation when what you say could be more dramatic, more comic, more spicy, as one’s tone and hand gestures count so much and when one can also be aware of the receptivity of the other of what is said. All these, are not present in writing. I must fully trust the girlfriend I write to, and I assume that she hears me and sees me as I was writing. When writing, I ignore sad and frustrating moments. I think that I already wrote to you about this. I love that lately, I seem to float above these moments. Sometimes they touch me, I distance myself from them, and then they don’t come up in my writing. It seems that currently, I go through a time when I manage to be here and now (as those crazy people claim to say all the time). I notice my reactions; I enjoy them as if I feel who I’m all the time. I don’t know if and how long this will last and I hang on to the feelings I experience now. Overall, I’m between a good light mood and happiness. I become aware of this, especially when others invite me to a home and as usual, I arrive among the first, I watch people entering the house with serious expressions of sadness and depression. They later explain their state on mishaps that I find minor. I notice them, and I want to understand where is the habit, where there is a real cause, and where there is merely a need for attention. In reality, I have very little exposure (many times none at all) to private discussions with the hostess. In some specific situation, I desire to have access to those discussions. One of the ladies I visit quite frequently has a fantastic sense of humor and is exceptionally generous. I would love a closer friendship. There are clear limits, as she is very religious and some wild side of my personality would estrange her. Ramblings, rambling, ramblings.
Once again, thank you (for not losing you over my ramblings).
***
Longings are floating above me. It wasn’t. Today, I miss seeing the little girl, bending her head sideways and laughing through Skype. The moment I say ‘Bye-Bye’ she pushes the ‘End’ button while I long for a hand-wave. She is biting other children. Please, please, let her be a good child!
eachword-eachday 